“I was wrong,” he said. Each word possessed a hard edge.
“Wrong about what?” Was he talking about the dress? Or about wanting to be her teacher? God, she prayed he wasn’t backing out.
“I was wrong about tonight’s lesson. It’s not spanking.”
“What is it?”
“It’s role-playing.” His voice was hot and rough. His dark eyes prowled over her body.
“What kind of role playing?” She didn’t even bother to hide her nerves, but the nerves also excited her. Or maybe he was simply the one who excited her. It seemed whatever he did turned her on. The fact that he was standing here, a solid mass of muscle and strength, of extreme and utter sexiness, sent shivers across her skin. She drank him in: the wavy mess of his golden brown hair, the stubble lining his jaw, the exposed patch of skin on his chest where the top two buttons of his white shirt were undone. All of it, all of him, made her tremble with want.
He took one step closer, and reflexively she backed up so her spine hit the wall behind her. She was caged in, and against her better judgment, she liked it. She liked the fact that it was starkly quiet inside the suite, and that it was intensely noisy outside, a white noise that masked all that she was feeling.
“I’m going to be playing the role of the jealous lover,” he said, his voice still laced with the same frustration she’d picked up on earlier. Was he annoyed with her?
“What do you mean?”
“I’m the jealous lover who can’t stand the thought of his woman wearing a gorgeous, stunning, absolutely fucking breathtaking dress on a date with another man.”
A wild thrill rushed through her veins from his words and what they meant. “But I thought you didn’t like the dress?” she asked, coyly, playing along.
He lifted his hand and brushed the tips of his fingers against her wrist. She shuddered from that one subtle touch. Her body begged for more, and she was almost ashamed at how much desire flowed through her bloodstream right now. She hadn’t been completely aware of how very much she had wanted to see him tonight, of how truly disappointed she had been for the first eight innings that he wasn’t here by her side. Now that he was here, she wasn’t sure how she’d survived the game without him.
He brushed his fingers along her arm, across the crook of her elbow, and up to her shoulder. Goosebumps rose in his wake.
“I don’t like the dress if you wear it for another man,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on hers the whole time. “And sometimes that means I’m going to act like a dick and tell you I don’t like the dress at all.” He brought his hands to her hair and she wanted to cry out because it felt so fucking good to be touched by him like this, with hands that were both tender and completely possessive. He speared his fingers into her hair. “But what I really don’t like is the idea that another man might look at you in it, and want to touch you the way I touch you.”
He leaned into her neck, and pressed his lips against her skin. There was nothing gentle in the kiss. His lips were hot and angry, and she felt his teeth nip her skin. A sting of pain raced through her, but it was a good pain, a pain that made her long for more.
“I didn’t mean to make you so jealous,” she said, playing along, sounding contrite, sliding into the roles they’d assumed. She raised her hand to his chest, and trailed it up to the top buttons that were undone. His breath caught in his throat as she spread her fingers over his warm skin.
He looked her in the eyes. His seemed to be on fire. “It made me crazy. Absolutely fucking insane. Sometimes a man is wildly jealous when he thinks other men are looking at his woman.” He dropped his hand to her waist, gripping her hip, and digging his fingers into her bones. “His woman,” he repeated.
She nodded. “His,” she said, like she was in a trance.
“And sometimes a man has to touch her, and mark her,” he said, returning to her neck to trace the faint imprint of his teeth, “to make it clear she belongs to him, and to remind her that he’s the only one allowed to touch her.”
His words were heady. They hypnotized her. She was so used to handling everything, to devising the plans, giving the sign-off, managing and making all the final decisions. Here, with him, she didn’t have to think. She only had to feel.
He cupped her face, grasping her. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone else touching you,” he said, his gaze pinned on hers, his warm breath painting her skin.
She swallowed dryly, tried to speak, but could only manage a few words. “I can’t either.”
She wasn’t sure if they were playing roles. If he was talking as himself, as the jealous lover, or as someone else. And honestly, she didn’t care.
She ached.
All over.
She ached for him everywhere. Her lips longed to be kissed. Her hair craved to have his fingers threaded through it. Her skin begged for contact. Her body needed to be filled. The desire for him was profound. It dug trenches all throughout her mind and heart.
“And I want to remind you that you’re mine. That’s why I came back for you,” he said, his hands tighter now on her face. He could have squeezed her, could have hurt her, but he didn’t. She was safe with him. Always.
“I wanted you to come back,” she whispered, her chin tipped up as she kept her eyes on him. She couldn’t look away. The spell he’d woven was too strong.
“I couldn’t take it. I can’t have you send me pictures of clothes you’re going to wear for someone else.”