The Truth

I should be embarrassed at my wantonness, but I can’t find a single fuck to care. If I have a chance with Daniel, even the tiniest sliver of one, I’m going after it full-throttle, no matter what it involves.

He mulls that over quietly as I hold my breath in anticipation.

He doesn’t look surprised by my confession, but he also isn’t throwing me to the floor to ravish me, which honestly disappoints me a little. Nothing like baring your soul and offering your pussy to someone, only to be greeted by deafening silence, to make a girl feel super-secure.

“Talking implies reciprocation,” I prompt. “Tell me what you’re after—a piece of ass, which admittedly, mine is quite amazing, if I say so myself . . . or more?”

“The truth?” he says, throwing my words back at me.

I nod, my eyebrow lifting simply as an attempt at wryness despite the raw exposure of my soul right now.

Daniel gives me a small smile and leans back on the couch, not letting go of my hand. All of these things feel like good signs, but there’s an outside chance that I might be reading into things because of my own desires.

“I feel like I know you, but at the same time, like I don’t know you at all. But I want to.”

Ding, ding, ding . . . we have a winner! My mind is going nuts, with lights flashing and sirens wailing, because I think I might’ve just won the whole damn Showcase Showdown with a vacation, sports car, jet ski, new living room furniture, and a fancy coffee machine. But I push that reaction down in favor of something less jumping-up-and-down-in-crazed-giddiness at such a simple statement.

“I think we can do something about that. What did you have in mind?”

I play my cards carefully because hope is bubbling up inside my heart like lava preparing to explode from a volcano. And hope is one of the most dangerous emotions to have. It makes you do crazy, stupid things under the guise of a potential reward that may or may not even exist.

Like the fact that I’m considering standing up, stripping my clothes off, and dropping to my knees to worship the man I’ve wanted for years, mere moments after saying that my heart’s protected by a tissue paper thin shield. I know if I do that . . . I’m going to catch feelings. But I can deal with the fallout. I’m at least ninety-four percent sure of it.

Daniel leans forward suddenly, his nose nearly to mine and his free hand on my jaw. I gasp in surprise, and our breaths mingle as his eyes scan my face before boring into mine. The flip from relaxed to intense is exciting and unexpected, making the butterflies in my belly flutter around, eager for more.

“Your face shows every filthy thought that crosses your mind,” he whispers, stroking my cheek. “And I want to explore them all. How the hell did I never notice that before?”

“Maybe you weren’t looking, but trust me, there have been plenty of filthy thoughts in my head about you and me.”

He lets out a guttural grunt, almost sounding pained, and his hand slips up into my hair to squeeze tightly. “More.”

I don’t know what he means at first and am on the verge of spelling out some of those dirty ideas I’ve had in gloriously graphic detail, but he speaks again, explaining what he actually means.

“If all I wanted was sex, I could have that without potentially imploding my whole life. But this feels . . .” He breaks off, his brows furrowing and making the lined grooves between them more prominent as he thinks. “It . . . it feels. And I want more of that. I want to explore all the places that are scaring the hell out of me right now.”

I understand what he means. Daniel Stryker is a man of considered decisions, dry data analysis, and head over heart thinking. His reputation as cold and all-business is well-earned. But I’ve seen behind the curtain. I know he can feel, can love, can be warm and vulnerable with Elle.

The question is, can he do that with anyone else?

It scares the hell out of both of us. I grasp his hand in mine, moving it from my hair, and then ever so gently, I press my lips to his palm. “More feeling. We can do that.”

I manage to stay still and straight-faced for three, two, one . . . and then I can’t hold back my giddy, silly happiness any longer. “Whoop-whoop! You want me! Daniel Stryker wants me!”

I give a little hip and shoulder shimmy, dancing in my seat. Daniel laughs lightly, and the serious mood is lifted, but the fire between us is already burning hot and high. “I thought I was supposed to be the overly excited one, thankful that a hot, young thing wants me,” he says with a teasing glint in his eye. “I feel like I’m in a fantasy.”