"Or," I continue, letting my voice drop to something threatening, "I do it myself. And trust me, you might not like my methods."
"Go to hell, Renato."
The words come out steady, defiant. No one talks to me like that. No one has the guts to look me straight in the eye and tell me to go to hell.
Except her.
Fuck if that doesn’t make my cock go rock hard in an instant.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She crosses her arms, the movement emphasizing the curves beneath her silk blouse. "You want to know what's in my pockets? Go ahead and find out."
The invitation is clear. She's daring me to touch her, to search her, to cross a line that once crossed can't be uncrossed. The smart thing would be to back down, maintain professional distance, treat her like any other piece of collateral.
Instead, I step forward. "You're really going to make me do this?"
"Yes."
I move close enough to count her heartbeats at her throat. "Fine."
My hand slides into her right back pocket of the tight pants. Her ass is warm beneath the fabric, and I have to fight the urge to let my fingers linger. To cup her luscious ass in my hand and pull her tight against me.
“Why are you groping my ass in my back pocket when you can clearly see there’s nothing there?” she asks, staring up at me. “Do you enjoy putting your hands on me, Renato?”
I don’t answer and move to her right front pocket instead. I find the fountain pen and pull it out, setting it on the nightstand with a loud thump.
"Anything else hidden in your pockets?" I ask.
She doesn't answer, but I see her throat work as she swallows.
My hand moves to her left front pocket, and this time I'm not gentle about it. My fingers brush against her hip bone, her thigh, taking longer than necessary to extract the nail files. She's breathing faster now, though she's trying to hide it.
The small pocket at her waist yields the hairpin. When my fingers brush against her warm skin through the gap in her blouse, chill bumps pop up.
"Are you satisfied now?" she asks, her voice not quite as steady as before. "Did you find everything you’re looking for?"
I examine each item, though my mind is occupied with how warm her skin felt beneath my fingers. "Not bad choices. The pen was the best choice, good weight, sharp potential." I pickup one of the nail files. "These could work too, with the right technique."
"You’re making fun of me and it’s insulting. Are you going to take them?"
The question catches me off guard. Standard procedure would be to confiscate anything that could be used as a weapon. But looking at her standing there, chin raised in defiance, I find myself reluctant to take away what little power she's managed to claim.
"Should I?"
Her eyes widen slightly. She was expecting me to take them, not ask her opinion.
"What?"
"You heard me. Should I take your little arsenal of improvised weapons?" I lean against the nightstand, genuinely curious about her answer. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."
She studies my face, looking for the trap.
"Because you're curious to see what I'll do with them."
The honesty in her answer floors me. She's right. I am curious. More than curious. I want to see how far she'll push, how clever she can be, what she's capable of when backed into a corner.
I push the items toward her. "Go ahead and keep them. Consider it a professional courtesy."
