A muscle flexes in his jaw. The only response he gives.
“Okay, I’ll take a stab at the answer.” I slide my fingers beneath his silver necktie, caressing the fine silk. “You watched me dance at Bissara. You liked what you saw. Maybe you assume a woman who gyrates her hips like that is an easy lay. Or maybe it doesn’t matter, because the powerful Trace Savoy always gets what he wants.” I give the tie a yank that doesn’t move him. “You came here for me, and it has nothing to do with that contract.”
He grips the silk above my fingers and tugs it. Tug, tug, tug, until the end slips from my hand. “I find your forwardness off-putting.”
My neck goes taut. “I could say the same thing about your fuck-me eyes.”
“Fuck-me eyes.” His deep unflappable voice swirls around me in a smoky mist. “Curious conversation for someone wearing an engagement ring.”
I press my thumb against the silver band and picture the woman I used to be. Free-spirited, happy, and forward as hell. She’s been curled up in the fetal position for too damn long.
“I’m not engaged anymore.” I avert my gaze.
“Then he’s as idiotic as the one you were with tonight.”
The need to defend Cole sizzles in my stomach like a hot ember. “Maybe I’m a total raging bitch and drove him away.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” He brushes an errant strand of hair behind my ear, making my breath catch. “You, my tiny dancer, are an erotic dream dipped in the sweetest honey. A man only needs to look at you to become fiercely protective of your smile.” His finger traces the ridge of my bottom lip. “Of every limber curve.” He feathers a path over the heaving swell of my chest. “Every delicious tremble.”
He lifts from the couch to bow over me, forcing me backwards with his massive frame. My spine presses against the coffee table, and I squeeze my legs together between the straddling V of his. No part of him touches me, but he doesn’t have to. His bedroom eyes are enough to crank my pulse and plunge my senses into delirious disorientation.
“I’ve watched you dance.” He bends closer, arms braced on either side of my head with the silk tie dangling like a teasing caress across my exposed midriff. “I’ve memorized every shimmy and thrust of your hips, the sensual movements of your arms, the flirtatious tosses of your head, and the limitless flexibility of your spine. You’re a flesh and muscle articulation of sex. Each vibrating hip drop, quiver in your thighs, and bounce of your tiny tits plants filthy thoughts in a man’s head. His mouth waters, so he orders more to drink. His slacks become too tight, so he remains at the table, hiding the swollen evidence of his intentions. And he’s hungry, so very hungry he stays and he watches and he eats.”
My insides thrum with the velvety cadence of his timbre, every word stirring, seducing, working me into mindless anticipation. The scent of his skin floods my lungs, smothering me in a wicked haze of spicy aftershave and masculinity.
I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. I’m so fucking wet my pajama pants stick to my thighs. The ache between my legs is unbearable, and my voice is a goner beneath the rapid gasps of my breaths. I want this man. Tonight. Right now.
Have I lost my damn mind? Try as I may, I can’t rationalize my reaction to him. Only a few hours ago, I wasn’t prepared to take this daunting leap with anyone. Now I’m arching my back and panting like a hussy? “What are we doing, Trace?”
I hold my breath as he teases his nose down my neck, along my collarbone, and across the top of the camisole where cotton meets quivering skin.
He studies me with so much concentration it feels like he can see through my clothes, my flesh, to examine my deepest wildest desires. “We’re finalizing the interview.”
Interview? My stomach hardens, and I push at his chest. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t budge against my hand, his voice void of emotion. “You’re an acquisition. One that will earn me a lot of money.” His head cants at a slight angle. “Don’t look so surprised. Were you not listening to anything I said?”
He orders more to drink…he remains at the table…he watches and eats.
Realization dumps cold water on my arousal. Trace wasn’t referring to himself. He was talking about the patrons in the restaurant.
He sits back on the couch, nonchalantly adjusting the suit jacket around his narrow hips as if his cock isn’t straining the shiny fabric of his slacks.
“If you’re here strictly on business…” I lurch off the coffee table and stand on the opposite side. “Explain that.” I point at his erection.
“Making money gets my dick hard.”
Where did this heartless douche in a tin can come from? I feel like a damn fool. How did I melt beneath his manipulations so easily? Am I really that naive? And why does he think I’ll make him money? I’m a nobody. My belly dance routine earns good tips, but it’s just ambiance, much like a mariachi band in a Mexican restaurant.
“I’m confused.” I pace through the sitting room. “Patrons might enjoy my dance routine, but they come for the food.”
He eyes me impassively. “Have you ever gone to Bissara on the nights you’re not dancing?”
No. I glare at him.
“It’s a ghost town.” He stretches an arm along the back of the couch. “The overcrowded dining room you’re used to seeing? That only happens on the nights you dance. You know why?”
Given the incisive look in his eyes and the cruelty in his scowl, I can guess.
“Sex sells.” His gaze migrates from my face to my thighs and back again. “And you’re dripping with it.”
Humiliation sets my cheeks on fire, and I’m acutely aware of the cold wet crotch of my pajama pants. All his talk about my smiles and curves was just his sick way of making a point. My body serves a purpose, his purpose, and it has nothing to do with romantic interest. I really am a fool.
“Why not just open your own restaurant and offer me a job?” I chew on the corner of my thumb nail. “You didn’t have to buy Bissara.”
He stares without a crease or tic in his rock-hard expression, and the answer becomes clear.
“You want to own the only Moroccan restaurant in town.” Bitterness clips my voice. “To eliminate competition? Or to force me work for you?”
“Both. But I’m not forcing you. I’m just making the decision easy for you.”
“Oh, it’s easy all right. Easy to tell you to go fuck yourself.” I stand taller and stab a finger toward the door. “I want you to leave.”
“You’re overreacting.” He releases a patronizing breath. “This is just business. I’m offering a salary that’s more than fair, so lose the attitude and take the job.”
Heaviness seeps into my limbs and tightens my stomach. I’m attracted to him, and he sees me as nothing but a financial deal. I’m mortified for trembling and gasping beneath his touch, but I need to get over it and either kick him out or consider his job offer.