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“Nothing for two years.”
“It’s just like riding a bike”—his voice lowers—“only you’ll be riding me.” He rotates me and presses me against the island, his body lifting from mine, hands pressed on the dark wood of the counter behind me. “Were you someone’s submissive?”
“No. I’m not a submissive.”
“But you were with someone who wanted you to be.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you to be.”
“But you’re dominant.”
“I don’t take submissives, and you have to sense that, or you wouldn’t be with me.”
“You think I couldsensethat?”
“I think we’re remarkably in tune with each other for virtual strangers. Which is why we’re both here right now. I like control. You like making me earn it. But as we’ve established, I like a challenge. And you, Faith, are that and so much more. Which means I’m okay with earning control, and you get the control you want, because you decide when I get mine.”
And there it is. The many reasons I want this man. His power. His control. The challenge I enjoy delivering and he enjoys conquering. But there is more there, too. There is the reason, a few moments ago, that nerves controlled me instead of our game and him. And it had nothing to do with who tried to control me in the past—at least, not sexually. He sees too much. He knows too much when he should know nothing. It’s illogical, but he’s right. I did know him without knowing him, and he knows me without knowing me. And that makes him, and this, dangerous. But now that I know what is happening and why I should run, I have less desire to do so than ever.
I want him. And, as if his mind is in the same place, he says, “I want you, Faith,” and then reaches down and rips my dress all the way open. I gasp, shocked, aroused, more aroused. His hands end up at my knees, where the final tear allows my dress to fall open, but they do not stay there. They glide from my knees, my thighs, and over my hips to the front clasp of my bra, which he manages to unhook. It falls away like my dress, replaced by his hands. “I want you, Faith,” he repeats. His thumbs stroke my nipples, his cheek pressing to mine. “Like I don’t remember ever wanting in my life.”
I might reject these words, but there is this raw, almost tormented quality to his voice that tells me he doesn’t want to feel this…whatever it is that is happening any more than I do. It tells me that he has a past, as do I. It echoes with every spiraling emotion inside me, right now, and deep inside every night that I cannot sleep. He pulls back, his eyes meeting mine, and while his expression is impassive, there are shadows in his eyes that he doesn’t hide, that he lets me see, and I think… I think this is to let me know that I am not alone. But I am alone, and the fact that I’ve had this thought is confusing—and yet, somehow, I’mnotalone with this man, not this one night, when we dare be whoever it is we are together.
He lifts me, sitting me on the counter, his hands on my knees, which are now pressed together.
“Now open for me,” he orders softly, but he doesn’t press them open himself. He waits for me to open them, giving me the control and taking it at the same time. The look on his face, the warmth in his touch on my legs, promises me salacious, wonderful rewards, and a deep throb radiates in my sex. I open my legs, and my dress hangs from my body. His hands settle on my shoulders, branding my skin under the silk and lace of both the dress and my bra. His gaze lowers, sliding over my breast, a heavy caress that is not a caress at all, but my nipples pucker, my sex clenches.
Slowly, he inches the material down, over my back, and when it falls to the counter behind me, I slip my hands away from it. “I loved this dress,” I say.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” he says.
“No,” I say immediately, my hands going to his hands where they rest on my thighs. “No. I do not want you to buy me a dress. I don’t want your money, and don’t make this about that.”
“Make this what?”
“I don’t need anything from you but an orgasm. Or two or three, ifyou’re up to it.”
The blue of his eyes burn, hot coals and simmering heat. “A challenge we can both accept.”
“But I still think you need to pay for my dress.”
His eyes narrow. “You said—”
“That I don’t want money but I want an even playing field.” I reach in the drawer beside me and grab a knife, removing it.
I don’t even get it beyond the counter before Nick grabs my hand, pulling it and the blade between us, his jaw steel, his voice tight. “What are you doing, Faith?”
Chapter Ten
Tiger
My fingers wrap around Faith’s slender wrist, that knife between us, but as I look at her, I think that if she intends malice, she’s far better an actor than any opponent I’ve ever faced. I see no intention in her face, nor do I sense any in her energy, see any in her eyes. But this moment damn sure reminds me that I’m not here because this woman rocks my world like no other, despite the fact that she does. I’m here because my father and her mother are dead. Because she is the only logical place murder leads, even if it now feels illogical to me.
“Trust issues much, Nick?” she challenges. “Who was she? Because clearly she fucked with your head.”
“You’re the one who plays with knives, sweetheart.”
