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“Where are we going?” she demanded.
He couldn’t speak to her yet, was breathing roughly through his nose. She was glancing anxiously out the window, until she laughed. “All right, fine. Wherever your taking me, I won’t settle for less than the Four Seasons. I have standards and all. I get rashes if I don’t sleep on Egyptian cotton.”
He didn’t answer her, knew it was bullshit, didn’t know what part of her was real except that the stealing was real. The way she infuriated him was real. The way she pushed him, taunted him, challenged him. Was fucking real. He’d been eighteen and green, and definitely too considerate of a little virgin. But she’d been in his bed and he hated how much he’d liked her there, and hated how much effort it had taken not to take the soft, pliant body she seemed to be so willingly offering. He’d almost lost the battle.
He was a hard man now.
He wasn’t going to be played. Not by Sandy Brown. Not by anyone.
But she had to know that he was no longer a boy, and this was a man she was taunting. She could get hurt.
When they arrived at his apartment building, he told the driver to keep the change, then opened the door and held it open. When she exited, her body bumped against his.
He might have moved back, but instead he remained in place, his every sense attuned to her. To the contact of their bodies—the press of his painful erection against the side of her body as she slid to her full height. He wanted to press harder into her, so damned hard she would whimper in fear of him and the things he could do to her, and at the same time, he wanted to protect her from himself.
So he waited until she entered the lobby, and shut the door and followed her.
She was gazing at him nervously as they boarded the elevator, wetting her lips, watching as he pressed his fingerprint to the button with the number 33.
They rode in silence to his floor. Once the door opened, she followed him to a wide, shiny steel set of doors, and he pressed his thumb to the keypad.
The doors clanked and opened, and he saw her eyes widen.
“Lights on,” he barked, and the lights immediately obeyed, illuminating some key pieces of artwork all across his apartment.
He shut the doors behind them.
“Your place? What do you want me here for?” she demanded, following him into the library. “Ahh,” she said, as though suddenly inspired by his silence. “Am I supposed to scrub floors or windows first?”
“Shut up,” he said, softly. He poured himself a drink, then turned to her, trying to grasp his control. He’d never had sex without it. Control. He’d never had someone in anger. He’d never…let go like that. “You'd have to be very drunk or very stupid to mess with a man like me, Sandy,” he whispered, softly, taking a sip of his drink.
“You told me that years ago. I guess I'm stupid. Or maybe I'm not afraid of you. What? You're going to fuck me? I've been fucked before.”
“Not like this.”
He downed his glass, then set it aside, and started for her, but his eyes were already stripping her, already having her naked. Totally. Naked. At his mercy. His heart pounded at the thought, and Sandy’s eyes were wide and dilated.
“I’m going to have you, Sandy,” he said as he started to unbutton his shirt, all the time watching her as he crossed the library towards her. “But first you’re going to wash off the shit you threw on me.”
“Ha!” she said.
His eyebrows furrowed as he reached her, undoing his last button and then dropping his arms as he stood there, letting her feel his height, his nearness. He needed her to see him as a male. She did. He saw her eyes widen in alarm when he stepped into her comfort zone, then beyond it, until every rise of her chest pushed her nipples—her hard little nipples—against his diaphragm.
He stared down at her as he shrugged off his shirt, the currents of sexual tension crackling between them, the look in her eyes shocked and bewildered as she stared at his chest. “You’re going to wash off the shit you threw on me,” he repeated.
He reached down to take her hand in his, and she thrust her chin out haughtily as he stalked down the hall with her in tow. He opened the shower, and she was breathless and wide-eyed as he stepped inside and pulled her inside with him.
She gasped as the water started pummeling her, him in only his slacks, her still in that sexy-as-fuck dress.
With a hard smile, he shut the glass door behind her and kept his arm raised, caging her in as he let his gaze drift down her body, taking in the perky breasts encased in that tight sheath dress, the form-fitting fabric that hugged her shapely hips and displayed slim, beautiful legs. Her hair was loose. Long and curly, a rich sable, it now clung wetly down shoulders, and his fingers curled into his palms as his heart restarted with a vicious kick. Feather earrings clung from her little ears, dripping wet. And her topaz blue eyes…
When he brought his gaze up to her eyes and found them staring at him with fury, he could not think of anything but making her pay for every minute of suffering she’d caused him throughout his teenage years and more.
“My dress, you idiot!” she cried, flailing out with a fist. He caught it, aware of the heaviness in his loins, the tensing in his thigh muscles as he got close.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured into her ear, “I’ve got plenty of clothes for you.” Reaching out, he grabbed the soap and pressed it into her palm.
