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"Shh," he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, "don’t be so hard on yourself, Flower."
"And you?" I tip up my chin. "Aren’t you being too hard on yourself because of Xander’s death?"
Shut up! Why did you say that? Why is it that, the moment he tries to show that there’s more to him than the asshole Mafia guy persona that he likes to portray, you have to try to shut him down?
His jaw tightens. His gaze intensifies for a few seconds, then he wipes all expression from his features.
"You want to play dirty, is that it?" he says in a hard voice. "You want me to be mean to you? You prefer it when I’m uncaring, when I don’t consider your feelings, and instead use you for my own pleasure? Is that what turns you on, Flower?"
Yes.
Yes.
"No," I say through a throat gone dry, "of course, not."
He peers into my eyes, then shakes his head. "You don’t know what you need, do you, Flower?"
"And you do?"
He blows out a breath. "Isn’t that what this entire conversation is about?"
I try to pull away from him, but he holds my hand captive against his sculpted chest. The feel of the planes under my palm, the thud-thud-thud of his heart that mirrors the pulse between my legs, the warmth of his skin that creeps into my skin, all of it confirms to me that I am here with him, in this moment. That we are alone in this house, snowed in from the world. That there is no one to judge me for what I want him to do to me. There is no one to taunt me for my wanting to give in to him. There is no one but myself, the woman who wants to experience the highs of pleasure and the lows of depravity that he has promised that he’ll show me.
"Show me," I murmur. "Show me what you can do to me."
His gaze narrows. His nostrils flare, then he straightens. I pull my arm away and lock my fingers together in front of myself. He glares at me, and I shuffle my weight from foot to foot. The seconds stretch by; he doesn’t look away from me. I hold his gaze until it gets too much for me. Until my skin heats, my thighs clench, my toes curl, and my skin feels too tight for the rest of me. Another second, and I am going to self-combust. "Christian…" I finally chuckle. "Wh-what are you doing?"
"Strip," he growls.
"Excuse me?" I blink. "What the hell do you mean by that?"
"Exactly what I said, Flower. You put yourself in my care. Now do as I say. Take off your bathrobe."
"But it’s cold," I whine.
He lowers his voice to a hush. "Do it, Flower." All of my nerve endings seem to pop. I open my mouth to protest, but he shakes his head. "Now," he snaps. The cold air hits my shoulders, and I realize that I have untied my bathrobe. It slithers down my arms to rest around my elbows.
He sweeps his gaze down my front, where my skin is bared.
"Lower your arms," he commands.
When I do so, the bathrobe falls off to pool around my ankles.
"Hmm." He taps his cheek as he looks me up and down. He walks a slow circle around me, and I have to stop myself from glancing over my shoulder to follow his progress. Goose. bumps track across my skin as he comes to a stop in front of me.
"Stay." He stabs a finger at me. Before I can protest, he spins around and walks over to the fire. He prods at it, then adds more wood to it until it’s roaring. Heat fills the space and suffuses my skin. By the time he walks over to me, there’s a thin film of sweat over my upper lip.
"Better?" he asks.
I nod, then point at his bathrobe. "Why are you still dressed?"
"Because I’m the dominant in this relationship."
I pout. "So, you get to say anything and do anything—"
"Including you."
"And I have to take it?"
