She’s in bed.
As I climb the stairs, I shed my suit coat and tie. I unbutton my shirt as I walk into the bedroom and toss the garments on a chair in the corner.
But Eloise isn’t here.
With a frown, I walk to the bathroom.
No Eloise.
I kick out of my shoes and listen. Then it occurs to me that her things are no longer in my bathroom, and with my temper starting to rise, I move to the closet.
Her clothes are gone.
If she’d moved out, my men would have told me.
Then I realize that a shower is running. With a scowl, I walk out of the bedroom and down the hall to the guest suite that’s never once been used—who the fuck am I going to invite over?—and realize that she’s moved into it.
What the fuck?
I hear the shower kick off, so I lean against the doorway, waiting for her.
She’s murmuring to herself. After a few moments, the blow-dryer kicks on, and still, I wait.
Eloise emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel, her dark hair loose and still a little damp around her shoulders. Her face is clean of makeup, and she looks so goddamn fuckable.
But she stops short when she sees me and bites her lower lip.
“Hi,” she says tentatively.
“Hello, Eloise.” Her brows pull together in an uncertain frown at the coldness in my voice. “Why are you in here?”
She glances around and licks her lips. “Because I didn’t know if you wanted me in your space, so I?—”
I push off the doorjamb, and she stops talking.
“You what?”
“I found a guest room.” The words are quieter, and her gaze falls to my chest. She likes the ink. But I want her eyes on mine.
“I don’t want you in this room,” I tell her as I close in on her. I wrap my hand around her throat loosely andguide her backward against the wall, holding her there. Her pupils blow wide.
“Wh-where do you want me?” God, that breathy voice of hers when she’s turned on takes me out at the knees.
“Inmybed. Inmyroom.”Our bed, our room.But she’s not quite ready for that yet. “I want you with me, firefly.”
“I don’t want to be in your way.”
She doesn’t want to be in my way? Many men—and women—yield to me daily. It’s what I expect and demand. But this is different. And if I know anything about Salvatore Rizzo, this is the product of his abuse. His utter control. His cruelty.
How can I show her that I’m not like him? That she has a choice, but that I hope she chooses what I want?
I lean in and brush my cheek against hers and whisper in her ear, “I want you in my way.”
I tug the towel loose and let it pool around her feet, and then I push my hand between her legs and growl.
“You’re already wet. Why are you so wet, Eloise?”
She swallows hard against my hand. I fucking love that I can feel her pulse, her swallows, her breath.
