“What?”
“How much of your personality shows up in everything you do. Even... that.” I could feel the alcohol making me bolder, loosening my tongue. “You like control in all aspects of your life. I wonder if it’s because your parents tried to control you.”
“Well, you like challenging authority in all aspects of yours. Is it for the same reason?” he countered.
“I just like pissing them off. They deserve it. They were lousy parents. But you turned your trauma into something good.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding like a bobblehead. “It can be.”
“You should get some sleep.”
“See? Controlling.” But I smiled to soften it. “It worked for us though, didn’t it? That night. You like giving orders.”
“I like it more when they are obeyed.” His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of the man from that night.
“Are you giving me a direct order, then?”
“Would it work?”
“Don’t know.” I shrugged. “Maybe you should try it.”
His expression shifted, something primal flickering behind those controlled eyes. He stood, all six-foot-something of him towering over me where I sat curled on his couch.
“Go to bed, Mari.” His voice dropped an octave, taking on that commanding tone that made my insides turn to liquid. “Now.”
A shiver ran down my spine, and my resistance melted away. Part of me wanted to obey him—it was practically my default setting when he spoke like that—but a larger part wanted to see what would happen if I didn’t.
“Make me,” I said, the alcohol making me bolder than I should be.
In one fluid motion, he was directly in front of me, hands planted on either side of my head against the back of the couch, caging me in. His face was inches from mine. God, he smelled yummy. Heat radiated from his body.
“That wasn’t a request,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “You’re drunk, you’re tired, and you’re going to bed. The only question is whether you walk there yourself or I carry you.”
My breath caught in my throat. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.” There was no humor in his eyes now, just that intense focus I remembered from our night together. “Five seconds to decide, sweetheart.”
I should have been annoyed. I should have told him to go to hell. Instead, a rush of heat ran through my body that had nothing to do with the champagne.
“Four,” he counted, not breaking eye contact.
“This is ridiculous,” I muttered, but made no move to get up.
“Three.”
“Fine,” I huffed, attempting to stand. The room spun, and I wobbled, falling back onto the couch. “Stupid champagne.”
“Two.”
“I’m trying, okay?” I made another attempt, this time managing to get to my feet, though I swayed precariously.
“One.”
Before I could take a step, he bent down and, in one fluid motion, threw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. One arm secured my legs against his chest; the other swatted my ass.
“What the fuck, Gable?” I yelped, suddenly upside down, staring at his back. Instinctively, I smacked his ass back.
