Submitting in Vegas (Vegas Morellis 3)

The funny thing is, I thought I wanted to. When Rafe was unattainable, when he was a fantasy, when I never thought he would look twice at me, I thought I would give anything to be standing here with him like this, his brown eyes alight with interest, the chance to be with him—even if only for a night—presented to me like a pot of gold at the end of a very long rainbow.

But when it was a fantasy, it was safe. Now it comes with complications and inevitable aftermath, and I don’t want to deal with any of that. I never want Rafe to look at me with distrust. I never want him to look at me and see a potential enemy.

That alone is a terrifying thing to admit, because I also don’t want to commit to throwing half my life away because I have an ill-fated crush on an accomplished criminal.

The weight of all these secrets and responsibilities weigh on me and I break his gaze, looking down at his bedroom floor.

Rafe immediately releases one arm so he can position his hand under my chin and tip my face back up to look at him. He lets me watch as his gaze lingers on my lips, and for a brief moment, I think he might do what he didn’t do the other night and kiss me.

He doesn’t, though.

Instead, his deep voice light because he trusts me, he tells me, “I don’t, but I do know a solution to that problem. You could tell me.”

Why yes, Rafe, I could tell you. I could tell you, the man who doesn’t trust women enough to even date one, that I, the woman who has spent four years loving you from afar, the woman who has had to watch you fuck your way through enough women to populate a small country… I could tell you how much power I actually have over you.

You’d love that, wouldn’t you, Rafe?

Instead of saying any of that, I catch his wrist and tug it away from my face. “Sociology.”

With a playfully knowing nod, he says, “Ah, so that’s why you’re still a waitress.”

I pull a playfully offended face and smack him in the stomach. “Don’t be a jerk.”

He catches my arm, using it to draw me close like I knew he would. “Can’t help it,” he tells me. “It’s in my blood.”

He’s so damned beautiful. I love it most when his guards are down and he’s playful.

This is Hell starts playing in my brain again.

Why yes, brain, this is Hell. But who knew the flames would feel so good licking at my skin?

I managed to get away from Rafe by telling him I needed to take a shower. Rafe’s master shower isn’t enclosed, like every other shower I’ve seen in my life. There’s no glass enclosure, no vinyl shower curtain to pull closed. It’s like standing out in the open, completely vulnerable, completely bare, a rain shower falling down on me from overhead. There’s another attachment on the wall with a hand

held sprayer, but I don’t touch that one. I’m not even entirely sure how to turn it on.

Even though I locked the door, I have spent my entire time under the luxurious spray jumping at every imagined sound, half-expecting Rafe to surprise me in the shower.

Caution turned to arousal when that concern solidified in my mind as a fantasy. Even though in reality no one joins me, in my mind I paint pictures of him barging in, of the way he would hold me, the way he would touch me, the way he would kiss me. I already know how he would look at me, and that alone is enough to turn my inside mushy.

I’m turned on and needy thinking about him, being here in his shower, and even though I know it’s a bad idea when I have to face him in just a few minutes, I can’t help letting my hand drift down between my legs, can’t help touching myself the way he wanted to touch me the other night, and with a hand braced against his shower wall and a moan of sweet release I hope to God he doesn’t hear, I get myself off in Rafe Morelli’s shower.

I’m weak and shaky not only from my orgasm, but from the adrenaline surge, the feeling of dangerousness, touching myself with Rafe so close. I lean back against the shower wall until I can catch my breath and get my bearings, then I finish washing up, turn off the shower, and go to grab a towel.

When I do, I notice the bathroom door is cracked open and my heart stalls.

Oh, my God, no. He couldn’t have heard me, right?

I didn’t leave the door open. I know I didn’t. I go back in my mind, rewind to the moment I most assuredly double checked, pulling on the door to make sure it wouldn’t drift open. Literally to avoid what is happening right now.

He wouldn’t violate my privacy that way, would he? He may be comfortable taking his clothes off in front of me, but I’m certainly not, and judging by how many times he has tried to get me out of them, he has to know that.

My heart pounds irregularly, my stomach rocks, and my lungs don’t work quite right. I get the same feeling of short circuiting that always hits me when Rafe starts touching me, and there’s too much to try to catch and organize, too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many sensations. I need them filed away in an orderly fashion, not hurled at me with the overwhelming violence of an avalanche. I can’t think straight. I turn around three times at the sink, but I can’t remember what I’m doing here.

I don’t want to accuse him, but now I’m feeling exposed in so many ways. I don’t even pull my clothes on, I just wrap the towel around my body and head for the door. I feel like I’m losing my mind, and I won’t be able to think clearly until I see on his face that the door opened on its own somehow, that he didn’t take it too far, that he respected my damned wishes, regardless of whether or not be believes I mean it.

I wrench the door open, even though I’m terrified of what I’ll find on the other side. Rafe sits on the edge of his bed with his back to me, but as soon as I throw the door open, he looks back at me over his shoulder.

I can’t tell. Maybe I don’t want to be able to tell. Maybe I’m just not giving myself enough time, because it’s only been a second, but it feels like an eternity. I was angry when I opened the door, but all the angry words die on my tongue when he stands, rounds the bed, and heads directly for me.