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I’m still staring at the gown, my mind blank, when I hear thundering footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Too late,” Dexter sighs.
“My God, would you look at that.” Lawrence swoops in and seizes the dress from my hands, holding it up. “Italian. I just know it.” He looks for the label and sings his joy when he discovers what he’s looking for. “I’ve never seen anything so beautifully made.”
I can’t see his face, the dress is concealing it, but I can hear his utter glee. I peek in the box, spot a card, and seize it while Lawrence and Dexter are distracted. Of course, I know who it’s from, but I don’t know why. Or what the heck I’m supposed to do with it. I wander to the kitchen while my uncles drool over the lace gown, pulling the card from the envelope.
Secrets are only secrets if no one knows about them. No one knows my secret.
I frown down at his handwriting. No one knows my secret. Therefore, it is, in fact, a secret. Is he suggesting he knows my secrets? “What?” I murmur to myself, so fucking confused. But more than that, intrigued. And isn’t that his point? Intrigue me. Lure me back into his sex chamber. But why? “Fuck this,” I mutter, marching out of the kitchen. The dress lowers, revealing Lawrence’s and Dexter’s stunned expressions, their wide eyes following my path. I stomp up the stairs, find my cell, and dial him. I pace. Around and around, I pace. He doesn’t answer, and I growl, dialing him again. No answer. “God damn you, James.” I throw my cell on my bed, frustrated, and so very angry. He knew what he was doing.
And I’ve given him exactly what he wanted.
“Everything okay?” Lawrence and Dexter appear at the door, both looking a bit sheepish.
“Fine.”
“Oh. Okay, then.” Lawrence takes a few, cautious steps into my room. “I’ll just hang this up. Be a shame to get it all creased.”
“No,” I snap, sounding harsher than I intended. I can’t help it. I’m mad. “You keep it.”
“What?” Lawrence clutches the dress to his chest, like he’s scared I might change my mind and snatch it back.
“I want you to have the dress.” I go to him, encouraging him to turn, and then gently and firmly guide him out of my room. I shut the door before I’m questioned as my cell beeps from my bed. I don’t rush over, despite my curiosity going through the roof. I take calm, measured steps, hoping my temper settles as I do. I see a text from him and open it.
Tomorrow night at eight. My secret won’t be a secret anymore.
“You bastard,” I breathe. The manipulative, immoral, clever asshole. I dial him again, intending on telling him exactly what I think of him. He doesn’t answer, and I picture him staring at my name flashing up on his screen, his face impassive. Satisfied. My thumbs lose all control and start hammering away at the screen.
I don’t want your secret.
I just want him. No. I just want his gift.
Outside the Ziff Ballet Opera House at eight.
I drop to the bed. His evasion of my statement is warranted, because we both know my claim is utter crap. And as if my conscience is joining the persuasion party, it reminds me that I haven’t thought of anything else but James in the past ten minutes. It doesn’t matter if those thoughts are infuriating. I look at the marks marring my skin. His mark. The angel on one shoulder is screaming at me not to do it. Don’t bend. Don’t play his game. The devil on my other shoulder is daring me to extend the distraction.
I startle when my cell bleeps the arrival of another message, but this time there are no words. Only a video. I open it and stare at a piece of footage from our first encounter. I’m on my back, my knees pushed up to my ears, and James is fucking me violently. I can only see his profile. But it is heart-stopping all the same. He knows that’s what I want. He knows that’s what I need. His dark, fierce fucking. Merciless. Glorious. “Bastard,” I murmur. The beautiful, depraved, dangerous bastard. He’s stunning, and I simply do not want to resist watching, listening to his grunts, studying his moves. I’m already wet.
I wander to my bathroom, shrugging off my robe and letting it fall to the floor. After flipping on the shower, I step into the stall, resting my back against the tile. I don’t feel the shock of cold.
I slide down the wall, skim my hand down my stomach, and let my fingers slip over my throbbing clit. I inhale, my head falling back. But my eyes never leave the screen of my phone.
I come on a murmur of his name.
