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“Show me that you want me.”
“What do you?—”
“Sit.”
He gestures to the chair I found him in earlier. Before I can refuse, he crosses to the door and shuts and locks it. I don’t move. Part of me wants to scream and fight my way out. But that part is no longer in charge.
Before I can stop it, my feet are moving. Walking to the chair. Sitting down. Looking up at him.
“Take off your shirt.”
I don’t move, and he strides over, kneeling in front of me. Dangerously close to my bared face.
“Take off your shirt,” he repeats, his voice low and husky.
I shiver, feeling the words rake over me.
“Why?” I ask.
“I want to look at you.”
Knowing he can only look and not touch is a heady feeling. A power that makes me feel safe enough to bare myself this way. A challenge that I know he can’t meet.
Slowly, I peel my shirt over my head.
But then he pushes to his feet and peels off his own shirt. Dropping it onto the floor, he steps back and takes a seat in the chair across from me. His dragon tattoo gleams, almost as if it’s moving on its own with each new lift of his arm. Firelight dances over his muscled torso, casting shadows along the planes and ridges of his abs.
I wonder what it would feel like to trace those ridges with my fingers.
“Now, your pants.”
His words snap me out of it. I jerk my gaze to his. The same challenge I felt a moment ago is reflected in his dark gaze now.
Maybe that’s what has me standing and stepping out of my pants.
My heart thuds wildly in my chest.
This is crazy.
I don’t even like him.
He’s my enemy.
And yet… I want him to see what he’ll never have.
I want him to want me.
“Your turn,” I say, daring him.
He stands and pulls off his pants then sits again, powerful muscles contracting along his thighs and biceps with the movement. My gaze is drawn to the impressive bulge in his boxers.
My mouth goes dry.
“Now, the rest,” he says.
I hesitate.
He leans forward, his eyes hungry and demanding. “I want to see you, little poisoner. Let me look at what I can’t have.”
