Page 21 of Confession
“Ooh, you work here. Are you a bouncer?”
“Not exactly.”
“Too bad. You could bounce me.” He smiles. This time, his hand skims my shoulder.
I’m considering my options for getting rid of him when my phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out and shift away just in case there’s something sensitive in the text.
Vitali: Get your ass in here.
My heart skips at the thought that something might be wrong, but I’m careful to show no emotion. I stow my phone.
The twink says something to me, but I don’t hear it. I’m already cutting across the mezzanine to Vitali’s office door.
I open it and step inside, alert for trouble. Trouble is exactly what I find, but not the kind I expect. Vitali is glaring at me from behind his desk.
I close the door, cutting off the noise and general chaos of the club. My senses aren’t ready for the abrupt silence or the sudden intensity of Vitali’s stare cutting across the luxurious space of his sharply modern office. My scalp prickles.
“Why do you let people touch you?” he demands.
At first, I don’t know what he’s talking about. Then I realize, “You’ve been watching me via the security cameras.”
“Yes. And people have been all over you. Why do you allow it?”
My body heats at the thought of him watching me. It’s a confusing heat, both wariness and arousal. It doesn’t help when he looks like that, so damn gorgeous, his close-fitting white shirt partially unbuttoned to offer a glimpse of his tattooed chest.
I answer, “It makes a scene if I don’t.”
“Do you like it?”
He’s such a dangerous man, and I hear it in his tone. I see it in the way he remains so casually behind his desk, one elbow resting on it, his dark eyes intent.
I don’t answer him because I’m unsure why he’s angry—and he’s definitely angry.
“Answer me,” he demands.
“No.”
His nostrils flare. “No you don’t like it, or no you won’t answer?”
My own temper, latent, buried deep, stirs. I don’t like that he’s trying to put me on the defense. I stalk toward his desk. I plant my hands on it and lean down. He regards me steadily. His features are so classically Greek and Italian, so carved and cold and beautiful. I’m no match for him, not in an argument, but I’m still going to fight.
“No,” I answer, “I don’t like when people touch me.”
“What do you feel when people touch you?”
“Depends on the person.”
“But you always hate it?”
“You’re obviously trying to herd me somewhere with your questions. Get to the point, Vitali.”
“All right. Why do you react badly whenItouch you?”
My heart skips. He asked this last night too. He was drunk, so I managed to sort of evade the question, but he’s not drunk now and the way he’s asking tells me that he already knows the answer. But then, how could he not after last night?
He caught me off guard. I had prepared myself for the wrong thing, for an ending. I didn’t expect him to touch me like that. I didn’t expect him to kiss me.
There’s no point in lying, so I admit, “I don’t hate it.”
