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It was such an awkward conversation to have, and I was more than proud of myself for getting through it without stumbling over my words, but a bubble of panic rose in my throat when a frown tugged his mouth downward. To his credit, he recovered quickly and pulled a tight smile out of thin air before telling me he understood what I was saying. He even apologized for the kiss and told me he hoped his actions on Friday didn’t change things between us, which sent a flicker of agitation through me.
Why do men think they can do things that change everything and then lay the burden of voicing exactly what it changed at our feet?
Of course, I didn’t say that to him. Instead, I let my years of socialite training kick in and flashed him a fake smile I knew looked sincere then lied smoothly about the kiss not making me see him differently and changed the subject to the bathroom fixtures that’d just arrived. The conversation led us upstairs to the Presidential Suite, where Dominic and his team were hanging drywall, so James could see the fixtures in the room. His request made absolutely no sense to me, given there isn’t anything here besides drywall, boxes of tile, and another man I need to have an awkward conversation with.
I glance at Dominic, who’s leaning against the partially installed vanity of the master suite with a flat expression on his face. He hasn’t said more than a handful of words since we barged into his construction zone, and James has only thrown a few nervous glances his way. There’s a weird vibe between them that wasn’t there before, but I don’t have the energy to care because I’ve been arguing over the merits of a brass faucet for the better part of an hour and just want to go home.
“James,” I pinch the bridge of my nose and pray for patience. “It’s hard to get the full picture when you’re standing in a room that’s still being put together. Faucets and cabinet pulls are finishes. As in, meant to be installed and viewed when everything else is finished, so you can get the full effect.”
The explanation comes off a little more condescending than I intend it to, but I can’t even find it in me to be sorry. We chose these finishes together weeks ago. I had to send a freaking gift basket to the manager of the supply store just to get them in on time, and now he’s looking at me like I brought in some builder-grade fixtures instead of a stylish, contemporary faucet that will go perfectly with the luxurious ambiance we’re creating for this room.
He tosses the box on the unfinished top of the vanity. “I know what finishes are, Sloane. Just like I know this isn’t the right finish for my bathroom. Find something else.”
And without another word, he storms out of the room. Leaving me and Dominic staring behind him. I pull in a long breath through my nose and hold it for a second before exhaling. There’s a dangerous mixture of anger and murderous intention swirling in my veins, and when I look at Dominic his expression is a mirror image of what I’m feeling inside.
“Does he make a habit of speaking to you that way?”
I don’t know what calls to me first: the quiet darkness curling around his words or the thoughtful thumb rubbing across his lower lip as he considers me. Whatever it is, it hits me right in the pit of my stomach. Stroking the coil of desire there until it unravels into a continuous, undulating line that spells his name.
Fucking skin hunger. I think to myself, but even I can’t miss the fact that he’s not touching me right now. The reaction my body is having to him is caused completely by the muscle in his jaw that’s raging with righteous anger for me.
I blink slowly then shake my head. “No. James is being a nit-picky asshole, which is the exact reason Issac felt like he had to quit on the last leg of the project, but he’ll get over it. We had a….disagreement before we came in here.”
“Lover’s quarrel?” Dark eyes search my face.
“The opposite actually. I told him I didn’t want anything more than a professional relationship with him.” I pick at an invisible piece of lint on my skirt, willing to do anything for a break from the molten gaze burning into me, pulling words I don’t want to say out of my mouth with no effort. “I thought he was okay, but the temper tantrum makes me think differently.”
Dominic scoffs. “You think a man could know how your lips taste and not be mad about being told he’ll never get to have that again?”
A ghost of an emotion moves across his face, darkening his expression for a moment, but it’s gone in an instant.
“And his feelings are my problem? That seems a little unfair considering I never offered them to him in the first place.”
His eyebrows raise, and his expression goes from dark anger to genuine surprise. The sudden change makes me realize, not for the first time, that Dominic thought James and I were a thing. And the idea makes him—Angry? Jealous?
“No.” Dominic says softly, pushing off of the wall. “His feelings aren’t your problem at all. Men who take things from you without your permission don’t deserve their next breath let alone your consideration.”
“Does that include you?”
He takes a step towards me. Now there are only a few inches of space between us. “No, Sloane, that doesn’t include me.”
I have to tip my head back to look at him. He’s staring down at me, and this close I get the full effect of his eyes. They always look so dark to me, black pools with the faintest hint of bronze, but now I can see they’re more of a rich, dark brown.
“It should.”
“Why is that?” He cants his head to the side. “What have I taken from you without your permission, angel?”
The nickname pings around my head, crashing into the walls of my skull and ringing with a familiar sense of deja-vu I don’t have time to fully explore because Dominic is leaning down now, mere inches from my face and my lips that tingle with the need to be kissed when his gaze falls on them.
I search my brain for an answer to his question and come up blank. There’s no way to tell him his habit of touching me has stolen my resolve to maintain a solitary existence. There’s no way to describe his role in discovering my skin hunger, and the subsequent plan to alleviate it, without sounding like a complete weirdo, so I latch onto the only real thing he’s taken from me and hope for the best.
“On Sunday at Mama’s…you touched me. You touched my mouth.”
I hate the way I’m stumbling over my words. Hate how breathless I am while I’m trying to make it sound like I haven’t spent the last forty-eight hours replaying every second of our encounter in my head. Dominic’s lips quirk.
“I did do that, but I don’t think it counts.”
“It counts. I didn’t give you permission to touch me.” Didn’t give you permission to ignite a fire in my veins no amount of time with my vibrator can put out.
