“I think you’re powerful,” I said honestly. “And I’m . . . not.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I guess I failed to think of it that way,” he said, though his tone suggests he thinks the fear is misplaced. “I have resources. You do not. That is a fact. Facts are not moral failings.”
“But they matter.”
He stepped closer until I could feel the heat of him. “I have the money,” he said quietly. “You do not. That is temporary. It does not make you lesser.”
“I know that, but you can’t just pay me and pretend that evens it out.”
“I am not pretending.”
His hands came to rest lightly at my waist. “You believe this will explode.”
Part of me does. “I don’t know,” I whispered.
“Do you wish to stop?”
The question hung between us. And that was precisely the problem. Because I didn’t want to stop. I liked him. I liked the way he looked at me like I’m not small. I liked the way he says Ma Belle like it’s not a performance. And I really, really liked having sex with him.
“No,” I admitted.
His mouth curved slightly at that. “Then we proceed,” he said simply.
“That’s not how relationships work.”
“It is how agreements work.”
“Raphael.”
He leaned in then, close enough that my breath caught.
“Belle,” he murmured, and there’s heat in it now. “If you believe I do not see you as my equal, correct me.”
“I—”
He didn’t let me finish.
His hand slid up to cup my jaw, thumb brushing slowly along my cheek.
“You are not here because I rescued you,” he said quietly. “You are here because you chose to stay.”
The kitchen felt smaller suddenly.
He stepped into me, and the back of my thighs hit the edge of the table.
“And if you doubt your leverage,” he continued softly, “I can remind you.”
The look in his eyes made my pulse spike. He lifted me onto the table in one smooth motion, and I gasped at the sudden rush of heat and intent in his expression.
“You possess one thing that is irresistible to me. You hold more power than you know,” he said as he wrapped my legs around his waist.
“Raphael—”
“You are not powerless,” he said, voice low now. “Not with me.”
His mouth found mine, and the argument dissolved into something much less logical and much more consuming.
His hands traced deliberate lines along my skin, as the table became less a piece of furniture and more a stage for everything we were not saying.
