“Uh-huh,” she says. “And what would you do if I go back to Miami after the meeting today?”
“You won’t,” I say firmly. “That’s not happening.”
Her breath catches, just slightly. I notice. “If I did? If I somehow, miraculously, escape your evil clutches?”
I assume that’s hyperbole. “Come and get you. Wherever it is you hide, I’ll find you.”
“Mmm.” She crosses one knee over the other, her coat falling open and her dress rising high on her bare leg. “I’m so glad ‘obsessed’ isn’t the right word.”
“It’s moot anyway,” I say, resting my elbows on the arm of my chair and linking my fingers. “You like the way I treat you.”
“Keep telling yourself that.”
“Keep fighting yourself, Tink. It’s the most entertainment I’ve had in months.”
Her lips press thin, her eyes flash, then she swivels her chair away from me to gaze out of the window.
I reach across, grip the arm of it, and turn it back until she faces me again. She stills, catching her breath, hands knotting in her lap. Her eyes flick to mine then lower. I lean across the small gap between us, ensuring she doesn’t miss my words. “I’m going to keep fucking you until you can’t go a single day without begging for my cock,” I tell her. “I’m going to train your body until you’re wet for me, anytime, anywhere. I’m going to draw out every morsel of your sexuality and force you to face it, until you accept that the only time you’re happy is with my cum inside your body.”
Her hand flies to the arm of her chair, gripping it with white knuckles, and her shoulders draw inward for a moment. Then she straightens again, recovering so quickly, showing her strength. “It’s comforting to hear you value me for my mind,” she says dryly, the delivery spoiled by the tremor in her voice.
“Oh, I do.” I lean back. “It’s no fun whatsoever to fuck you unless I’m also inside your head.”
She bites at her lip, and her chair gives a faint creak of leather as she shifts.
“How wet are you right now?” I ask casually.
Her forehead and cheeks flush red. “I’m not.”
“Some people appreciate show-don’t-tell. Why don’t you…” I gesture toward her bare legs.
She nods past me. “Why don’tyouopen that door and jump out.”
“That wouldn’t show anything.”
“It’s more of a safety thing,” she replies, tone acerbic. “Lovely aircraft, I’m just not sure it can carry both of us and your ego.”
I rest my elbows back on the arms of my chair and don’t try to keep the smile off my face, watching her as she meets my gaze, chin tipped up in challenge.
“Mr. Reyes, Miss Callahan.” The pilot’s voice comes from the cabin’s speakers. “We’re starting our descent now. If you’d care to look out of the window, you’ll see Mr. Fournier’s estate beneath you.”
I don’t care to at all, but Vicky does. She turns her chair and leans to the side, peering down at the ground below, then lets out a soft whistle.
“Don’t jump now,” she says. “You’ll mess up the landscaped garden.”
“Noted. I’ll try to refrain.”
The helicopter turns as it comes in, giving me a view whether I want one or not. Fournier’s house is much as I would expect of a man like him: a lodge commanding the ridge overlooking a lake, dark timber and stone under a steep roof to shrug off Montana winters, with glass walls to enjoy the views. It’s almost tasteful in a too-much-money way, restrained despite its size.
“We could live here.” Vicky gives her opinion.
“Sure. I might have to work longer hours.”
She grimaces. “No thanks. I’d rather have you and a one-bed apartment in Brooklyn.”
It’s said without rancor, without irony or any of her usual bite. A momentary lapse, as she gives me agenuine insight into her feelings.
She loves me still, as I always suspected.
