Chapter Twenty-Five
Phoenix
The waiter brought her modified order.
Then she picked up her fork and sucked in a sharp breath as her expression morphed to guilt for a split second.
I knew what she was smelling.
My cologne. The thieving little minx.
A flush hit her cheeks, and she focused on her salmon. “This smells good. How’s the steak?”
It was perfectly cooked. But after her admission about meat, I was making a calculated move not to eat it. “How was the crossing on the MSC containership from Tenerife?”
Ignoring my question, she volleyed one of her own. “Do you know what I find most interesting about you?”
Yes. My dominance.
Seemingly unconcerned by my lack of reply, she took a bite of her fish.
Then she fucking transformed.
Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, and she savored the bite with a low moan like it was the best damn thing she’d ever had in her mouth.
My cock graduated from aroused to hard as I watched her throat move with a swallow.
“Mm, this is so good.”
Envisioning my fist in her hair, I entertained the thought of jerking her head back and feeding her something entirely different.
Her eyes opened.
I grabbed my drink.
Her head downcast, her focus on her plate, she speared a second bite. “Would you like to try it?” My little intruse looked up.
Meeting my stare with a gaze so damn innocent, it was almost convincing, I reminded myself who this woman was.
Trespasser. Thief. Provocateur.
My tone one hundred percent operator, not sexual dominant, I answered. “No, Isla, I do not.”
Horripilation crawled across her arms, and she stared at me as she took another bite, almost holding her own.
Then she swallowed, and I was gifted with the evidence of her lies.
The throat shift. The bite going down hard. Her face flushed.
I verbally fucked her. “Still good?”
Every emotion I would’ve gotten off on if I had her under me passed across her face. Anger, desire, need, shame. It was the last one I wanted to capitalize on.
Fuck, did I want to exploit this woman.
Still pissed about her trespassing on my estate, then leaving my ship after I’d secured her in a cabin.
More pissed that for the past month, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about how her mouth had tasted, how her cunt had pulsed, how her body had bent toward mine when I’d had her on the Paragon.
Same as I did then, I wanted to work this woman over.
Attitude decimated, her submission in the palm of my hand, her agency lying at my feet.
Then I wanted to push her to the point of begging—serious fucking begging—that took her to the edge of madness, where I’d deny her orgasm over and over. My cock was fully erect just thinking about all the ways I wanted to debase her.
But when I saw the determination cross her features as if she were drawing a battle line in the game of banter she thought she was playing, I got even harder.
Her small smile meant to incite, she landed her first hit. “It’s better than swordfish.”
Knowing the exact incident she was referring to, I didn’t miss a beat.
“You’ve never had swordfish the way I prepare it.
” Because one month ago, on my yacht, she’d refused to eat it.
I’d made the woman food. I’d ordered her to sit.
Then I’d held a fork to that smart mouth of hers. She’d told me off.
“I prefer to avoid meals cooked by thieves.”
I’d stolen one thing from her. She’d taken more. “Must be difficult.” Lifting the tumbler of Eagle Rare almost to my mouth, I waited a beat until her gaze dropped to my mouth. “Not eating anything you prepare, ma petite intruse.” I took a swallow of the bourbon, then set the glass down.
“Cute.” Her gaze dropped from my mouth to her food. “And like I already said, predictable.”
As far as she was concerned, there was nothing predictable about me. Like the fact that she wasn’t going to walk out of this hotel tonight. She was also going to lose whatever game she was playing.
The first time I’d kidnapped her, it was for her own safety. But the second time? This was going to be for my own depravity.
Before I could give her one last chance to leverage leniency and ask again why the hell she was here, my cell rang with an incoming call.
Not my work phone. Not a burner.
My personal cell.
The phone that, before an hour ago, hadn’t rung with an incoming call in over a decade.
Glancing at the little trespasser, I stood. “Excuse me.”
Skeptical, she raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”
I was already Oscar Mike.