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What I’m feeling right now runs more along the lines of wishing her boss to perdition. But since I don’t think she’d want to hear something like it, I say diplomatically, “Something like that.”
When Consuelo leaves, I don’t unpack right away and instead sit at the edge of the bed—-
My bed, I correct myself and the realization gives me pause.
Am I really going to stay here – knowing what kind of man Mr. Rochester is?
He may be the hottest-looking man alive, but the time I’ve spent in Sam and Consuelo’s company also tells me he’s the moodiest son of a bitch, petty as hell, vain and tyrannical—-
I’m red-faced and fuming by the end of my mental tirade, and before I can think twice of what I’m about to do I’ve already snatched my phone out of my purse.
I press Call on the screen.
Mr. Rochester’s phone starts to ring.
My eyebrows shoot up.
What the hell?
I take the phone away from my ear but I still hear his phone ringing—-
I turn towards the direction the sound is coming from, and that’s when my gaze falls on another door. I had assumed earlier it would lead directly to the bathroom but now I realize it’s the doorway to hell.
My God, he’s put us in connecting suites? Marching towards the door, I try the knob, find it locked, and my teeth gnashes. The gall of him, to have the lock on his side! Does he think he’s in danger of being raped?
I start banging on the door.
“Hang on a minute,” I hear Mr. Rochester’s very British voice call out a moment later.
“No,” I yell furiously, “I won’t wait—-”
“Very well then.”
The door opens.
And Mr. Rochester is naked—-
I let out a shriek. “What the hell?”
Okay, Mr. Rochester isn’t actually completely naked. He has the tiniest towel riding low around his hips, and it does an appalling job at covering his body. I know I should tear my gaze away, like right this very second, but I can’t.
It’s impossible.
Mr. Rochester is just...hard. So ridiculously hard, all over. I mean, how’s that possible? What kind of workout does this man do that every inch is just strewn with muscles?
I try to make my vocal chords work, but they refuse to cooperate. My throat feels so dry and the rest of my body has turned into something I don’t recognize. It’s become feverishly hot and trembling, and the longer I stare at Mr. Rochester, the weaker I feel, made worse by this weird fluttery feeling in my stomach.
“You’re welcome to do more than stare, Ms. Reed.”
The lazily spoken words work like a bucket of cold water and I finally manage to stop ogling him. “Thanks, but no thanks.” It’s such a lame comeback, made even lamer by the croaking sound of my voice. Gah. I want to kill myself right now.
He opens the door wider. “Come in, please.”
I shake my head, saying once more, “No thanks—-”
Mr. Rochester smiles. “I insist.” His voice is gently commanding, and although it pisses me off, it also arouses me like no other, and I feel a shameful gush of moisture between my legs.
“Ms. Reed?”
“W-Whatever.” I march ungraciously inside his room. The sound of the door closing behind us almost makes me stumble.
Dear God, I’m alone in Mr. Rochester’s room.
My pulse leaps and my imagination runs wild. I feel like I’ve just stepped into another cage...but instead of feeling terrified, I feel more moisture soaking my panties.
Shit.
I press my legs closer together while looking around me, desperate for a distraction. Mr. Rochester’s room is only a little bigger than my suite but every inch here screams ‘master of the house’. The walls are an alternating pattern of natural stone and quarter-sawn panels, complemented by coffered ceilings and umber-colored velvet curtains.
It suits him, I think vaguely.
Mr. Rochester walks back into my line of view. “How do you find it?”
Heavy on tradition without being oppressive, I answer silently. I like it a lot actually, but I’d rather die than give him any kind of compliment so I just shrug, saying, “It’s okay.”
Mr. Rochester only smirks, and the way he looks at me seems to suggest he knows I’m just being contrary.
Shit.
When he starts coming closer, I force myself to stay still, not wanting him to see how much his proximity is rattling me. In such an enclosed space, the fact that Mr. Rochester is so much taller and larger than I am is inescapable, and the knowledge is excruciating to my senses. I can’t stop thinking of the way Mr. Rochester can easily overpower me if he wants to—-
My gaze involuntarily slides to the oversized bed behind him. Even if he’s injured, I know Mr. Rochester’s strength is still enough to throw me on that bed if he wants to. I know he can keep me trapped, his hard body over mine—-
