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“They know what they’re doing,” he says with a low, confident tone to his voice that finishes the sentence he doesn’t. And they know who I am.
But still… I wonder. I wonder if he’s as important as I’ve made him out to be in my mind. I let my imagination wander for the first time in so long, it feels like a blessed relief to dance with fancy once more. I’ve dwelt so long in pragmatics, I’m not accustomed to flirting with imagination.
He’s a millionaire, a quiet one, with a strong sense of altruistic motives who gives to the poor. He isn’t married now but was once married to a woman who died of an illness that required him to nurse her around the clock, sitting by her bed, which he did with the patience and fortitude of a saint. He takes care of his mother, has several younger siblings at home, and this is the first time in so long he’s let himself cut loose.
I smile to myself at the altruistic hero I’ve made up in my mind.
This is dangerous. I don’t really know who he is. I don’t really know what he’s capable of, but I do know that I’m skilled enough in self-defense that if this goes sour—and I fully anticipate that it will not—I can handle myself if I have to.
It won’t come to that, but I can’t fully shut off the logical part of my brain.
Time begins to speed up, to take on a pace so rapid I’m nearly panting. His hand on the back of my neck in a possessive move that makes my heart beat faster and my mouth go dry. The warm feel of his calloused palm gently caressing with enough pressure it says mine. His low voice in my ear. The faint but heady, masculine scent that wafts through the air around us.
I don’t know who this man is, but I do know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will make me happy I took this trip to Nowhere Land with him.
But still, I can’t shut off my brain that will spin and spin out of control no matter how hard I try to rein it in.
He’s familiar with Boston.
He’s familiar with a gun.
Who is he?
Why do I care?
He holds up his phone, black and sleek and as slim as a credit card, to the flat black panel by the front door. With a subtle flash of white and a whir, the door clicks open.
“Was that magic?” I whisper.
He nods with that grin that makes my heart pitter-patter. “Of course it was,” he says, as he shuts the door behind him. One of his eyebrows raises as he gives me a wink. “Abracadabra.”
“You are one of the world’s biggest flirts.”
The door clicks when it shuts, and with another wave of his phone, a series of locks clicks into place. My heart beats faster, a steady rhythm of adrenaline and excitement laced with fear.
“And you, doll, haven’t seen anything yet.” He leans against the door with a casual fold of his arms. Quickly, I scan his expensive clothing, the way it fits him like it was tailored.
Was it?
His blue eyes focus on me, and he drops the smile. “You’re absolutely stunning, doll,” he says in that voice as soft as velvet. “But you won’t need those clothes anymore, now, will you?”
I swallow hard. “Something tells me by the tone of your voice that you’ve already made that decision for me, haven’t you?”
I do not give up control to a man. I do not concede control to damn near anyone, unless it’s my boss, and even then I find a way to make it on my terms. But now… something inside me craves feeling the taste of his domination. Something in me begs to know what it’s like to be taken underneath a man who knows how to wield his power, who could make me squirm before he makes me beg. And something tells me this guy is capable of all those things.
“You ask the question,” he says thoughtfully, his head gently tipping to the side, “as if you know exactly how I think and what I’ll do next.”
I shake my head. “I don’t,” I whisper. “I was only guessing. It’s sort of… how I do things.”
“I see,” he says as his lips draw together, sobering, though his eyes are still as focused as ever on me. “And you have no idea how Daddy does things, do you?”
My thighs clench together on instinct. How? Why is hearing him say that so damn appealing to me? My throat tightens.
“I don’t,” I say in a throaty whisper I don’t recognize as my own voice. “Maybe…” my voice trembles a little. I’m going in. “Daddy needs to… to show me,” I stammer.
“I think he does.” His slow nod of approval makes my heart squeeze a little. Why do I feel so attracted to that gentle nod? There’s something about it that grips me so tightly I can barely breathe.
