“I didn’t say you had to disappear. You wouldn’t be cut off from the outside world.”
“You said ‘all mine, every minute.’ I took that to mean I’d be chained to your bed.”
His eyes grow hot. He likes the idea.
“No,” he says, his voice husky. “I’m not asking you to be my slave.”
“So I could leave?”
“Are we negotiating?”
I stop short and stare at him. He stares back at me from under lowered brows, his gaze level and unwavering.
He’s never looked hotter, more intense, or more dangerous. My mouth goes dry.
I whisper, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
He adjusts the knot in his tie, then adjusts his cufflinks, one by one. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. He stares at me like all the mysteries of the universe can be discovered in my eyes.
“What would make you say yes? Name it.”
He really wants this. He wants it so badly, he can barely stand still.
A strange feeling moves through me. It’s so unfamiliar, it takes a moment for me to identify it, but then I realize what it is.
Power.
The way Liam wants me doesn’t make me feel demeaned, or weak, or frightened.
It makes me feel powerful as fuck.
I say softly, “Well, for one thing, you have to kiss me, wolfie. I’m not about to spend twenty-eight days with a man who I’m not even sure can properly kiss.”
He cocks a dark brow.
I fold my arms across my chest and gaze calmly at him. “Non-negotiable.”
He looks me up and down slowly, eating me up with hungry eyes. When he moistens his lips, I almost groan out loud. Then he moves toward me, takes my face in his hands, and lowers his mouth to mine.
It’s immediately evident that the man not only knows how to kiss, he knows how to kiss a woman senseless.
His mouth demands.
It takes.
It owns me.
I clutch his jacket in my fists and take short bursts of air through my nose as his tongue delves into my mouth and sweeps against mine, over and over again with the perfect amount of suction and pressure to get me squirming and rubbing my thighs restlessly together as I press against the hard length of him.
I’m vaguely aware of my lower lip stinging, but I’m drowning in his taste. In the pleasure of this kiss, the decadence of it, the way he’s framing my face with his hands and holding my head in place so he can take what he wants and give me what I didn’t even know I needed.
I moan into his mouth.
My heart glows like a light bulb.
I go up on my toes and kiss him back harder.
When he suddenly breaks away, I’m so dizzy, I almost fall over.
We stand there breathing raggedly, his breath hot against my cheek and his erection throbbing against my crotch, until he demands roughly, “Well?”
I say faintly, “Well…it didn’t suck.”
He lowers his mouth to my ear. His voice is a dark, delicious command.
“Don’t toy with me.”
Oh, god, all I want is to rip off my clothes and climb him like a tree. I’m delirious with desire. This can’t be normal. Not that anything about the situation is normal, but I’m having hot flashes a good quarter century before menopause is due.
With my eyes closed and my hands still clutching his suit jacket, I say, “That was…”
He waits, taut and crackling with tension.
“The best damn kiss I’ve ever had.”
Exhaling, he wraps his arms around my body, pulling me tight against him. “So it’s a yes?”
I groan and bury my face in his chest. “This is so weird.”
“Don’t overthink it. Just go with your gut.”
When I whimper, he says hotly, “Fuck. I need to hear you make that sound when I’m inside you.”
He’s trying to kill me. He’s trying to fry my brain with a testosterone overload, so he can throw me over his shoulder and take me back to his cave and have his way with me.
So we can have our way with each other.
I have no doubt this little experiment he’s proposing would be a two-way street. He’d give as much pleasure as he’d take. He’d make sure he’d send me away twenty-eight days later with crossed eyes, bowed legs, and a goofy smile on my face.
Twenty-Eight Days Later is the name of a horror movie. Coincidence or bad omen?
It could be amazing, though. It could be an absolute dream. No strings, no commitments, just constant sex with the hottest man I’ve ever met along with a little vacay from real life…
Oh, who am I kidding? This is insane!
I pull away and look him in the eye. “I’m incredibly tempted. But it’s too out there for me. Too impractical.”
Ignoring the “out there” comment, he pounces on the other reason. “Impractical—how?”
“I can’t be off work for a month—”
“Yes, you can,” he cuts in. “And your boss will pay for it.”
I twist my lips, knowing he’s right. Considering how terrified he is of Liam, Buddy would probably give me a full year’s worth of paid leave if I asked.
Okay, next.
“I have school.”
“The semester’s over in thirteen days. You don’t sit for the bar until the end of July. Which means you have two months open in the interim.”
I stare at him in surprise. “How did you know that?”
“I’ve done my homework. Next argument, counselor?”
“No, back up. Did you investigate me or something?”
“If you count asking your roommate a few questions as investigation, then yes.”
“Oh.”
“Why are you frowning?”
“I’m wondering what other personal details my blabbermouth roommate provided you.”
“Let’s stay on topic. What other concerns do you have?”
His eyes burn with intensity. It’s too distracting, so I turn and move to the other side of the room, putting a safe distance between us. I lean against the small desk where I study, fold my arms over my chest, and look at him.
“Okay, let’s get to the nitty gritty. From everything you’ve said about your life, it’s clear you think I’d be in danger if I spent any significant amount of time with you.”
He waits, bristling with impatience.
“Which means if I’m staying with you, at your place—”
“You’d be protected there,” he says, his voice hard. “It’s a fortress.”
When I lift my brows, he says, “Figuratively. There are safeguards. Technology.”
He waves an impatient hand in the air to indicate a long list of safety measures he employs that he’s not going to mention. “The point is you’d be safe. Much safer than you are here. You don’t even have a deadbolt on your front door, for fuck’s sake.”
I study him.
When I’m silent too long for his patience, he demands, “Tell me.”
I say softly, “You seem to have thought of everything. Except this plan of yours has one glaring issue that all your clinical problem-solving has overlooked.”
“Which is?”
“Emotion.”
His reply is silence, along with a slow grind of his molars.