Page 49 of The Sadist and the Brat

There was a sharp crack, a muttered “Shit!” and Sadie’s head popped up to peer across the mattress.

Her eyes were big and round, her cheeks flushed with either excitement or exertion, and her unpainted mouth formed a delicate and enticingO. For a second, she looked like a trapped rabbit, panicked and vulnerable, then her eyes lit and she scrambled to her feet.

He wanted to take a moment to appreciate just how good she looked in the catsuit—the grainy resolution on the baby monitor hadn’t done her justice—but he couldn’t afford to. She was already moving, dancing back a few steps as her eyes flicked to the door, gauging her chances of escape. Reminding himself to stay in character, he forced a scowl and started forward. “You fucking bitch.”

She let out a trilling laugh, her eyes bright with challenge. He was coming around the foot of the bed, cutting off the only direct route to the door, but he should’ve known she wouldn’t give in that easily. She sprang forward, leaping up onto the mattress just as he rounded the bed. He spun around, but she was across the bed and running out of the door before he could take two steps.

He sprinted after her. She had a head start, running full out for the basement stairs, but his legs were longer and he wasn’t wearing heels. James, who had been sitting on the bottom step, stood up when she was about halfway there. She let out a squeak of dismay and pinwheeled to a stop.

Her head whipped around, the hood falling off and her hair flying free, and he got a glimpse of her flushed, determined face before she darted to the left.

He changed direction to follow, slowing down slightly when he saw where she was heading, and came to a stop when he reached the pool table. She stood at the other end, the length of the table between them. She was panting from the run, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, and he could’ve devoured her whole.

He planted his hands on the table. “Gotcha.”

Her lips were curved in a smug smile, her eyes dancing as she mirrored his pose. “Oh, honey,” she drawled. “I think you’ve got delusions of grandeur.”

Goddamn, this was fun. He made a show of looking around. “The exits are covered, sweetheart. You’ve got no way out.”

“There’salwaysa way out,” she countered, her eyes narrowing to slits. “You think you can keep me here? In that suit?”

Jack grinned. Since he was supposed to be coming home from work, he’d worn his usual office attire. He’d even added a tie, which he normally didn’t bother with, just so he could gag her with it.

“Don’t let the Armani fool you, sugar tits,” he advised.

Her eyebrows shot up at the term. “Excuse me?”

He deliberately lowered his gaze to her breasts, all but bared by the deep vee of the zipper. They were barely constrained by the snug material of the catsuit, ready to pop free at a shrug of her shoulders. “Seems like a fitting term.”

“Oh, he’s a misogynist,” she said, icy sweet. “What a surprise.”

“I don’t hate women,” he returned mildly. The verbal sparring match had his blood pumping, forcing him to reach for calm. There was a plan, and he needed to stick to it. “Unless they break in and trash my fucking house.”

“Aw, poor little rich boy came home to a mess,” she whined with an exaggerated pout. “What, is it the housekeeper’s day off?”

“You know, I was just going to call the cops,” he said, conversationally. “Have you thrown in jail. But now, when I get my hands on you? I’m taking that mess out on your ass.”

“I’m trembling,” she drawled.

“You should be,” he countered, deadly serious, and watched the first hint of unease flicker into her eyes. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Oh, I knew you were a sick fuck when I went through your nightstands,” she countered, rallying to sneer at him. “What’s the matter, can’t get it up without props?”

He merely smiled. “I’m going to give you one chance to hand over the bag and sit quietly like a good girl until the cops get here.”

She snickered, and though the uneasiness in her gaze had brightened into fear, lifted her chin defiantly. “Or what?”

“Or you can take your chances with me.”

She raked her gaze over the bespoke suit, the silk tie. “You don’t scare me, rich boy.”

“I will,” he promised, and pushed off the table. He stood straight, his arms loose at his sides. “Last chance.”

“Fuck you,” she said, and lunged to her left.

He knew it was a feint—the way her eyes went right as her body went left was a dead giveaway—but he went for it anyway, rounding the table to intercept her. She crowed, triumphant, and switched directions on a dime to dart down the other side of the table, hair flying as she turned to laugh at him.

He had the singular pleasure of watching her eyes widen with shock when he planted a hand on the felt and vaulted over the table.

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