Page 47 of Heated
“Excuse me?” she whispers back.
“You’re lying.” My focus drops to her mouth again, waiting to see if there will be a repeat of that sound. To my regret, there isn’t. Lifting my gaze back to hers, I say, “You’re not like any other woman. And you’re holding back. Where’s dinner? At a restaurant? At a park on a blanket? In bed?”
There’s that hitch of air. Is she imagining dinner in bed now? With whom? Is the meal before or after she’s been thoroughly fucked? Or isshethe meal?
Lust crackles and pops inside me, an electrical current that sizzles along my sensitized skin, runs through my veins ... pulses in my dick.
“Zora?” I press. Because no way in hell am I letting this go.
“At my house. On my couch.” The admission is reluctant, tremulous. And sexy as fuck. “All day long I ... people. So I don’t want to go to a restaurant or a park. I love the privacy and sanctuary of my house where I can be me. I don’t have to smile or make small talk if I don’t feel like it. I can just ... be. And the man I’m with would not just respect that but understand it. And my needs would be so important to him—I would be so important to him—that when I arrive home, he would be there, waiting with food from my favorite place. He would undress me, not because I can’t do it for myself but simply because he believes I deserve to be pampered like a queen. And after we ate together, he’d hold me, ask me about my day, and then actually listen to the answer. Then, we may or may not watch a movie. Maybe we’d just talk or makelove. But whatever we did, it would be because the other needed it. Because we needed it, wanted it from each other, and it would be our pleasure to give it to one another.”
Air propels from my lungs like from Scottish bagpipes.
How is it possible for me to be this hard?
As she talked, painting an erotic portrait, I envisioned everything. Peeling away every article of clothing, skimming my lips over the delicate but strong curves of her shoulders before draping them in clothes that she finds comfortable. I wouldn’t care. This woman’s body could transform a gunnysack into a merry widow. I’d feed her, hold her between my legs, in my arms, wrap my body around her. Give her my ear, my words, my cock—whatever she needed from me.
“Is that your favorite place to have sex? On the couch?” I rasp.
“That’s two questions.”
“Mine is against a wall. There’s something about having a woman in my complete control—whether it’s pressing her against it or holding her in my arms—that’s hot as fuck.”
She goes still again.
Except for the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“Why do I need to know that?” she whispers.
Because I want to know if you’d let me have you against that wall. If you’d let me slide deep into you, until you took every inch of me without complaint. If you’d give me your pleasure, take mine ...
“Because as my woman, that’s something you should know,” I lie, falling back on the charade as my safety net. I lower my arms, leaning back against my chair, inserting much-needed space between us. Space that doesn’t include her sweet honey-and-almond scent. “We have two weeks to pile as much knowledge of each other into our brains as possible. If you’re going to pretend to be my girlfriend, then you’ll need to know all my likes. And convince everyone you love them.”
Bullshit. She grips the edge of the table, and her lovely yet tight face with its narrowed eyes fairly screams it.
Yet underneath it ...
Heat hums within me, purrs. Yeah, I recognize that emotion she’s trying to conceal. What she’s probably denying.
Excitement. Pleasure.
Common sense cautions me the next words on the tip of my tongue might not be wise.
Fuck you, common sense. Mind your business.
“Are you going to be able to handle making people believe you know what it is to give me that control? And to crave it? To crave it from me?”
My growled words vibrate between us.
They’re dangerous, heavy. Alive.
I glimpse the unease in her eyes. But I also see what she would rather I not—the flash of heat like dry lightning.
“I think you’re asking the wrong question,” she throws back at me. But I don’t miss the rasp in that voice. I know that rasp. Know what’s behind it. Intimately. “It isn’t whether I’m a good enough actress; it’s whetheryouare. Do you really believe your esteemed colleagues are going to buy you cravingme? Losing control forme?”
I still, her words from now and the past running so fast through my head they crash into each other like a pileup on I-70.
“You said something similar when I originally proposed this arrangement. Tell me why you think we wouldn’t be believable as a couple. And don’t avoid the question this time.”
