Page 36 of Ditching the Dragon (Fated Dates)

A long pause follows, and I worry I’ve pushed him too far. It’s only a tease, even if it’s so much fun to shove at his restraint.

A video comes through, and I hit the play button.

On the screen, Wick grins at me then sets the phone down. He’s in an office with a broad mahogany desk and two chairs on the left side. On the other end of the room, the cushions are strewn across the floor in front of an empty upholstered couch.

Wick, in black slacks that fall perfectly on his thighs and ass and black leather suspenders cutting down a white button down, stands in front of the camera.

He flicks his fingers to release the button on his right cuff and then harshly tugs the sleeve straight. He efficiently and remorselessly fold-rolls the sleeve up past his elbow then repeats the process on the left.

And he maintains perfect eye contact with the camera the entire time.

He’s so focused, it’s like he can see me on the other side of the camera. His gaze never wavers, and the smoldering irritation there has my heart rate galloping at dangerous speeds.

My alleged mate tilts his head and raises an eyebrow, then finally breaks our one-sided stare off to pivot away.

In an efficient stride, the big man takes two steps to the first cushion. He tosses it onto the couch then does the same for the other two.

Where is he going with this?

Facing the camera, he plants one hand on the armrest of the couch and reorients the cushion with the other.

His hand winds back. He smacks the cushion into place with such force that the cushion jumps, and it makes me yelp. Even though it’s foam and chenille, his hand still makes a hollow thwack on the surface.

He strikes the cushion twice more before moving on to the next.

Each time his hand lands, the impact makes my nerves jump.

On the one hand, he isn’t holding back. That would absolutely not be a tap. I’d feel it for days.

And his palm is very wide.

But also, there’s a thrill in his threat.

It’s fun to watch.

When he gets to the final cushion, he places it and runs his hand over the surface. He doesn’t lay into this one. Instead, he taps it into place and then gives it a few firmer smacks. Once it’s set between the middle seat and the arm, he gives it three firm strikes.

Smack, smack, smack.

Not as much as the first or second cushion, but there’s still this heft to it that leaves me smiling.

Wick strides up to the camera and rests his hand over his crotch at the camera’s level. The position displays the outline of the hardness in his pants.

He picks up the device, locks eyes with me again, and smirks at the phone.

“Any questions, mate?” he rumbles.

It’s so startling that I yip and drop the phone onto the floor. It’s not remotely salacious, and yet...

My face warms as I replay the video again.

And a third time.

The phone jumps between my hands, and I have to bat it back and forth before catching it. My fingers shake as I open the message and peck out a response.

Settling back into the chair once more, I roll the seat closer to the bed so I can stretch my legs out.

I replay the video one more time and debate how to respond.

---