“Because you tell me we’re real. The ‘us’ is real and honest. Everything. Being who we are, our true selves to each other. And this…”
Roan had her in his arms in a split second, enveloping her as he whispered into her ear. “This is what had to be done to have you.”
Her anger was fading with the strength of his words. “To have me?”
His low chuckle hummed through her body, his words just as dangerous. “I’m possessive as fuck. Okay. Not proud, but it’s who I am. As the ronin, the only rule is that you are mine. That means I’d do whatever it takes—to anyone at any time—to keep you. Official papers for MetroGen, done. Lying to Tank, done.”
Her indecision and frustration faded at the haggard expression on his face. It likely wasn't the healthiest way to express devotion. Nor was it necessarily a good thing that she found his possessive confession unbelievably sexy. Had logic dictated her response, she ought to be considering a restraining order. He was older than her, held more power—physically, professionally, and he had stated outright. He wasn't joking when he said he would destroy anyone who kept them apart.
A more jaded soul would suggest he was using her strictly for sex. Only, that same logical part reminded her, he’d touched no one else since they’d met, and he’d actively resisted her advances until Valentine’s Day.
Adding the fact he had come to terms with betraying his best friend, it meant this was a lot more than sex. He was committed, and she should excuse a lapse by lying if it kept her brother away.
“I don’t like it, but I do understand,” she decided, relaxing into his embrace.
“Me neither. I’m sorry.” He tucked her head into the crook of his neck, lending his strength into her smaller body. They could push off the future explosion of Tristan finding out the truth for another day.
Again.
Good dirt on top of bad. Passion over logic. Desire over duty.
She snorted. “I had to hide mostly naked in the study, and you created a fake girlfriend from my roommate. Sorry isn’t enough, Daddy.”
He turned her to face him, relaxing as he noted the humor and growing hunger in her words. “I’d better make it up. Tell me what you want, buttercup.”
Clarissa twisted her mouth to the side. Their games and kinks aligned well, though they each had a particular bent. Roan tended toward subversive situations where he pressured her into giving in—older man with the babysitter, student-teacher dynamics on the seductive side. While she enjoyed those, her taste ran more physically intimidating when she picked the play. Spankings, threats, binding—nothing over the top domineering but certainly more aggressive. He seemed to shy away from suggesting them himself because they required such a high level of trust on her part.
Trust that he wouldn’t hurt her. Trust that he could stop. Trust that he would listen. Trust that she would tell him if it became too much.
“You’ll like this one.” She whispered her request into his ear.
CHAPTER 5
Clarissa added a solid sized log of wood into the merrily burning fireplace. She'd closed the blinds and turned down the lights in the living room. The dim light changed the atmosphere, making the room appear much smaller.
There were footfalls in the hallway, but she remained turned away from that direction. She could sense him stop near the vicinity of the couch and study her movements. His breathing was harsh yet controlled, as if he’d been chasing something and was preparing to pounce.
“You! Woman,” he growled and closed the distance to grab her from behind.
Or so she assumed, because he hefted her over his bare shoulder in a converted fireman's carry. Her head slumped over his back, able to see the broad muscles of his back and waist, interrupted by what might have been a belted-on towel.
Even though her hair was hanging down, she was dying to take a little nibble of his perfectly sculpted traps.
Wait. She was supposed to be protesting.
“Stop. Put me down. You brute!” She flailed about, her fists bouncing off the wide expanse of his sculpted back. Then she squeaked when he gave her ass a solid smack. The t-shirt she'd borrowed from him had ridden up, and the fact she had no panties on was apparent by the sound. And probably the wetness dripping in anticipation of what Roan had agreed to do.
“Quiet. You. Woman.” He slapped her butt again, harder this time.
The caveman strode down the hall to the darkened master bedroom and unceremoniously tossed her onto the bed. She bounced on the mattress, noting a lack of bedding except the fitted sheet.
The only light was from two candles on the dresser, giving the room the sense of a darkened cavern.
“Woman. Mine.” He kept his distance, a good six feet away as he stroked himself through the towel. Roan was watching her closely, his expression remote and closed off.
Since she was supposed to be his captive, she scrambled off the bed and made for the door.
Before she could get more than three steps, he caught her again and threw her back on the bed.
