Page 32 of Lady and the Butcher
I took a shaky breath and stepped out of the shower. Water pooled on the marble, my wet footprints leading toward him. Each step made me more aware of what I was doing: walking willingly into the lion’s den, skin bare, pulse wild.
When I reached him, I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes. He still didn’t move. Didn’t reach for me. Just let me stand there dripping, waiting, aching.
“Why aren’t you touching me?” I whispered.
His mouth curved, the faintest hint of a smile. “Because you’re not ready for what happens when I do.”
My whole body clenched at once.
He pushed off the doorframe then, slow, deliberate, but instead of reaching for me, he brushed past, heading into thesuite. His shoulder skimmed mine, a whisper of contact that set every nerve alight.
“Champagne’s open,” he said over his shoulder. “Drink. Then we’ll talk.”
And just like that, I was left standing naked in a hotel bathroom with the city spread beneath me, dripping water onto marble, wondering if restraint was the cruelest—or the kindest—thing he could do.
11
Ipicked up the towel—I had to dry off somehow—but I didn’t tie it.
I told myself it was petty—pointless, really—but it felt like the only control left to exercise. A knot would have been consent to being covered. Letting it hang was a decision to be seen.
He was waiting by the windows, the harbor thrown bright behind him. Daylight turned the suite into a glass box, the bridge a pale sweep across the sky. He glanced at the slick trail my feet had left and then back to my face, like the mess belonged here because I did.
“Drink,” he said, and I did.
The champagne snapped sharp on my tongue. I held the glass, didn’t look away.
“What now,” I asked, “or do you prefer to keep me guessing?”
His mouth did that almost-smile again, the one that never showed teeth. “Now, you’ll get dressed. Then we’re going to King Street.”
“For …?”
“Clothes,” he said, as if that were a language we both spoke. “Shoes. Whatever you want. Whatever I want on you.”
I barked out a laugh I didn’t feel. “You’re going to Pretty Woman me.”
“If that helps you name it.” He tipped his glass. “Consider today an errand. You’ll spend the night here.”
There it was: the line drawn in permanent marker.
“You’re very sure of yourself.” The towel shifted. I pressed a palm to it. “You don’t even know if I snore.”
“I know enough.”
“You’re not asking.”
“I am.” His voice didn’t lift, but it landed. “Say yes. Or say no. If you say no, I put you in a car and you go home and we don’t speak again. If you say yes, I don’t spend the day pretending we’re something we’re not.”
“What’s that mean?” My mouth was dry. “What are we?”
“Hungry,” he said simply. “And done lying to ourselves.”
Heat climbed my chest. “You’re very good at writing my motivations for me.”
“You wrote them first.”
My phone sat faceup on the coffee table where he’d placed it earlier, as if he knew I’d need it to make this real. I stared at the black slab of it like it might give me permission.
