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“Now is that any way to treat a guest?” I scold, moving fluidly around the kitchen, grabbing paper plates and finding two small glasses for the Mad Dog. I bought it, and we are going to drink it, dammit.
She rolls her eyes, and her shoulders slump in defeat as she walks over to the couch and plops down. I pour us both glasses of the pink beverage, grab the pizza box, and follow her. But I don’t give her any personal space. Nope. I sit my ass down right next to her.
She recoils from me a little bit, which I’m not used to. Leaning toward the armrest with her legs tucked under her ass, her body language couldn’t be any more obvious.
She’s playing hard to get.
Fine.
Two can play at that game, but I can promise I won’t be the one who loses. First base, here I come.
After placing the pizza on the table, I hand her the glass of Mad Dog and take away her wine.
“Hey!” she protests when I bring the wine glass to my lips and guzzle it down.
Lower lip pushed out, she crosses one arm over her chest and holds the cup I gave her as if it contains poison.
“Go ahead. Take a drink,” I encourage. “It’s good. I promise.”
Her eyes narrow. “Clearly, we have different tastes, Mr. Dixen.”
“You can call me Alistair when we are out of the office, Rory. No need to be formal here.”
She runs her eyes up and down my torso. “Would you like a shirt perhaps?”
“Nope,” I respond, leaning back, making sure my toned abs are on display. Women are suckers for a defined abdomen, and I work on mine almost daily. “Does my body make you uncomfortable?” I inquire, lowering my voice and waggling my eyebrows.
“N-No,” she stutters out, her cheeks heating as she tears her gaze from my body to stare out the window.
Point for Alistair.
I smile, knowing it appears roguish, but I don’t care. While she’s not looking, I reach up and untie the towel from her hair, watching her black curls fall down around her face.
“Can you just stop?” she asks, eyes blazing. “It’s bad enough that you can just waltz in here whenever you want. Can you at least not touch me?”
“But I thought you’d like it if I touched you, Rory. Most women do. You may find you like it.”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes, then stands abruptly before walking across the room to the windows facing the couch. “You don’t know what I like,” she sneers.
Was that a challenge?
Not reacting, I bring my cup to my lips and empty the contents down my throat, then I gently place it down on a coaster before standing.
I stretch with my arms high over my head so she can see how powerful my body is. I’ve left my gray sweats untied so they sit low on my hips, knowing how well they show off my cock.
Fisting the paper inside my pocket, I pull it out and show it to her. “Don’t I?” She looks at it in confusion, her green eyes suddenly nervous. “Do you know what this is, Rory?” I say her name in a threatening fashion as I take a step closer to her. “This piece of paper still smells like you. That’s why I’ve kept it, as a reminder of what could be, of what’s to come.”
“I-I don’t understand,” she stammers. I take another step closer, then another, until I’ve caged her against the windows. I can see her shiver at my nearness, hear her breathing stutter. Her eyes widen.
“This” —I hold it just under her nose— “is the piece of paper you sat on in Rogan’s office.”
Her eyebrows shoot up and her cheeks turn crimson as she glances away from me.
“Look at me,” I growl, gripping her chin and forcing her to hold my gaze. “Don’t act like this is something deplorable, like I’m just a piece of scum who doesn’t deserve to lick your shoes. I’m Alistair fucking Dixen, one of the most powerful men in Boston. And today, with the slightest touch, Rogan and I had that pussy of yours leaking all over his desk.”
She gasps at my insinuations, but a fire blazes in her eyes. I lower my mouth, running my lips across hers ever so gently. “It still smells like you, Rory, and I intend to keep it until the time comes when I get to inhale you up close and personal.”
I lower my hand from her chin to her neck, holding her still with firm pressure, enough to let her know who’s in charge, who has the power, but not enough to restrict her air.
