“What?”
“I know it might not seem like it, but I do trust you. I just…” My nose scrunches. “Well, it’s not always easy for me to remember that I can.”
“Don’t be sweet when I don’t have time to show you how much I like it,” he mutters, and a tingle slides down my spine right before his mouth lands on mine. As he kisses me, I lift up on my tiptoes and kiss him back, then before I’m ready for the kiss to end, he rips his mouth away and rests his forehead against mine.
Breathing heavy, I close my eyes, wondering how in the world it’s possible that every kiss we share feels just as overwhelming as the first time he kissed me all those years ago.
“Do you want to change, or are you good wearing that?”
“I think I’ll change,” I say, because even if he makes me feel secure, there is no way I’m going to walk into a club full of women who are probably all gorgeous, wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts, a tank top, and sandals with my hair a mess and my makeup most likely half-melted off my face. And I’m definitely not going to do that on the arm of a man who—even after traveling—looks like he could be on the cover of one of those books May reads all the time.
“All right, while you change, I’ll be in my office.” He kisses my forehead, squeezes my hip, and touches his mouth to mine before heading out of the room.
After watching him disappear out of sight, I let out a long breath, then go back to my suitcase and pull out my black lace romper with scalloped and frayed-looking edges and thin, barely there straps and the heels I packed to wear with it. Resting my shoes on the floor and my outfit on the end of the bed, I grab my makeup case and head into the bathroom to get ready.
Chapter 12
April
SPEEDING DOWN THE highway with Maxim, who’s driving a car that is even fancier than the one still parked in my garage in Tennessee, I glare at the windshield with my arms crossed over my chest. The weight of his palm on my bare upper thigh a reminder of the argument we had about my outfit before we left his house.
Three times I’ve tried to pull his hand away, and three times he’s not let me, his statement from the first time I tried on replay in my mind. “You might be pissed, but you’re still mine.” The possessive statement should not have the ability to piss me off and turn me on, but it did both.
I’ve never had a man lay claim to me before. I’ve never had a man make it clear that they don’t want to share me, even with some faceless person who might see me and want me. It’s a heady feeling and one under different circumstances I might appreciate.
That said, no man but my father has told me to put on more clothes since I was a teenager. I didn’t appreciate it when my dad did it, and I sure as hell didn’t like it much when Maxim did either.
When I walked into his office to tell him that I was ready to go, the heat in his gaze as his eyes swept over my body made my skin prickle and my thighs tighten. I’ve had men tell me I’m beautiful, give me looks that state clearly they are interested, but I’ve never had a man look at me like they want to possess me. I don’t know what I expected him to say when he opened his mouth, but “Go change” definitely wasn’t it.
My “Pardon?” wasn’t warning enough for him, because he repeated his earlier statement, only adding, “Go change. You’re not wearing that.”
My first thought was to pick up something to throw at his head. My next was to tell him that I just wouldn’t go with him to his club if he didn’t like the way I was dressed, but I figured that would be letting him win, so instead, I refused to change and headed to his garage without another word.
Now, with his hand on my thigh and his grip firm, I realize that might not have been the smartest thing I could have done. The excitement I felt earlier about seeing where he works is gone, replaced with aggravation. For the next few hours, he and I are going to be alone, and since we’re not exactly on speaking terms—me being the one not speaking to him—that probably won’t be very fun for me.
As we get closer to downtown, the lights get brighter, the signs get bigger, and before long, he’s exiting the highway and turning onto one of the roads, his car fitting in perfectly amongst all the others that are just as exotic. When he turns down a back road, I sit up a little straighter, a neon sign of a woman standing under dripping blue lights is hard not to notice. Neither is the word WET in large letters that form at her feet every few seconds. A million and one questions form in my mind, and it sucks that I can’t ask even one of them right now, not without breaking first. He turns into a dark alley on the side of the building and pulls into the almost empty lot, behind the only other car, a bright-yellow Lamborghini.