Page 23 of Tell Me Something True

“Because I want you to.” Because he liked looking at her, taking in his fill of her after all these years, noting the way her hips were fuller, her breasts bigger. He liked that she’d stood there for this long, naked and bared to him. “Because I told you to.”

Movements slow, eyes on his, she bent put her hands at her lower back, the pose thrusting her tits forward.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmured.

Her entire body twitched and she made a sound, soft and low in the back of her throat.

He went still and alert, learning even more about her. “Is that what you’re playing at tonight? Being a good girl?”

Dropping her gaze, she shook her head, refusing to give him the truth after she’d promised she would.

“Do you remember what I told you?” he asked. “The promises I made?”

“I remember.”

“Do you believe me?”

Do you trust me?

“Yes.”

There was no doubt in her answer. No hesitation.

He grinned for real, sharp and pleased. Felt like a predator, starved and on the prowl, and ready to pounce.

Instead, he kept his movements slow and controlled as he shifted forward to the edge of the sofa. “You want to pretend to be a good girl?” He pressed his knees against her inner thighs, forcing her legs to widen even more, then slid to the ground between them. “Let’s see how good you can be.”

***

Let’s see how good you can be.

Those words should have struck terror in Tabitha’s heart. Would have, she admitted, if any man other than Miles had murmured them to her.

She wanted him. But more than that, she still trusted him. Not completely, of course. She didn’t trust his motives.

She trusted that heated, hungry look in his eyes. The bulge in his pants.

She trusted him not to force her to do something she didn’t want to do.

“Don’t move,” he told her. “And keep your hands behind your back.”

While his heated gaze roamed over her, she stood, silent and still and waited.

And about shattered into a million pieces when he reached up and traced her nipple with his fingertip, his nail lightly scraping the sensitive skin of her areola.

Her breath caught and she swayed, pushing her breast forward, seeking more.

He dropped his hand.

“You’re not listening,” he scolded, sliding his hand to his lap once more.

She stilled.

“That’s better.” He tipped his head to the side and studied her. “Now,” he drawled, his tone dark enough, dangerous to have apprehension prickling the nape of her neck. “Apologize.”

Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me you’re sorry for not listening. Tell me you’re going to spend the rest of the night being good.”

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