“Zara,” he husks out, waiting for me to peer back, but when I do, he only drinks me in, a silent message that is a mystery.
“I’m not sure what you want from me. I … this is too complicated, and I’m confused.” It all tumbles out of me, clumsy and entirely too distressed.
I don’t tell him that I have information I’ll be sending to Tripp in the morning, or that I’d let my father extract me if he offered, or that in that instance, a piece of me would be left here with him.
That last one doesn’t make any sense. I haven’t kissed this man. He isn’t even open to anything romantic. We’ve both issued threats. I am, for all intents and purposes, his enemy. But there is a dormant part of me that awakens in his presence, a part that feels safe when no refuge is in sight, a part that longs to know what it would be like in his care.
“You have a job to do, you’re conflicted, and you know from experience that these types of situations tend to spiral.” He states that so matter-of-factly, like he’s not worried about any of it. “I believe I have a solution.”
“You do? Is it erasing me?”
“Is that what you want?” he counters.
I consider it for a moment, but being here only compounds the loneliness that notion brought the last time he suggested it. “No.”
“Good,” he replies before another swill of his cognac, his eyes never leaving mine. “It’s something I need to work on.”
“Okay. And in the meantime?”
“Do what you need to do.”
He’s telling me to keep myself alive, to do my job, no matter what it is. Probably because he trusts I won’t harm his family, but it’s still perplexing.
My breath is caught in my throat, so I simply smile and turn to leave.
But his deep rasp halts my tracks and rockets through me, setting my core on fire. “Zara.”
“Yeah?” I ask, not facing him, my heart thrashing my sternum with a pipe-dream cadence.
“Lock the door.”
ZARA
Before I’ve had a chance to overanalyze what this means, my fingers find the lock and twist.
“Good girl,” he croons, and my eyes flutter closed.
I think I might faint.
Which is why I don’t move. I let my rampant thoughts have a voice, if only so I don’t melt into the floor. “What happened to your lines?”
“Let’s move them for tonight.”
Okay, so maybe one night is on the table. A pang of disappointment twists my stomach, but that’s the greedy girl inside me, who won’t be happy until she cradles impossible dreams. My libido is a far greedier beast right now, prepared to choke her out, so I think we’re good.
“Come here,” he orders.
Maybe this is his game, torturing me with enough angsty buildup and insistence ofusnot being an option that I don’t have the sagacity to push back.
My feet carry me to him, again without my brain’s full consent.
He grips my hips, stationing me between his legs, and assesses me, the pressure of his fingers scorching my skin through my leather pants. “Next time I tell you to come to me, you’ll crawl.”
Good Lord.
He might’ve said that in an effort to provoke me, gauging whether I’d submit to him. If I’m willing, if I want to, or if it will spur me on to be a brat. But I’m too preoccupied with the notion ofnext timeto care, hoping he means it in reference to another evening. I already know the agonizing ache for him will resume with his absence. I feel it now, even with all his attention on me. And surprisingly, the imagined visual of crawling for him is more arousing than I would’ve thought. But that’s definitely a next-time activity.
I arch a brow, showcasing the sassiness that he seems to find enlivening. “And now?”
