I don't bother even trying to keep my gaze from wandering south and locking in on his erection. "I agree, wholeheartedly."
"Brys," he says, his voice rough and raw with sleep, with arousal. "Don't."
"No?"
His brow furrows. "I am complicated. My life is complicated. And that's putting it as mildly as possible."
"I am not asking for commitment,” I say, waspish and tart and prim. "I was merely admiring your penis."
He coughs a shocked laugh. "Oh. I see." The humor fades as fast as it appeared, and his dark eyes search mine. "I am a complicated man sexually, too, Brys. Start something with me at your own peril."
"At my own peril? Why? Are you violent?"
His gaze crackles with intensity. "No, Brys. I am not violent. But I am most definitely not your average, easily manipulated office-tryst boy-toy."
My cheeks burn—it feels as if he’s read my thoughts, somehow, which is wildly disconcerting. "If I wanted an easily manipulated office-tryst boy-toy, I'd have one. They're a dime a dozen." I shrug. "Ihavehad plenty of them, if we're being honest with one another.”
The gleam in his eyes is dangerous. I can feel it. This man is not to be trifled with—not in the boardroom or the bedroom.
As a girl, I was a bit of a pyromaniac. I loved playing with fire. I'm not an idiot or crazy, so I wasn't going around starting housefires. I'd just burn things in a metal trash can inthe backyard, just for the rush of watching fire consume things—leaves, pinecones, grass, paper, cardboard, whatever I could get away with burning, or trying to burn. That rush-seeking behavior never left me—the rush I seek now, however, is success in business and the pursuit of excellent sex.
My point is, I still like to play with fire. Tell me I can't do something, and watch me try, and likely succeed; tell me something is too dangerous, and watch me jump in headfirst. Imighthave a touch of obstinate defiance disorder.
Case in point: Jakob is dangerous. He's telling me as much without saying so in so many words.
He's warning me. Too bad a warning only makes me try harder.
I hold his eyes, slide my hand down the hard, flat liminal space between navel and erection. An instant before I can curl my fingers around his cock, Jakob snags my hand, his grip hard and unforgiving. "Be careful what you wish for, Brys Bennett. If you open that door, you cannot balk at the monster that comes through it."
"You're saying you are a monster?"
His eyes glitter like black marbles in the early morning light. "I am who I am."
"Would you hurt me?"
"Physically?"
"Correct.”
"No. My depravity is of a different nature."
"And emotionally?"
He stares at nothing. "Not…intentionally," he says after a long pause.
Every warning bell my psyche possesses is clanging and clamoring like a klaxon, warning me that this man is dangerous; the fire and fury of his complicated, mysterious, arrogantpersona is beyond anything I've ever known. I will not play with this fire without getting burned.
The hunger for physical connection, for release, for relief of the ache of need is too great to resist.
And I'm not interested in resisting it anyway.
Having given his warning, Jakob releases my hand, threading his fingers together behind his head. The invitation is clear; I have his consent, as long as I understand that I am also giving him my consent—tacitly, if not explicitly.
"What shape does your depravity take, Jakob?"
His answering smirk is the only response I get; it's barely a smirk, to be honest. A ghost of a smile. An almost-grin. Secretive, mysterious, heated, dangerous. A predator has his prey exactly where he wants it.
Joke's on him, though—I welcome the chance to be that kind of prey.
