Page 70 of Stealing Blinds

She soaks that in for a long-ass minute, intent on making me sweat every goddamn interaction we have. But when those ambers park on me, her addictive brazenness is swimming inside them. “And if I refuse to take it?”

This I can work with.

I curl my hand around the back of her neck, tilting her jaw up with my thumb. “Only a brat would refuse gifts that were tailor-made for her. If that’s the way you want to play it, I have no reason not to spank your ass so you can’t sit down for a week.”

The air crackles between us. Her breathing grows shallow, and her pupils blow wide. She’s so rigid about most aspects of her life, but I think she likes the thought of handing over some control. I bet she’d let me take her right here on her new bike. But not fucking this up equates to letting her set the pace.

“Well, I wasn’t going to refuse. I was just playing around, but …” She bites her lip, batting her thick lashes before she sashays her fine ass toward the penthouse elevator and smiles at me over her shoulder. “I’ll keep that in mind for later.”

Later works too.

“Thank you.” She spins, walking backward for a few paces before resuming her jaunt. “I love it so much.”

I sidle up to her and glide my hand over the small of her back. “Good birthday?”

“The best.” As we step into the elevator, her nose crinkles. “So, what will you be driving tomorrow?”

I scan my iris and send us into motion. “The Ducati.”

“The hell you will,” she scoffs, so gorgeous in that purple dress. “My job. My bike. My right to drive. You have your own motorcycles.”

“I guess I’ll be your backpack, Sly.”

She covers her mouth, breaking into a fit of giggles, which confirms there’s still some alcohol in her bloodstream, keeping her loose. “Just what I need to carry. A six-foot-three Noire.”

As the elevator spits us out, I open the door and lean down to rasp in her ear, “I think the thought of me tucked around you will keep you plenty cozy tonight.”

She shivers, but doesn’t answer, so I wait until we make it upstairs, but when she’s still quiet on the upper landing, I capture her wrist and hold it against my chest to keep her from bolting.

“Last night and today were perfect. I will never get tired of seeing you happy or”—I kick my chin toward my room with a nod to last night—“hearing you moan my name.”

Shutters snap over her face, sealing me out. That must’ve been the wrong thing to say.

“It was a great day,” she manages on a measured inhale, exhale, but her dismissal is clear when she stretches onto her tiptoes to peck my cheek. “We have to get up so early, so …”

I’m not sure what the hell happened, so I swagger away as though I didn’t catch any of that. “Have a good night, Palmer.”

Thirty minutes later, I’m freshly showered and lying in Maddox’s bed, staring at the ceiling. My thoughts are circling faster than the fan. All of them revolve around the amber-eyed vixen. And the people who hurt her. She deserves someone who can pick up the pieces, and I’m not sure how to be that guy.

I can spoil her and get her out of her professional bind and make her scream until her voice is nothing but a faint memory. But I don’t know how to fix what someone else broke, especially when she’s so resistant. Maybe that’s not the right word because there’s no denying the sparks between us. She just won’t let herself believe there’s anything worth hanging on to, but I’d be willing to bet she feels it.

I reach for my phone, unlocking it and hovering over our text thread until I just go for it.

Me: Hey. You awake?

She responds immediately, and based on the brisk pace of our conversation, I’m guessing she’s as preoccupied as I am.

Sylvie: Yes. Why are you texting me from one room over?

Me: Is that an invitation?

Sylvie: Do you always answer questions with questions?

Me: Do you always evade answering them?

Sylvie: They don’t call me Sly for nothing.

Me: I’m the only one who calls you Sly.