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“Okay.”
I try not to make it sound like a question. I have no idea what moscato is or whether I’d like it. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t have a whiskey or vodka collection. I’d be hammered after one sip.
He pulls two wine glasses from the overhead rack and leads the way into the living room. Great, now I have to figure out where to sit on the sectional. If I sit on the far side of the L, I’ll be able to see him from anywhere but it might look like I’m afraid. If I plop down beside him, it might give him the impression I’m easy pickings. I am, but I don’t need him to know it.
I’d rather sit on the floor, especially if I could curl against his legs, but that isn’t an appropriate first sit-down-and-talk position. Do other people have such ridiculous difficulty deciding where to sit?
He sits in the middle of the sectional and sets the bottle and glasses on the table in front of him.
Frozen, I stare at the floor, unable to make a decision. Willing the tears pooling in my eyes to go away.
“I won’t bite.”
I risk a quick glance up at his face, horrified that he might actually think I’m afraid. He winks at me, flashing that disarming dimple, and pats the couch beside him. I go to him, relieved but still upset at my inability to act like a normal human being.
He pours the clear wine into the glasses, barely more than a splash in each. “I have to drive to the airport, so I can’t indulge. But I can’t resist sharing your first glass of good wine, either. If you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”
I take the glass but don’t sip it yet. I try to sit calmly, as if I sit and chat with people all the time. Not like I’m a wreck, waiting for him to tell me what to do. I want his commands more than anything.
He leans back and props his feet on the table, careful not to knock the bottle over. He wears heavy, black motorcycle boots that I find as intriguing and unexpected as his backyard of cows. He drives a boring beige Buick. Thousands of them drive around Springfield every day, but I’m pretty sure none of the men inside wear heavy, black boots with buckles and studs. It makes me wonder what kind of surprises he hides under that black turtleneck. Tattoos? Piercings?
Yum.
My mouth waters so badly that I finally risk a sip to hide my reaction. The wine is sweet and a little bubbly. Surprisingly good.
“Ah. You like it. I’m glad. I take pride in trying to match wine to each person’s personality.”
I shift sideways a little so I can catch more of his facial expressions without actually looking directly at him. “I’m like moscato?”
His mouth quirks. “Bright and bubbly and sweet but a little hard to pinpoint. It’s not quite champagne. It’s not dry enough to be chardonnay. Maybe too sweet for some people, dessert for others. I could polish off an entire bottle myself if I had some cheesecake to go with it.”
He thinks I’m dessert. Now that I could definitely live with.
He tips his head to the side. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
“No.” I shake my head once, hard, to emphasize exactly how not afraid of him I am.
“But you are afraid.” He says it softly, just a breath of words that makes me want to lean in and swallow them from his mouth. “I’ve been trying to decide how best to approach you for months. You’re a deer in the forest, gone in a flash before I can decide if I’m right or dead wrong.”
“Right about what?” My mouth is too dry, my voice too harsh. I take a larger drink of the wine, clutching the glass stem so hard I’m afraid it might shatter. No, that’s me trying not to fall apart.
“First, I want you to relax.” His tone sharpens with enough command to melt my nerves. A mere hint of the power he possesses, and I want to slip to the floor and bury my face in his lap while he strokes my hair and pets me like Sheba. “I give you my word that I’m not going to take advantage of you, especially when you’re helping me out with this trip. I just want to talk. We only have an hour before I have to head to the airport, and we have a lot of ground to cover.”
“Okay,” I whisper, dizzy with relief even though disappointment wells in my heart. I won’t lose him before I’ve even had a taste of his mastery.
“You give off a confusing vibe, Ranay. I have to be sure. I need to know what’s going on inside your head so I can decide how to proceed. Do you know where I’m going with this, or am I going to make a fool of myself tonight?”
I wrap my other hand around the glass to make sure I keep them to myself. “I know I’m submissive.”
He lets out a chuckle that makes me clench my thighs together. “That’s not even close to the signals you’re giving me. Saying you’re submissive is like claiming the weather in Missouri is a little changeable. Meanwhile one day it’s seventy degrees and I’m running after Sheba without a coat, and the next day I’m shoveling my driveway and cursing the ice.”
He leans toward me and gently pries the glass out of my hands before I damage it and myself. “Your hands are icy. Why didn’t you tell me you were cold? I forgot the temp dipped tonight, and I sent you outside to play fetch with Sheba for an hour.”
He wraps my hands in his and I start to sag. I can’t help it. He feels so good, all heat and strength and tenderness. I want to snuggle into his side and breathe his scent from the hot velvet skin of his neck. I want to slide my icy hands up his shirt. They won’t be cold for long.
“I’m not that cold.” Of course my teeth choose this moment to chatter. “I forgot my gloves. That’s all.”
He draws me against his side, throwing an arm around my shoulders while he holds both of my hands in his other palm. He isn’t a tall man but he has big hands. Big enough to enclose both of mine in one of his. He’d be able to pin both hands over my head with ease while he torments me with his other hand. “Damn it, I wasn’t going to do this.”
