Buttons & Hate (Buttons 2)

“Because you haven’t.”

She turned back to me, her eyes pretty. Her lashes were long and extended, and her lipstick was ruby red.

I pictured the color smeared around the base of my cock.

Her hand moved to the gearshift where mind rested, and I immediately grew suspicious of her actions. Was she trying to take over the car? She was a fighter so it wouldn’t surprise me. Instead, she placed her hand on mine.

I eyed it, unsure what she was doing.

She looked out the window again, her hand finding comfort on top of mine.

Normally, I would pull away. I wasn’t an affectionate man. Unless things led to sex, I wasn’t interested. But she told me what she wanted and paid for it. If she could be whipped and spanked, then I could do this.

I could give this to her.

I turned my hand and interlocked our fingers together, holding her like a lover.

She eyed our joined hands but didn’t react. A minute passed before she looked out the window again, her hand still tucked into mine. Soon, her thumb brushed across my knuckles, feeling the hard and calloused skin.

The touch soothed me. But that realization made my body tense in irritation. Affection was hard for me to give and even harder for me to receive. It burned in my blood and turned me into a hateful person.

But I could do it.

I’d done unspeakable things to her and she played her part. If this what she wanted, if this was her fantasy, I could do it. She needed to be my slave for as long as possible.

And holding her hand would make that happen.

***

She sat across from me at the dinner table and stared at the menu. Her eyes scanned back and forth before she pulled out a folded piece of paper from her clutch. She glanced through it before she turned back to the menu.

I eyed her in interest. “Button, what are you doing?”

“Deciphering the menu. The whole thing is in Italian.”

I gestured for her to put it down.

“No,” she said quickly. “I want to figure it out on my own.” She waved me off and kept using her notes to figure out what she wanted to order. “I really don’t want to end up ordering snails.”

The corner of my lip upturned in a smile. “That’s French, not Italian.”

“Oh...I still don’t want anything like that.” She ran her fingers through her hair absentmindedly, and she had no idea how sexy she looked as she did it. Diamonds flashed in her ears, sparkling by candlelight.

She was the most gorgeous woman in the room, no competition. In fact, she was the most beautiful woman in every room I walked into. When I first laid eyes on her, I didn’t find her impressive. I’d been with a long line of beautiful and exotic women. But I felt differently now. I noticed the small freckles on her cheeks when she didn’t wear makeup. I noticed the way one side of her mouth would lift slightly higher than the opposite side when she smiled. I noticed how long and lean her perfect legs were. Every scar attested to her strength, making her invincible. And even when she cried with blotchy cheeks and red eyes...she looked stunning.

I’d never been more obsessed in my life.

Her spirit attracted me like a moth to a flame. Even when she fell into a depression, she was still stronger than I’d ever been. She looked fear in the eye without blinking. She stood up for herself because she understood no one else would. She made a life for herself, starting with nothing and becoming an independent and powerful woman.

She deserved my respect.

And she had it.

“Okay, I think I know what I want.” She folded up the paper and returned it to her clutch.

I didn’t realize how far my mind had drifted. I sat there for five minutes and pointed out every quality she possessed. My internal thoughts were raging when I normally didn’t think about anything at all. “And what did you decide on?”

“The lasagna.”

My chest rumbled with a quiet chuckle. “It won’t be anything like that American shit you’re used to.”

“Now I can compare.”

“How about wine?” I handed the drink menu across the table.

She brushed it away. “I’m not ashamed to admit I know nothing about wine. You’re the expert.”

I set it on top of the menu. “What do you like? Red or white?”

Her fingers moved to her hair again, pulling a strand free of her ear. “I’m not sure. What we have at the estate is good. Like I said, you’re the expert here.” She never yielded the floor to me. And she never let me make decisions on her behalf.

I’d tamed her, in a way. “Then leave it to me.”

The waitress approached our table and flashed her mocha eyes in my direction. She probably recognized me from the vineyard. I wasn’t a celebrity by any means, but Tuscans knew their wine—and where it came from.