Page 5 of Savage Game
How am I supposed to survive a month with this monster?
Because now she knew he was a monster, too.
What kind of man would buy a woman?
What kind of man sells his wife?
They were silent for a long moment, then his amused voice broke the quiet, “And now she is afraid.”
Well now.
Inwardly he grinned. His first impression had been she would bolt from the room. His second guess was she would fold and cry.
He angled his face away from her again—somehow unwilling to frighten the pretty little prey who wandered so willingly into his lair. She surprised him, and women rarely did.
Women in his world came in two categories: heartless and ruthless gold diggers who wanted him for his wealth or simpering little submissives starving for some attention and willing to look past his scars to experience his brand of dominance. Neither category could hold his interest for very long, but this appealing little thing didn’t seem to fit either category, and the paradox had him intrigued.
When she’d turned around in the hallway, her eyes—green and somewhat tilted like those of a cat—had been cautious and startled but not repulsed or frightened. Usually, if his sheer size and power didn’t frighten the little ladies, his marks did evoke at least one of the emotions.
However, when Byron moved to stand in front of her, she’d shown signs of submission but not revulsion. The revelation had thrown him off-kilter, and he’d been brisker with her than his usual self. He was honest enough to confess his usual wasn’t hearts and flowers either.
Every time he expected her to falter and wilt, she would raise her stubborn chin and face his challenges head-on. He wanted to bite the pointed chin, clamp his teeth around the flesh and keep her in place like that. Stare her in the eyes and wait for the surrender in them. A surrender that would come. She would submit to him; there wasn’t a speck of doubt in his mind. He shifted his hips to give his cock more room as he lengthened and hardened, but this wasn’t the time or moment to indulge himself.
The object of his current obsession sat motionless on the sofa, but her eyes had narrowed. Ah. He suppressed his smirk.
There’s that backbone and fire I’ve seen glimpses of before.
Her spunk pleased him.
Byron was tired of women who acted to please him. He wanted real, raw emotions—even when they were ugly. He had the feeling this woman on his sofa buried a well of genuine emotions under the veneer of an obedient housewife and was pleased her bastard of a husband hadn’t beaten it out of her. Yet.
Byron didn’t allow himself to dwell on the thought. He was looking forward to a month of play. A disconcerting thought crept up on him like a rumor could plummet or skyrocket the stock market on Wall Street.
What if thirty days isn’t enough?
Not liking the conflicted emotions and thoughts, he squinted. Time to get this settled.
He bent his knee and placed his ankle on the opposite leg, getting in a more casual pose and relieving a little of the pressure on his dick. He stroked his hand over his mouth, hiding his smirk, as her gaze strayed over the muscles of his thigh bunching and straining the fabric of his expensive slacks.
He locked his gaze on her. She didn’t squirm or avert her gaze. A smart prey didn’t take their eyes of its predator.
It wouldn’t save her, of course, but it made his respect for her dial up a notch. So did his desire to claim, control, and captivate. He wanted to dig under her skin, invade her mind, and bare her soul. He needed to find every weakness and flaw.
“To do what you please?”
Her face impassive, she studied him. Last weekend, when that asshole Connolly slid his hand under her skirt, he’d noticed how she schooled her features, but her eyes couldn’t hide her true feelings. Today, tension simmered in those deep green orbs. Shifting again, he took a closer inspection. She might school her features, but the little facial muscles she couldn’t control, and the lines beside her mouth and eyes were strained.
She cleared her throat. “I guess I’m not going to clean toilets or do any filing this month, am I?”
Byron thought he knew women, knew what drove them, but Charlotte wasn’t like any female he’d met before.
She was submissive, obeyed her husband. If poker night hadn’t proven her obedience, her presence right now in his house confirmed it. She seemed to pack more guts and honor in her pinky finger than the fool she’d married had in his entire burly body.
However, she didn’t falter under his command. Not many people didn’t. It spoke of strength, an inner core he wanted to reach. She was attracted to him. He’d detected how she involuntarily arched her back, thrusting out her chest and exposing her neck. He didn’t miss how she ran a hand down a thigh in a sensual caress or how her lips parted, and her tongue darted out several times to touch her lips, leaving them moist and slightly swollen. The lust built inside him. But she was holding back from him, and withholding any part of her body, mind, or soul wasn’t acceptable to him.
“Oh, there will be cleaning and cooking and quite possibly some office work as well on the agenda.” He clenched his hands, aching with the need to touch and explore and fought against his response to her. “You’re mine, Kittycat, and I don’t want anybody else in the penthouse for the entire month.” He cupped his chin and leaned on his palm. “Having you work as my private secretary has merits, too. Now strip and show me my prize.”
Her mouth dropped open and she froze.
