But I’ll be damned if some man is going to dictate what I can and can’t do with my life just because it causes him worry.
And yet… there’s a tiny part of me that feels bad about discounting his feelings. We’d agreed our arrangement was sex only, but I’m also smart enough to recognize it has turned into a bit more than that. I realize it came from a place in his heart that’s filled with concern, but it’s manifesting poorly into a controlling attitude I can’t handle. Yes, I like Dominik being the boss in bed, but, outside of that, I make my own choices.
A knock on the door startles me and I consider ignoring it, but it’s probably the reporter I’d been paired with checking to see if I want to go to dinner. I don’t open it, though, not until I put my eye to the peephole. When I see who’s on the other side, there’s no controlling the tiny growl of frustration.
It’s Jean-Paul Bisset, a French freelance photographer I’ve occasionally gotten dirty with between the sheets. In fact, he’s the last guy I’d been with prior to meeting Dominik. Regan loves when I regale her with tales of our escapades as he has the biggest dick I’ve ever seen. I often run into him on these types of assignments around the world.
But I’m no longer interested, and I hope my expression reflects that as I crack the door open. Jean-Paul has been relentless in flirting with me. A bunch of journalists had eaten dinner together a few nights ago, and he’d gotten sloppy drunk. He’d started spouting shit about being in love with me. All a pack of lies. He just wants to get laid. And I get it… in another lifetime, I’d be smiling right now.
“What do you want?” I ask curtly, refusing to open the door any farther.
“Oh, come on, Willow,” Jean-Paul pleads in his silky French accent. “You know I want nothing more than to give you pleasure.”
There was a time when that would have been enough for me, but his words don’t raise my temperature in the slightest—not from attraction, anyway. I temper my tone to a cool level of politeness to cover my aggravation. “I’m sorry, Jean-Paul, but I’m no longer interested.”
“I don’t believe it,” he scoffs. “You’re always interested.”
“Not this time,” I reply, crossing my arms over my chest. To make things a bit easier, I add, “I’m seeing someone—exclusively.”
Jean-Paul’s eyebrows pop up in surprise. “No.”
“Yes. And when I’m exclusive with someone, I’m exclusive. I don’t cheat.”
“Even if I do that thing with my—”
“Goodnight, Jean-Paul,” I drawl. Trying not to roll my eyes, I start to close the door.
He shoots a hand out to stop its progress. “If you change your mind, you only need to call.”
“I know,” I reply softly, then push until the door clicks.
Leaning against it, I wonder what the hell just happened. I’m not exclusive with Dominik. I’m not anything with him. He broke up with me. Told me if I took this job, we were over, so I owe him no level of loyalty.
So, why in the hell do I still feel very much like I’m his and he’s mine?
Why am I not even slightly interested in what Jean-Paul has to offer? Great sex and no emotional ties. It’s all I’ve ever really wanted.
But that’s not true, is it?
Damn it all to hell, I want Dominik in every sense of the word. I can’t help it.
And well, he’s just going to have to accept me the way I am. I’m going to talk to him when I return and make him see that I can continue to do this type of work while remaining perfectly safe. That, with time, he’ll realize it isn’t a big deal. I’m sure I can make him see reason.
Besides… I’ve got it going on in every sense of the word. The man would be stupid to let me permanently walk out of his life. I mean… I’m hot, fantastic in the sack, do that thing with my throat he loves, and I’m easygoing. I’m a fucking catch, and he knows it. He’s just going to have to accept I have a dangerous job. End of story.
My cell phone rings and for a moment, I just stare at it, unable to move. I’m lost in my fantasy of making Dominik accept me the way I am. The phone cuts off after five rings, meaning my voice mail picked up.
When it starts ringing again immediately, I have a flash of fear burst within me. An immediate call back like that means someone needs to get up with me badly, and voice mail isn’t acceptable. Of course, my brain immediately goes to the worst possible outcome—that something has happened to a family member.
I bolt across the room, roll over my bed, and snatch the phone off the nightstand, seeing that it’s Dax’s number.