"I don't know what I expected," I admit, stepping inside. "Maybe more leather and chains?"
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel heat rush to my face. Santiago's eyebrows shoot up, and a slow smile spreads across his lips.
"Those are in a different room entirely," he says, voice dropping an octave, and even though I know he's joking, something inside me tightens.
I look away, flustered, and walk over to his desk. There's a photo there of him, Ashley, and their mother, taken a few years ago. It's the only personal touch in the room.
"You know, I always thought you hated me," I say, not looking at him. "You kept your distance for so long."
I hear him move closer, feel the warmth of him behind me. "I never hated you, Vi. Not even close."
I turn around, and he's right there, inches away. Up close, I can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the slight stubble on his jaw. His scent—leather and something clean, like sandalwood—surrounds me.
"Then why..." My words trail off as his hand comes up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his fingertips grazing my uninjured cheek.
"Because you were my little sister's best friend," he says simply. "Because I was older, and you were younger, and there are lines you don't cross."
I swallow hard. "And now?"
His eyes darken. "Now you're all grown up, and I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
The air between us suddenly feels like I'm in the Sahara. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.
"Santiago—"
"Say that again," he interrupts, his voice husky.
"Santiago," I whisper, and he groans softly.
"I've waited years to hear you say my name like that." His thumb traces my bottom lip, and I part my lips instinctively. "Tell me to stop, Violet, and I will. Right now."
But I don't want him to stop. Maybe it's the adrenaline from earlier, or the tequila, or the years of wondering what it would be like... whatever it is, I'm done fighting it.
"Don't stop," I breathe.
That's all it takes. His mouth is on mine in an instant, and it's nothing like any kiss I've experienced before. Santiago kisses with absolute confidence, like a man who knows exactly what he wants and how to take it. His hand slides around to cup the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, and I melt against him.
He backs me against the desk, lifting me effortlessly to sit on its edge. His body presses between my thighs, and I can feel him, hard against me, as his lips trail down my neck.
"I've thought about this," he murmurs against my skin. "Thought about you, spread out on my bed, begging for me."
A rush of heat floods through me at his words. "Santiago?—"
His hand tightens in my hair, just enough to tilt my head back, exposing more of my neck to him. "When we're like this," he says, voice rough, "you call me Whip."
The commanding tone sends a shiver down my spine. "Whip," I correct myself, and I'm rewarded with his teeth grazing the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder.
"Good girl," he praises, and something inside me responds to those words in a way I've never experienced before. I want to be good for him. I want to please him.
His hands find the hem of my shirt, and he draws back, looking into my eyes. "Can I take this off?"
I nod quickly, lifting my arms to help him pull the shirt over my head. The cool air hits my skin, and I'm suddenly self-conscious in just my bra, but the hunger in his eyes erases any doubt.
"Christ, you're beautiful," he says, hands skimming down my sides. "More beautiful than I imagined."
He bends to kiss the tops of my breasts where they swell above my bra, and I arch into him, craving more. His hands settle on my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp.
"Tell me what you want," he says against my skin.
