No Fair Lady

And why she deliberately baited me into this position.

I’m not a begging man. Even if my life’s in the hands of a wildcat who might be half-demon.

“So,” I say. “Either this is the kinkiest foreplay I’ve ever had…or I have something you want, Brin. And either you want me to give it to you, or you’ll just take it from me.”

“Is that what you think?” She’s managed to pin my arm behind my back, too, and she gives it a little wrenching jerk that fires pain up my shoulder. “So tell me what I want from you, then, Mr. Oliver Major.”

She stresses my full name like an insult.

It makes me grin.

So does the brief look of surprise on her face when I let my legs go loose and drop.

She’d been braced for me to push back or try to stand or straighten. Not for me to slip down out of her grasp, buckling my legs to pull my weight back over the edge of the balcony and twist free.

I’m older than her.

I’m not slow, even if I’m four times bigger.

And I’m not so far out of training myself. Before my rapid climb up Galentron’s C-level role, the intelligence community served me well. You never forget what you learned kicking six North Korean sailors’ asses and hightailing it to a concealed CIA sub parked next to their ship.

You can be damn sure I’ve still got some moves.

There’s a brief wide-eyed flash of grey eyes, lit with a mix of cunning interest, amusement, and sheer disgusted rage.

Right before I roll out from under her, swinging my momentum around to catch her around the waist, hook her against me, and jackknife her down to the ground.

I pull back at the last second.

I don’t want to hurt her.

Just pin her the hell down so she can’t do that again.

And it feels almost like laying her down—and then making sure she stays there by flowing my weight across her to straddle her, bracing my hands on both sides of her head.

“Don’t struggle, pink. Won’t end well,” I growl, catching another glimpse of that candy rolling against her teeth.

She’s just a slip under me, deceptively small, her body tight with mellow curves under the nondescript clothing. Her hair makes a perfect fan under her, those precisely cut edges radiating out in a gleaming scythe of black with that lonely shimmering white slash.

And she’s smiling.

Of course she’s enjoying this.

Casting her vixen’s smile, her eyes narrowed, her lips parted and that ridiculous candy ball rolling over her tongue so suggestively my dick throbs against her.

When she arches her back and rolls into me, it jerks.

“If I wanted,” she purrs, “I could knock you right in the balls and leave you whimpering on the floor.”

“But you don’t want that. You already had the element of surprise, and you’d have done it,” I say, a hot snarl darkening my voice.

She bats her eyes at me like a schoolgirl hiding some scandalous note.

Make no mistake: this girl is deadly. And that shit turns me on far more than it should.

“Listen, I don’t think the company sent you here to demand my loyalty. So you know what I think it is you want?”

“Tell me, Rhett.” Her eyes narrow, her lips pursed in amusement. She throws her voice in this absurd Gone With The Wind lilt that almost catches me off guard.

“Help. Someone on your side. Someone you can trust.” I catch her chin then, grazing my thumb against her lower lip. It’s softer than it looks, like all her sardonic smirks haven’t managed to harden it. “Have you ever had that?”

Her eyes widen briefly—just a flicker of vulnerability.

Then she sniffs, jerking her face away. “Maybe I just wanted to vent. Commiserate with someone who isn’t as impressed with Durham’s quest to own the world off our work.”

There it is.

That stress on our.

It sounds like an emphasis, but it’s actually a question.

One that can’t be used against her because it’s so oblique she can always deny it later.

She’s asking if I resent Durham for his increasingly diabolical, money-hungry plans, too.

If I hate him for the things he does for the sake of adding another digit to his annual take-home, without caring who it hurts.

And if I want to do something about it.

The scariest question in the world.

“You’re talking about crossing a line,” I say carefully. It’s getting harder to think when she moves under me again, her hips twisting and lithe, grinding against me with a small muffled sound in her throat.

“Oh, I’m thinking about crossing a lot of lines, Major,” she breathes. “But the way I see it, he’s already crossed one too many. Do you have any clue what I brought home from Europe?”

“I read the reports. Full clearance,” I growl, resisting the urge to slam my hips into hers and grind her into literal submission.