Page 67 of Mr. Wicked

“Should I give you a tour?” I asked him.

“I would love one.” His voice was deep, gritty.

It vibrated through my chest and down my navel toward that throbbing spot between my legs.

Why did he have so much control over me?

How could I make it stop?

“Come on.” I pushed myself up from the couch, his hand dropping from my leg but pressing against my back as soon as we stood. That placement was somehow easier, less intimate. I cleared my throat and pointed toward the area where we’d stopped first when we came in. “The kitchen you’ve seen.” I circled my hand in the air. “Living room, obviously.” I gave Sloane a smile as I passed her on the couch and brought Grayson down the short hallway where the two bedrooms and bathroom were located. I flipped on the light and stalled in the closest doorway. “This is my room.”

Instead of just peeking inside, he walked in, looking at the artwork on the walls, the pictures I had framed on my dresser. His hand skimmed across a few leaves of my Swiss cheese plant, and he moved on to the books piled on my nightstand. Once he conquered the full perimeter, he returned to where I was standing.

“What you were expecting?” I asked him.

I kept my voice down even though the TV was on in the living room, preventing Sloane from hearing me.

But before I’d asked that question, something had entered my mind. For someone who resented me, who wanted nothing to do with me aside from a signed contract and public outings, I found it extremely interesting that he took so much time exploring my small space. Why he hadn’t just glanced in from the doorway, since that would have been far less personal.

“You want the truth. I was expecting more girlie.” He broke eye contact to look around the room again. But his feet didn’t move, they stayed put. Just close enough that I could smell his cologne, a distance that was making it hard to breathe. “This room isn’t that.”

“You mean like pink walls and a furry white desk chair and a diamond chandelier?” I laughed. “No, it’s not that. That’s not me.”

“What’s you, Jovana?”

That question hit differently.

It was like he was trying to see all the way down to my core.

“I like a space that’s light on color, easy on the eyes, where I’m inspired by my mind and the brands I’m working with.” I nodded toward the corner where my tripod and lighting were placed. “That’s where I do most of my filming. It’s important to me that my followers feel a warm, inviting atmosphere when they watch my videos or look at my photos. I don’t want the space to compete with what I’m trying to endorse.”

“Your face does that.”

My brows couldn’t climb any higher. “Excuse me?”

“You’re fucking gorgeous. No one is looking at the product, Jovana. They’re looking at you.”

His compliment hit the top of my head and swished all the way to my toes.

Where is this niceness coming from?

“That’s why you’re good at your job,” he continued. “You have a face everyone wants to stare at.” He took a step closer and gave me his profile, his focus back on the room. “You’ve really thought about this. You’ve put time into it, haven’t you?”

“I take my job as seriously as you take yours. It means everything to me. So, yes, I’ve thought about it. I’ve tested backgrounds and filters. I’ve worn different types of clothing to see what viewers connect to best. I change up the way I word my posts to gauge interaction. Nothing is random. It’s all there because I’m either seeing if it works or I know it’ll work.”

“What about that dress?” Desire filled his gaze. “Would you wear that to film?”

I laughed. “No.”

“And why not?”

I looked down my body. Even though I was covered, I felt naked. The dress was skintight and matched my eyes—the reason I’d bought it. It started just below my throat, the sleeveless bodice ending far above my knees. The material wasn’t ribbed; there wasn’t even bunching. The way it held me was all the design this dress needed.

“It’s just too much,” I replied, our eyes now locked.

“Too sexy, you mean.”

I nodded.

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