“I found that…unacceptable,”he said, the word coming to him like a law he refused to see someone break.
“You demanded that I do this meeting,” I said, incredulous.
“Yes,” he replied, honestly and unashamedly. The simplicity of it stole my breath.
“Okay, but why demand that I come work for you when you know I can do this job from here?”
He actually had the audacity to grin.
“Because I can,” he stated without apology.
“But… but…” I started to argue but he had clearly had enough.
He walked toward me, and with my back against the desk, I was quickly cornered.
“It’s done,” he said, standing over me with his arms crossed, the weight of his certainty pressing down like a verdict already passed. Yet still I pushed, and pride had nothing to do with it. No, at this point, it felt more like survival.
“And if I refuse?”
This time, that grin felt more demonic in nature than everything else he had shown me. Especially when he leaned down closer to me, so that he could whisper the consequences in my ear.
“I don’t think your boss would like that very much.”
I jerked back as much as the little space between us would allow.
“You… you can’t do that,” I stammered.
“That’s… that’s blackmail. If I say no, I lose my job.”
He studied me for a long moment, head tilting slightly, as though considering the accusation. Then he gave me my much-needed space and shrugged one broad shoulder.
“Call it retribution,” he said mildly.
“Retribution?” I practically squeaked out the word.
“For sneaking into my club,” he supplied, and my stomach dropped.
“So, this is what? Payback?” I snapped, making him smirk down at me.
“All in good time, Eliza,” he said cryptically, but before I could ask, he looked back at the now blank screen and asked the very last thing I expected him to.
“Why lily-pads?” he asked quietly.
My eyes widened in obvious surprise.
“Who doesn’t like lily-pads?” I muttered with a shake of my head, now trying to slip from between him and the desk. However, as I did this, I caught my finger between the edge of the polished wood and the back of a chair that I knocked in to.
I hissed, yanking my hand back instinctively, pain flaring sharp and sudden as I cradled it against my chest.
“Damn it!”
Before I could recover, he was there, crowding me again, this time kicking the chair aside so it wouldn’t happen again.
Then, without a word, he took my hand firmly in his own. His gentle touch was steady as he lifted my injured finger to inspect it. I stood frozen, breath locked in my lungs as he raised it to his mouth, his lips brushing the tip with deliberate care, his tongue just barely grazing the red skin.
The sensation shot straight through me, and my knees threatened to give. He then lowered my hand, turning it slightly, and pressed a kiss to the back of it instead. All polished courtesy and restraint, as if he hadn’t just undone me with a single, intimate gesture.
“I will have a car sent for you tomorrow,” he said calmly.
