Gathering my damp blonde hair, I knot the waist-length strands on top of my head and bounce my legs. I can’t help it. I’m a slave to the music, and within seconds, I’m dancing beside the rectangular pool.
The catchy lyrics spur me to sing along and wriggle my hips. By the time the chorus hits, I’m straight-up grooving, belting the words like the singer I’m not, and completely caught off guard when an arm snakes around my waist and spins me around.
Devious blue eyes illuminate my horizon right before strong lips swallow my gasp.
Trace grabs the backs of my thighs and lifts me up his body, kissing me so passionately the world tilts and infinity stands still.
I hook my legs around his hips and melt against him, matching the sinful strokes of his tongue. He tastes like warmth and love and feels like sex. His hunger vibrates beneath the crisp suit, and his fingers dig unapologetically against my backside. Impatient. Greedy. Carnal.
I brace my arms on his shoulders and twine my hands in his hair, holding on as he licks inside my mouth, chasing my tongue and groaning his pleasure.
With a tight grip around my waist, he loosens the knot on my head and caresses my hair down my back. It’s diabolical the way he gently separates the tangles, his fingers absently moving while his tongue annihilates my senses.
He’s divinely beautiful and devilishly tempting, like a warrior angel fallen from grace. But he’s always graceful, every action calculated, his movements precise and controlled and erotically appealing.
The song fades, silencing all sound but the heavy panting of our breaths.
He breaks the kiss and stares at me with a stern frown in his brows and an even deeper frown on his lips. It’s such a natural expression for him—severe, imposing, seemingly displeased. His scowl used to annoy me. But now that I understand the man behind it, I find it oh-so tasty and lickable.
“Hi, sexy.” I lower my tiptoes to the tiles.
He’s so much taller than me I have to tilt my head way back to smile at him.
“Hi, gorgeous.” His expression softens, and he trails a knuckle along my jaw. “Thank you for the text last night. I won’t say I slept well, but your message made it easier. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” I glide my hands down the crisp lapels of his suit jacket.
“Stay with me tonight.”
“Okay.” I rest my cheek against his chest and close my eyes as I breathe in the seductive scent of his aftershave. “Swim with me?”
He holds me for a peaceful moment before stepping back to prowl a circle around me.
“If I get in the water with you while you’re wearing this…” He pinches the crisscrossed straps on my waist. “This abstinence bullshit ends.” Stopping behind me, he trails his fingers from my thighs to my ribs, his arms slipping under mine to flick the strings beneath my breasts. “Take this off.”
Tendrils of heat curl through my body, hardening my nipples and prickling my flesh. Taking off the swimsuit is a no-go. I’m tempted to grab his tie and tip him—suit and all—straight into the water with me. But he’d have to remove his ruined clothes. Then he’d be all wet and naked and irresistible.
Damn my no sex rule.
I twirl out of his grip, take a running leap toward the pool, and cannonball into the deep end. The water temperature is perfect as it rushes over my head and saturates my skin.
Skimming along the bottom, I swim toward the shallow end and come up for air near the stairs.
Trace lowers onto the edge of a lounger a few feet away. In his shiny shoes, starched black slacks, and tie, he should look out of place. But it’s the other way around, like the lapping sound of water and chlorine-dense atmosphere shouldn’t be here. The clothes and the surroundings don’t make the man. He sets the ambiance and commands the space, no matter what he’s wearing or where he is, as if his aura defines the very air that touches him.
Perched on the end of the lounger, he bends his knees, supporting his elbows and the lean of his upper body. His bearing exudes lazy nonchalance, but the glare in his arctic blue eyes reminds me he’s not at ease, not tonight. There are too many uncertainties about us and the future.
I wade over to him and fold my arms on the decking. “What did you and Cole talk about?”
“I will not spend my time with you discussing Cole.”
“So you’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist?”
“For now…yes.”
“We need to talk, Trace. Sooner rather than later. Like tonight.”
He stares at me, motionless, expressionless, without a glint of capitulation on his beautiful face.
I release a frustrated breath. “I’d like to swim for a few minutes. What are you going to do?”
“Watch you.”
He’s already watching me. Intensely. Compulsively. I look away, chewing the inside of my cheek. Sweet Jesus, this man…this buttoned-up, rigidly-layered, wickedly good-looking man with a gooey center is so deeply under my skin I can’t swallow the thought of separating myself from him. The agony of pushing him away would be unbearable.
Shaking off those thoughts, I propel my body into motion and slice through the water. Back and forth, I dive and float, without direction or purpose. But each time I come up for air, my gaze falls unerringly to his.
Still as a statue, his posture is that of a powerful man, as if to say, I’m the biggest and meanest in all the land and you better pay attention.
What’s remarkable is that he’s a leader without being aggressive or loud. He captures my attention with sophisticated subtleness—the cool tone of his voice and the calm calculation in his body language, like the know-it-all mannerism he always slips into with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s comfortable in his position no matter where he is or who he’s with. Including sitting in a humid pool room wearing a heavy suit.
I finish my swim and use the stairs to exit the water, studying him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his gaze to stray. It doesn’t.
He’s told me time and time again he enjoys looking at me, but that isn’t the only reason he watches me. It’s his nature to be in charge of everything, to be aware of everything going on around him. And around me. If he had it his way, he’d control the air I breathe, the water on my skin, and the beat of my heart.
I love that about him, and I suppose it means I’m submissive. But I also like making him work for it. To keep things challenging and interesting.
When he gets his way—he usually does—I don’t mind. Because his intent is genuine. He doesn’t try to oppress or harm or degrade me. He wants to protect me from all of life’s dangers, like drowning in a pool, getting robbed in my unlocked house, and spending years mourning a dead man.
My chest clenches. I might whine about him being an overprotective controller, but he knows as well as I do his overbearing ways please me to no end.
As I dry off, he stands and follows me to his bedroom and into his closet. I drop the towel and reach for the straps on my shoulder, eying his hovering frame in the doorway.
“A little privacy?” I give him wide, innocent eyes.