I lift my chin and square my shoulders. "What's your name?"
Surprise fills his expression. "You don't know?"
A trembling rush coils behind my ribs, competing with the warm flutter rising low and sharp in my belly.
He adds, "You?—"
"When I ask a question you'll answer," I warn, but I've lost my authoritative demeanor.
He grunts, shuts the door, and moves forward.
I stand frozen, unsure where to go.
"What happens if I disobey you?" he baits.
I study him for a moment, then reply, "There are consequences."
He closes the gap between us and leans over me. He takes one finger, moves my chin upward, and slowly breathes in and out.
What's he doing?
His eyes drift to my lips.
He stares so long my insides tremble, and my mouth waters.
"Why is it so hot in here?" he asks in a distracted tone, then brushes a bead of sweat off my cheek.
Sparks percolate under his touch.
He drags his finger over my jaw, then my collarbone, and leans into my ear, murmuring, "Did you bring me here for business or pleasure?"
2
Brax
The heat hits first, and the brunt of it isn't from the roaring fire. The same woman who decided whether I lived or died stares at me unmasked, her skin glistening in the thick, hot air.
I should be angry, calculating the exact words that'll level this woman and whatever she's involved in. I only caught a small glimpse of the secret organization she represents. And I already decided I don't like it. So I shouldn't even contemplate what I want to do with her.
Yet she stands spine straight, chin up, and with the audacity of a queen, hazel eyes pinned to mine, showing no fear. Her legs are longer than I expected, and the red strapless minidress showcases her heart-shaped ass. Her posture screams she's prepared to kill me, then fix her lipstick. And the word FINZIA is inked in red right under her collarbone.
Is it a stamp?
Brand?
Is she owned?
It's hard to tell. But her dark and wild hair isn't helping matters. It's ariot of curls, full of chaos she controls, and something tells me it's always like this.
My uncontrollable pulse doesn't slow. A bead of sweat rolls over my Adam's apple, and her eyes slowly dart to it.
She hunts for the smallest weakness.
She thinks she found one.
I'm still waiting for her to tell me if she brought me here for pleasure or business, but I warn, "It's just from the heat, so don't read into it."
Her lips part as she peers closer. The same Italian accent that gave me a hard-on when a knife was to my throat earlier murmurs, "You're calmer than most men in your position would be."
