Page 16 of High-Rise Heat

Dom’s eyes are dark and brooding in a way I’m not used to seeing, making my throat tighten. How long has he been here watching us? How close was he standing? What did he hear me say?

“I’ve been looking for you all evening,” I say softly, and the charm I’m used to seeing in Dom’s gaze isn’t there. It’s replaced by a steely-green glare. I swallow hard, my skin tightening with a fear I don’t understand. Not sure why I’m excited by the fact that he’s angry with me. Only, I know the assertiveness blustering in my chest won’t be silenced.

“You don’t mind?” Dom asks me pointedly, referring to my dance with Isaac, and I shake my head to cut the heat of his glare.

“Of course not,” I say. “Why would I mind?”

Dom’s eyes darken, making my heart stutter, his gaze laced with jealousy. It’s almost refreshing from Dom, though I can’t deny the flush that heats my cheeks knowing he must have watched the intimate way Isaac’s hands slid over my back. Anyone with two eyes would assume Isaac and I were lovers, or at least, soon to be.

“Please.” I lift my arms and assume the stance of offering to take this dance, suddenly riled up by this change in Dom, who has no right to care if I let another man touch my skin.

“Good to see you showed up,” Isaac says, patting Dom on the shoulder before heading toward the bar. I don’t watch him go, even though part of me longs to. I keep my gaze fixed on the tall steely-eyed redhead in front of me.

My heart catches when he steps forward and slides a hand around my waist. His dark gaze charging the touch and making me lift my chin to look defiantly up at him. My whole body is on fire despite the formality of our posture, and Dom is always—always—the gentleman, allowing the proper amount of space between us as he takes my other hand. For this is the formal andappropriateway to dance with your boss, despite the burn of his grip.

Dominick leads, moving us on the dance floor in the brilliant way that Dom has always led, with controlled refinement. There’s a stiff elegance in our steps, my elbows locked, shoulders back, all of this an act that no one but Isaac is watching. I look into Dom’s eyes, searching his expression for any of the sweetness that I’m used to seeing there, but distrust tints his gaze with uncharacteristic dominance.

“You were brilliant today,” I say softly, and he doesn’t smile. It’s an uncomfortable harshness that makes me overly aware of the points in which we touch: his hand on my hip, my palm on his shoulder, my other hand clasped between his fingers. There are three points of contact, with a cavern of space between us hinting at all the careful steps and distance we’ve used to keep us apart. “I knew you’d be wonderful,” I say pushing forward, and pretending—like always—that this is only business and this is nothing more than a formal dance at a celebration banquet. “All of this.” I nod to the room full of our colleagues celebrating. “You did this. This is your victory.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

My eyes snap to him and his gaze is as sharp as his question. Dom is never this direct. Never. Not about personal things. In fact, he doesn’t give a lick about the deal or the banquet, right now. No, the darkness in his eyes is asking one thing: What the hell was my friend’s hands doing all over your back?

I hold his gaze for a long time without answering him. This is uncharted territory for us. Normally, we could talk about anything, but then, normally we’re on the same side and there isn’t someone else between us. Dom waits calmly, perfectly stoic, which I’ve seen him do a hundred times with a client, and for the first time I see something wicked in Dominick’s expression. He’s not asking an innocent question. Dom doesn’t want to know if Ilikehis friend. Dom wants to know if I want tofuckhis friend.

I tilt my head and try to decide how I want to answer that question. Only, I’m pissed off, because Dom is asking it with that polite polish that he’s mastered. The rudeness of his question is masked by his cool unflustered elegance as if this is a perfectly respectable conversation.

“You mean Isaac?” I clarify, raising my eyebrows innocently. Of course he means Isaac. There’s no one else he could possibly mean, but if he’s going to play the polite-game, I’ll play back.

Dom nods with his regal features angling down on me, only he tries to do it nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal and we could be talking about anyone. And it makes me so damn frustrated with him!

He’s spent the whole weekend avoiding me. Pretending he has work to do, leaving me all by myself, leaving me alone with his friend, the friendhe invitedto stay with us in the first place! Was this some kind of test? Did he think I’d wait around forever for him? Maybe he did. Maybe that’s exactly what this is and I’ve failed miserably, and he’s expecting me to be the kind of woman he can string along and expect to always be by his side.

“What are you really asking me, Dom?” I say, turning the question back on him and watching his shoulders stiffen. “You and I are close,” I remind him, stepping forward to slide my hand up his shoulder and back around his collar. “We made a promise once to tell each other everything. So what it is you really want to know? You know you can ask me anything.”

Dom inhales slowly, and—no one else would know it, because he’s doing his best to hide his reaction—I can tell I’ve flustered him.

Good.

“You guys have been hanging out,” he says tentatively, like he doesn’t really want to ask. I’ve seen that sweet discomfort before, hiding under all that polish. It only comes out when Dom feels threatened, which I suddenly realize, is exactly what this is. Dom is threatened by Isaac, the bad boy who walks around shirtless with the wicked smile to match. Isaac, the kind of man who charms the panties off a girl before they’ve even gotten to the restaurant, or would fly her to Hawaii, hike her to the top of a volcano and fuck her next to the lava. Isaac is a man of thrills and action and ten shots of whiskey. He’s every masculine thing Dom is not, and that’s exactly why liking him is a problem. Liking Isaac means rejecting everything that Dom is.

“I just …” Dom starts again, hardening his gaze. “I thought maybe something was there. Like …” Dom’s eyes flick down to my lips and then back up. I feel the heat of where he fears Isaac has been and the judgment that will come with the knowledge that his hands have been on me. I can tell Dom will never look at me the same way if I’ve been with Isaac. Which isn’t fair in the least, but there it is. “I don’t know, like you two might …” He’s fishing. He’s dancing around the question—as always—and I’m tired of this game.

“Come here,” I say keeping my tone soft, but serious. He wants to open this can of worms? Then I’ll let him. I pull him close and move both of his hands so they’re wrapped around my back, flattening his palms against my exposed skin. I slide my arms up behind his neck so we’re pressed together and he’s holding me in the same way Isaac just did. Dom stiffens, the position decidedly intimate, his hands curling up so only the tips of his fingers touch me, as if he’s not allowed to keep them there. The pads of his fingers are gentle and elegant, and completely different than Isaac, who takes my skin in stride, who asks to know my body without reservation. Dom’s touch is a question; it’s filled with breathless uncertainty from months of indecision. I let him idle in the discomfort of not knowing if he should touch me or not, even though I’ve deliberately put his hands in that position.

“Here’s the deal, Dom,” I say, tracing my fingers up his neck and teasing the base of his hair. His eyes dilate and I can feel the delicate pulse at his throat. His heart is racing. “You can ask me anything you want, Dom. But you have to promise not to get upset when you hear the answers.”

His eyebrows shoot up. He pulls away slightly, but I pull him back against me, slipping a hand intimately into the back of his hair. I’ve dreamed of digging my fingers into his silky red locks, teasing their softness. But this is different. Aggressive.

“We can tell each other anything, can’t we?” I continue. “We made a pact that we’d be honest with each other. Didn’t we?”

His chin lifts and I see the concern in his eyes. He’s got an excellent poker face, but I can tell he’s unsure if he wants to finish the conversation he started.

“Especially when it matters,” I press, and he takes a deep breath as if it might ground him.

“Of course,” he nods. “Of course we can.” He smiles weakly, like he’s trying to keep in control, to be my boss, and pretend this is a completely normal way for an employee to be pressed against him.

“Then ask your question again.” I nod, running my fingers back down his neck and enjoying the shiver that radiates off him. This new tension between us sits between the fear in his eyes and the heat of anticipation. We both know the way I’m touching him is not innocent, nor is his question.

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