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“Baby, desperate isn’t a strong enough word.” His eyes sweep down my body at the same time he licks his bottom lip, and goddamn the butterflies that erupt in my stomach.
“Can I make some tea?” I ask, trying to ignore the hungry look in his eyes.
“Above the sink to the right.”
When I open the cabinet, there’s mugs on the first shelf and on the second shelf are tea boxes: Earl Grey, English breakfast, rooibos, and chamomile. The usual suspects. I’m still deciding what I want when Cash’s body comes within inches of my back, his breath flicking the back of my neck. He reaches above my head, pressing his lean torso against my back and my heart skips a beat.
“This one’s my favorite. I’ll put the water on.” His abrupt absence makes me grip the counter for support.Get it together, Harlow.He’s supposed to be the one tripping over himself, not me.
“I could have reached.” I scoff and get two mugs down. When I turn back around, my throat knots. Tucked into the back of his pants, he has a black handgun. Is he trying to intimidate me? Because I didn’t quickly forget the lovely picture he painted of what would happen if I left this morning. Or are we truly in so much danger that, despite the men he claims are camped outside, he still needs to carry on his person?
“So, what did you do all day?” I lean back against the island and cross my arms, but then think I better put my bestassetsforward. I’m not wearing a bra, and when I rest my palms on the counter, my breasts push against the thin silk. Subtle but effective, judging by the way he readjusts himself in his slacks.
“You look good.”2
I don’t miss the fact he ignored my question but play along anyway, “Of course, you’d say that when you handpicked the outfit.” I don’t have to force the teasing, flirty tone.
“Actually Stella did.”Oh.
He takes a few steps to close the distance between us, and I think he’s going to cage me against the island. Instead, though, he mirrors my position on the counter across from me. “Of course, it would look better on the floor.”This is my opening.
“Yeah, about what you said last night…” I bite my lip and trail off like I’m nervous.
“Which part?” He cocks an eyebrow.
“The part about the counters.” I look down at my feet, but not wanting to overdo the shy-girl act, I look right back up and into his smoldering gaze.
“I’m not sure I remember.” He pushes off the counter. “You’ll have to elaborate.” His voice is husky and suggestive, and I don’t have to fake the blush creeping into my cheeks.
“The reason you told me to go to bed.” His presence is closing in on me, even though he hasn’t taken another step.
“You can do better than that.” His hand finds my hip and achingly slow, he glides his thumb over the satiny material of my shirt until his thumb brushes my skin.
I sigh, partly to be dramatic, but partly because breathing is becoming harder. “You said you wanted to fuck me on every inch of the counter.”
“Fuck, it sounds so much dirtier coming off your sweet lips.” His hand on my hip squeezes, and I’m ashamed to admit, I rock into his touch.
“Well, I noticed the cameras.Ifanything happened, would anybody else see it?”
“If they did, I’d kill them.” He says it so blasé, but I know it’s not a figure of speech. “That work of cinematic art would be for my eyes only.”
“Hmm.” I look off to the side and try to paint a light look of disappointment on my face.
“What is it?”
“It just seems like it wouldn’t be half as good without audio. Feels like a missed opportunity is all.” I shrug, and the devilish smile he gives me back makes heat prick my skin.
He laughs. “What makes you think there wouldn’t be audio?”
“In all the crime shows I watch, there never is audio for any surveillance footage.”
“This isn’t an episode ofSVU. I have top-of-the-line security, which means HD color video streaming and full audio.” Before I can respond, the kettle starts whistling and Cash spins around to pour us our cups of tea.
“I’m scared, Cash.” It’s not what I intended to say, but it slips out, nonetheless.
“I know, but you don’t have to be scared of me. And as long as you’re mine, you don’t have to be scared of anyone else.” I want to argue and tell him I’m nothis. I’m not a fucking object he can claim. But I tell my feminism to pipe down because now isn’t the time.
I don’t know if I’m truly safe—especially around him—or not, but I do know he believes it to be. I can see it in the way his brows furrow, trying to convey how much he means it. His eyes soften in a plea for me to believe it too.
