Page 9 of Kneeling to Candy

“No,” I admit in a whispered breath. “Could you clarify?”

It’s a big ask when the man doesn’t like to speak.

He cocks his head. “You want me to be more straightforward?”

“Directness would help.”

“You like giving directions,” Butch clarifies, with a hint of amusement in his tone.

I shrug, unabashed. Yes, I can be pushy. I’m a Scorpio, after all. “That, too.”

“I love that.”

Hearing him use the word love causes my brain to short-circuit. It’s rare when I find myself rendered speechless. Years of verbal abuse from Johns taught me always to be on my toes, expect the unexpected. Butch has literally spoken a dozen sentences to me, catching me off guard multiple times since opening the supply closet door. It’s disorienting. It takes me a hot second before my thoughts regroup.

“Okay. I’m demanding, and you like when I’m demanding. So…give it to me straight. Why are you watching me?”

That small smile of his reappears, curling his lips in the corners of his mouth and bringing his dimples front and center. “Is that an order?”

Is he teasing me? It’s hard to tell, since this is our first official interaction with each other. Yet I have a hunch he’s toying with me. Biker boy is hinting at something, and I don’t enjoy being in the dark.

“Sure,” I say, fighting to stop my impatience from slipping into my tone.

My stomach does a somersault with what he does next.

Without saying a word, Butch holds my stare, sinking to the floor on his knees.

CHAPTER THREE

CANDY

This man is always fine as hell. However, something about him kneeling while looking at me with admiration has turned him into the most breathtakingly gorgeous man I’ve ever encountered.

He takes my hand he’s holding, placing it over his heart. The cool leather of his cut feels pleasant under my heated palm. It’s the perfect counterbalance.

Butch and I are silent for a few beats before he speaks. “I see you, Candy. The real you. The woman you try to hide from everyone else. And I like what I see.”

The hell?

“The real me? What are you talking about? I am me.”

Butch shakes his head. “You show people what you think they want to see, say what you think others want to hear, and act the way people expect you to behave. But none of it’s real.”

My brows pull together with my mounting aggravation. “There’s nothing more real than me, Butch.”

“Right now, with me in this closet? I agree. This is the most genuine I’ve seen you. You’re not cowering in front of me. You’re,” he swallows, clearing his voice to smooth out his rough bass, “challenging me. Holding eye contact, demanding my obedience, standing your ground—you’re establishing dominance. But out there, for all the rest of the world to see, it’s a show. So when I say I see you and like what I see, believe it.”

My impulsive reaction to hearing Butch dissect my actions, like a psychologist finding the root cause of my self-dissociation, is to deny and hide away from him. I want to be pissed at how invasive he is, seeing way more than I wish to show anyone.

I’m not mad though. Not even a little.

He said he sees me, that he likes me.

Something instinctual inside of me has me reacting…oh, my. I think I saturated my thong.

Shaking the lust from my thoughts, I feign bitchiness. “You mean to tell me I’m passive with everyone else because I want to be? Please.”

He shakes his buzzed cut head, unaffected by my false irritation. “No. I’m saying you’re choosing to be dominant with me because I’ve already submitted to you.”

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