“Is that right?” He doesn’t push my hand away and instead rests his weight on an arm braced against the window above my head, his mouth inches from mine.
“Yep.” I tilt my chin up to meet his arctic eyes. “You don’t date or do relationships. You fuck. Then you send them home with a pat on the ass.”
He scowls in a way only he can make look indecent.
“You exude intimidation and upper-class superiority,” I say, “because you want everyone to think you’re aloof and untouchable. And maybe you are.” I push against the rigid wall of his chest. “But being aloof and untouchable is kind of like being an asshole, and that’s not a special trait. The world is overrun with assholes. You don’t have to be smart or wealthy or good-looking to join that club.”
His gaze narrows, cutting like blue lasers. “I know you, too, Danni Angelo.”
“Oh yeah?” I feather my fingers down the buttons of his shirt. “Do tell.”
His eyes follow the movement, one blond brow arrogantly arched. “The only thing you hate more than an asshole is a guy who isn’t an asshole.”
I flatten my spine against the window. “That’s not—”
“Sensitive guys bore you, and their flattery gets them nowhere. Assholes make your pulse race and your panties wet, especially when they tell you when, where, and how hard.”
Heat coalesces between my legs, and my molars crash together. Damn him.
“You’re the kind of dish that looks enticing, smells delicious, and tastes even better.” He gives me a chilly once-over bristling with judgment. “But after a few bites, it festers in the gut like a bad decision.”
An abrasive breath lodges in my throat, and my face tightens. “What’s the matter, Mr. Savoy? Too scared to sample something deep and stimulating for a change?”
He smirks, and I don’t like the satisfied glimmer in his eyes. I slip out of the confined space between him and window, seeking distance.
“You’re messy.” He glares at my hand where I twist the silver band on my right finger.
I drop my arms to my sides as outrage spikes through my blood. “I’m not—”
“I could fuck you right now, right here, and give you more pleasure than the son of a bitch who gave you that ring.” His arm snaps up, and his hand wraps around my throat.
How dare he insult Cole and manhandle me like this? I should rage at him, but as my heartbeat jumps against the fist shackling my neck, my entire body throbs erratically, excitedly, wantonly.
“Tease,” I choke out.
He uses his grip to force me backwards until the edge of his desk hits my legs. “Doesn’t matter how hard I make you come, you’ll go home and cry yourself to sleep over the man you’re still in love with.” He releases me and straightens. “You’re an emotional mess, and I don’t want any part of it.”
Anger flares, burning up my cheeks.
“I’m human.” I lurch toward him and shove at his chest. “A feeling, passionate, warm-blooded human, you callous prick.”
He allows me to push at him, his expression volcanic and breaths coming hot and fast, steeping the air between us.
If he doesn’t want any part of it, why did he demand I come here and take this job? His mixed signals are maddening.
“I don’t understand what you want.” I spin away and move to the desk where the contract waits. “I’ll do the job under the negotiated terms, but I’m not signing anything.”
I don’t hear him approach as the scorching proximity of his body envelops my back. He brushes my hair to the side, and his fingers glide with diabolical pressure over my nape, around my throat, stretching toward my breastbone and slipping beneath the neck of the shirt as his thumb strokes the base of my skull. Then his breath is there, a furnace of seduction tickling my ear and racing shivers across my skin.
“I want to watch your body move.” His mouth grazes my bare shoulder. “Five nights a week. In my casino.”
Watching you dance… It evokes feelings that are deeper, hotter, better than sex.
Is this a kink of his? Watching a woman undulate her hips without touching her? Except he is touching, his hand slipping from my neck, down my shoulder blade, and snaking around my ribs to clutch my waist. It feels so good to be in strong, masculine arms I arch back against him and sway my hips.
Instead of pulling away, he rocks with me—a slow, instinctual grind that vacillates to the rhythm of our breaths. It’s unexpected, drugging, and insane. But I sink into the groove, glorying in the feel of his powerful frame cradling my backside.
He runs the heel of his free hand across my collarbones, banding my chest with his forearm and hugging me against him. “I fucking love your body.”
“But not my messy personality?” My head falls back on his shoulder.
“Exactly.”
My stomach hardens. “What a cruel thing to say.”
“You don’t look offended.” He touches his lips to my neck and rolls his hips against me.
The steely length of his erection prods and rubs, leaving little to the imagination. Hard and thick, the man is hung.
But I’m stuck on his words. He’s interested in my body, in watching me move, but nothing else? He’s embracing me, roaming his hands over my curves while avoiding my breasts and everywhere below my waist. If another man touched me like this with his arousal pressing against me, I’d know his intent. But Trace has made it clear he doesn’t want me, at least not in a tumble-between-the-sheets way.
So why is he holding me? His desire is evident in the heave of his breaths and the swell of his cock. I want to demand an explanation. But I’m afraid he’ll push me away, and dammit, I’m not ready for cold isolation to slip back in. It’s been too long since I’ve been held by a powerful, sexy man.
Not only that, he knows how to move. We’re not actually dancing, but there’s freedom and natural rhythm in the sway of his hips, both of which are deadly temptations for my music-loving soul.
“Do you dance?” I ask.
“When the need arises.”
“Ballroom dancing at fancy parties?”
“Correct.” He nips at my neck.
“Dance with me. I want to see your moves.”
“No.” His teeth press against my skin.
I rest my hands on his hips behind me, following the narrow lines of his suit and relishing the contours and indentations of taut muscle beneath the fabric. “You only want to watch?”
“That’s right.” He drags his nose along my throat.
“After you watch me dance, then what?”
“Then nothing.” The hand beneath my breast shifts upward, dangerously close to cupping me.
“I feel your erection, Trace. What would you do if I grabbed it?”
“Try it and find out.”
His voice is raspy and thick, but I hear the threat sharpening the syllables. If I grope him, this little dance ends. I might be bold enough to wrap my hand around his cock, but the rejection would sting.