Stripped Down

He leans against the bedpost, searching me with that dark gaze of his. I could sink back onto the bed and let him take charge. I’d enjoy it this time, but it would be on his terms and I’m not okay with that. “Something’s wrong.”

No kidding. “You.”

“Uh-huh.” He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his jeans and somehow the casual gesture pisses me off. Or maybe it’s because I can’t stop staring at the massive erection those jeans can’t possibly conceal.

“Stop giving orders.”

“You like my orders. Let me show you.” The look he gives me is slow and knowing.

It would be easier to fight with him if he wasn’t right. “My pussy likes your orders,” I correct him with a shrug, standing up. “That’s not the real estate that matters.”

He faces me as if I’m not cockblocking him in his bedroom, the look on his face confident and unconcerned. I’ve never been into hitting or biting my lovers, but I could make an exception right now. I’d like to sink my teeth into that harsh mouth of his and see if that shakes him.

He doesn’t move, but I get the impression he could be on me in seconds. My traitorous pussy loves his interest, loves the possibilities of playing chase with this man. “If you like what you see, why not enjoy it?”

“I don’t need sex that badly,” I tell him, but the shiver that ghosts through me says I’m a liar. Sex and Angel—they’re mixed up in my head now, and the heated ache between my legs demands attention. His attention.

“I take control, Rose,” he rasps, his voice low and sure. “That’s what I do, and I won’t lie about that. But I’ll make you enjoy it a thousand different ways.”

The thing is? He probably can.

“Non-negotiable,” he says.

I actually believe him. “Are you talking whips and chains? I’m not into kinky stuff.”

I’ve been held down too many times. It’s not a game.

“Rope’s good, but optional.” He bracelets my wrists with his fingers as if I need the show and tell. I tug, and for a moment he holds on. Restrains me. I wait for the memories to surface, but then he lets go. “You’d like it.”

“Another promise. My answer’s still no.”

“Try it.” His voice is pure sin. His mother should have called him Lucifer, because he’s no angel.

He tempts me almost as much as he fascinates me. He’s big and gorgeous and determined to have sex with me—and yet he’s not forcing me.

As if he’s read my mind, he pulls me a little closer. “I won’t force you, Rose. I want you to agree. I want you to give me control.”

I’m not looking for love or romance, but I’m not sure I could survive Angel’s brand of sex, either. There’s nothing casual about the way he looks at me.

He’s not done talking, either. “Try it my way. If you don’t like it, we’ll renegotiate.”

I understand negotiating.

“No ropes, no toys. Just you and me, cowboy.”

“Angel,” he tells me, nudging my lower lip with his thumb. “Call me by my name and get on the bed.”

“Angel.” I say his name and wave the white flag of surrender, all my outrage swept away by this insane freaking chemistry we have. And I do exactly what he wants. I crawl onto his big bed and settle in for my show.

I learn Angel goes commando when he shucks his jeans in an easy, fluid movement. God, he’s impossibly beautiful, all hard muscles and chiseled strength. He might own the ranch and everyone on it, but he works as hard as any of his men. The real question is whether I’m going to let him own me after he takes me to bed. He seems to think an orgasm is like a brand, that he can stamp me with his ownership and control what happens between us.

If I weren’t so aroused, I’d be pissed off. I’d tell what he could do with his brand of arrogance, and it wouldn’t be to take me to bed. But he’s here and he makes me wet and it’s been far too long since I took a lover. Sex is too complicated for me to have casual hook-ups, and I haven’t had time for a relationship.

The mattress dips as he comes down on the bed beside me. He slides an arm around my waist and effortlessly pulls me under him. He really wasn’t kidding about the need to be on top. Dazed, I watch him for clues, fighting the urge to arch up into him and surrender completely. He smells good, like California sunshine and heat.

Right. He also smells right.

“Angel Mendoza,” I whisper. His name is tattooed somewhere far too close to my heart. I wear him on my skin and inside me where no one else has ever been, not in this bone-deep, too-familiar way.