“What?”
“The shorts. Take them off.” His voice hasn’t changed. Same low register. Same calm.
“If you’re sorry,” he says, “take them off.”
I should say no. I should?—
My hands are on my waistband.
I don’t decide this, my hands do. My fingers hook the elastic and pull downward. The motion is slow, and my eyes are fixed on a point over his left shoulder.
The shorts slide down my thighs and past my knees and pool at my feet on the cold marble floor.
The air hits my skin. All of it. Every inch.
I’m not wearing underwear.
Hours ago, when I got ready for bed, I chose comfort over modesty. Now I’m here, completely bare, standing in Rolan Belov’s kitchen with nothing below my waist except socks.
I stare at the shelf behind him. I will not look down. I will not lookat his face. I will not acknowledge what is happening or what I’m experiencing or the wetness that I feel — God, I feel it — gathering between my thighs with a frankness that makes me want to disappear.
“Look at me.”
His hand leaves the counter and reaches my chin. His fingers are warm. The grip is firm without being forceful, a controlled pressure that tilts my face up and holds it there.
I have no choice but to meet his eyes.
His eyes that are focused on mine with an intensity that makes the kitchen lights feel dim by comparison. His jaw is tight and his pupils are wide.
He’s as affected as I am. The difference is that he’s choosing it and I’m drowning in it.
“Sit on the counter,” he says.
He wants to humiliate me. This is punishment.
This is where I should stop. Instead, I lift myself onto the counter.
The marble is ice against my bare skin. I flinch, and he tenses, almost like he’s ready to reach out and catch me. But I don’t fall and he doesn’t move until my legs are hanging over the edge.
My fingers grip the lip of the counter on either side.
“If I put my hand between your legs,” he rumbles, “are you going to be wet for me?”
My heart skips a beat.
The question is obscene… The answer is leaking down my thighs and probably staining his marble.
I don’t speak. I can’t. My throat has sealed shut.
His hands leave the counter. They move slowly toward the space between my knees, giving me time to see, to anticipate. His fingers land on the inside of my thigh, applying light pressure.
I open my mouth. Close it.
What am I going to say?No?And be dismissed from the job that keeps me from Landon? Do I even want to say no? My body is screaming. It sounds nothing like refusal.
It’s been so long since anyone touched me…
His fingers find me.
