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I straighten my spine. "I didn’t mean to talk about your past. I was warned not to. Not that I’m a gossip—" I pause. "Okay, maybe a little.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “And only because gossip is good for you. It helps to de-stress. And you look like it would help if you were to relax. I'll bet you keep it all locked up inside. Which makes you a prime candidate for a coronary. Not that it's any of my business. It’s your heart, after all."
"Heart?" he asks in a dark voice.
"The organ that beats in our chests? On the other hand, looking at your grim-faced countenance, I'm guessing you don’t have one." I squeeze my eyes shut. "I’ve crossed the line, haven’t I?"
When I look at him again, his expression veers between fascination, disgust, and anger.
"Okay, that’s it. I will not speak anymore. I’ll wipe you down and be on my way." I lean forward, then brush my scarf over the lower part of his jacket which happens to be cover his crotch. And again. His thigh-muscles coil. The fabric of his pants stretches until I’m sure they’re going to pop at the seam. I sense his gaze boring into the top of my bent head, but I don’t dare look up.
"You done?" he finally growls through gritted teeth. And his voice—it’s gravelly and hard, and carries the promise of all the delicious, unforgivable things he could do to me. And I want him to.
I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "It’s not getting any better, is it?" I ask in small voice. "No, it’s not. Am I making it worse? Of course, I am." I slowly tip up my head and meet his gaze. "Can I make it up to you?"
His lips thin, he looks ready to bite my head off, then a cunning look comes into his eyes.
"How are you at obeying orders?"
2
Mira
"Orders?" I blink slowly. "What kind of orders?"
Not the kind you read in your smutty books. Definitely can’t be those kinds of orders.
The skin around his eyes tightens. "What are smutty books?" he rumbles. My nerve-endings spark. Oh my god, that caramel-velvet voice of his brushes up against my skin, and every cell in my body seems to come alive.Also, no, no, no, did I say the S-word aloud?
"I meant, slutty books." I cover my face with my hands. "I said that aloud, as well, didn’t I?"
I peek through the gaps in my fingers in time to see him nodding slowly. He doesn’t say a word, though. He merely glares at me like I’m a puzzle to solve, or maybe, an annoyance, or an irritant, or a pest he’d prefer to swat away.
The silence stretches. Our gazes catch. The air between us crackles with awareness. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise. A heavy feeling pushes down on my chest. I swallow, and my throat feels like it’s lined with sharp glass.What’s happening to me?
"Do you always say whatever comes into your mind?" he asks in a voice that’s both detached and curious, in the way a scientist might be while observing an animal in the wild.
I frown. "Of course, not." I wave a hand in the air, striving for casual. "Only when I’m nervous. Not that I’m nervous now. And do you make me nervous? Of course, not."
"Also a liar." He drags his thumb under his lower lip, and my gaze is drawn to his mouth. Gorgeous mouth. Hard mouth. A mean upper lip that hints at his authoritarian nature. That puffy lower lip that might signify his pursuit of pleasure. A hedonist. A savage. A fiend. He’s all of them. Does that make him a heartless monster? Or a merciless lover? One who seeks gratification, but not in an instant way. This man would wait months…years, if needed. This man would pursue what he wants with a singular focus. And oh, to be at the receiving end of that intensity.
What I'm facing now is a tiny insight into how it would be if he were to get fixated on me. I shake my head. Fixated? I don’t want that. Not at all. I don’t know this man. All I know is the passing reference to him within the circle of my girlfriends, whose husbands he's a friend of. I’ve never seen him with a woman, though.
"I’ve never seen you with a woman."What the—!"Did I say that out loud?” I ask weakly.
His features harden until they look like they could be carved from a diamond-hard material, whatever that's called.
"Oh, shit," Gio says in a soft voice from behind me.
Indeed.
"Umm, sorry? Did I say something wrong? Of course, I did. But why is it wrong? I have no idea. No one has ever seen me with a man before today, either. So, it’s not odd not to be seen with someone of the opposite sex. By the same token, it’s allowed for a woman to have friends who are men and a man is allowed to have woman friends. Besides, you’re no longer a priest, so…" I swallow, for he’s leaned forward on the balls of his feet.
It’s a slight movement, but it brings him close enough for his spicy scent to crash over me. A tingle of electricity runs up my spine. It’s as if I’ve been bathed in a cloud of aphrodisiacs—oh wait, those are his pheromones! A-n-d my stupid stomach goes into free fall. "Sooo, what I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t matter if you have women friends. Or girlfriends. Or ladyloves, as they called it in the regency era. I mean, you look stuffy enough to belong in an historical romance. All you need is a ruffled shirt…" I hum thoughtfully. "Yep, a white ruffled shirt, which would stand out against your skin and be the perfect foil to your cut-glass cheekbones. Does that mean you’re good-looking? Of course, not. I mean, if you smiled a little more… Now—"
"Smile?" he asks in that dark, dangerous voice, and that swirling sensation in my belly intensifies. My toes curl. Goosebumps pop on my skin.
"Smile," I say in a dazed voice. "You know, when the sides of your mouth curve up because your sense of humor is tickled, or when you feel the urge to show your appreciation of a situation, like this." I project my most confident, school-picture-day smile. "Not that either of those have crossed your mind for a decade."
"How do you know that?" he asks in a curious voice.
