Trust (Wrong 3)

“Humph.” He nods. “Technically it might have been the only room they had left for rental. I’m not sure since all I inquired about was reserving a room with one bed.”

I gasp dramatically while trying to fight off the giggles that want to break out.

“I don’t know that I ever said, ‘Chloe, I do not own a condo sitting empty on the fifth floor,’” he offers.

“Well, that’s true.” I shrug. “You’ve got me there.”

“Good, then we can move onto something that you’ve been omitting.”

“What have I been omitting?” I ask, genuinely confused.

“Your handcuff fetish,” he says solemnly.

“My handcuff fetish?” I question, but yes, please.

He nods. “I think we both know how eager you were for me to slap some cuffs on you that day we met.” He’s closed the distance between us and is running his fingers lightly over my arm down to my wrist. It makes me tingle with excitement, everywhere.

“Please tell me this conversation ends with you telling me that you packed handcuffs.” My pulse is racing a little bit just thinking about it. I hope he’s not teasing me, because we’re here for two weeks and I don’t think they sell handcuffs down at the ski shop. “Real ones,” I add.

“Chloe, of course they’re real. Trust me.”

Oh, I do.