Chapter 15
GIANNI
"Nice place," she says. "Very serial killer chic."
"Thank you. I prefer zen."
The loft is designed to intimidate with twenty-foot ceilings, full length windows overlooking the Hudson, concrete and dark wood.
She takes a step, her footfall echoing in the vastness. "Sure, if you want to call it that.”
She turns to face me. Her hair is messy from the run, her glasses slightly crooked, her cheeks still flushed from the cold or the adrenaline or both. She looks disheveled and defiant and so goddamn sexy it takes everything I have not to cross the room and put my hands on her.
But I told her I'd earn her trust. So, I start with whiskey.
I pour two glasses from the bar of Macallan 18, a significant upgrade from the Evan Williams at her place, though I'd drink battery acid out of a chipped mug if she was the one handing it to me, and bring one to her. Our fingers brush on the glass and she doesn't pull away.
"You said you'd give me my own room," she says.
"I did."
"And a bathroom."
"It’s ensuite. Down the hall. Second door on the left."
She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "So why does it feel like that's not where I'm going to end up tonight?"
"Because you're observant."
"And you're predictable."
I almost smile. Almost. "I've been called a lot of things, Miss Wolfe. Predictable isn't one of them."
"But it might be a little fitting.”
I let out a snort of a laugh. “Make your case.”
“First, you spend four days pretending I don’t exist. And now you’ve got me at your apartment, standing ten feet away when it’s extremely obvious that you want to be closer.
I may not be the most experienced woman in the world, but I know hot-and-cold when I see it.
" She tilts her head, offering a wry smile. "Predictable."
She's right. And the fact that she can read me this accurately is exactly why I can't get her out of my head.
"I wasn't pretending you don't exist," I say.
"No? What would you call it?"
"Restraint."
"Restraint." She laughs, not entirely amused. "You spent four days being restrained while I stewed on the eight-floor wondering what the hell I did wrong, or if I just got used by my boss.”
"You didn't do anything wrong. And I certainly didn’t use you."
"Then why?"
"Because you have a son." I set my glass down. "Because the man following you tonight might have been FBI, or he might have been something worse, and either way, he was there because of me. Because of what I am. What I do."
The words settle between us. Her expression shifts, the attitude draining out of it, replaced by something quieter.
I can sense she has something on her mind. Her brow crinkles just a bit, as if she wants to add something. Then she purses her lips, pushes whatever it is aside.
"So you pulled away to protect me," she says.
"Yes."
"And now you've brought me to your apartment."
"Yes."
"Isn’t being close to you dangerous?"
I close the distance between us. One step, then another, until I’m standing close enough to see the rise and fall of her chest with each nervous breath.
“It is. But tonight close is safe.”
Her breath catches and the sound goes through me like an electric current.
"The book," I say. "Chapter sixteen."
Her eyes widen slightly. "You read chapter sixteen?"
"I've read everything you've given me."
"Chapter sixteen is—"
"The bondage scene." I watch the flush climb her neck, spread across her cheeks. "Your hero ties her wrists to the headboard with his tie. She's blindfolded. He takes his time."
"That's—" She swallows. "It’s fiction."
"Everything in your book started as fiction." I reach up and take her glasses off. I fold them and set them on the bar beside our drinks. Without them, her green eyes are wider, more vulnerable, stripped of that little acetate shield. "And it was fiction until we made it very, very real.”
"Gianni—"
"Tell me you haven't thought about it."
She's quiet for a beat. Two. Her chest rises and falls, and I track the movement.
"I've thought about it," she says finally, as if she’d just performed a brief, internal battle about whether or not to tell me the truth.
I take another step closer to her. "So. Tell me what you thought."
"You first." Her right hand goes to her left elbow. She rubs the skin there nervously.
I reach for the knot of my tie, loosen it, and pull it free from my collar in one slow motion, my eyes locked on her the entire time. The silk hisses against the fabric of my shirt, and her eyes track it. Her tongue moves over her lips and makes me instantly hard.
"I thought about your wrists," I say. "How they'd look above your head. How you'd struggle against the silk while savoring the restraint. How your back would arch when I finally touched you after making you wait."
"Make me wait for what?"
"For whatever I decide to give you. Which is also what you want, what you need.”
Her pupils are blown wide. Her breathing is shallow, and she's gripping her whiskey glass with such intensity I wonder if it might explode in her hand.
"You think you know what I need?” she asks on a whisper.
“You think I don’t?” I counter.
I take the glass from her hand and set it down. She doesn't resist.
"Tell me to stop," I say. "Any time. Any moment. One word and it's over."
She nods.
“Tell me you understand,” I push.
“I understand that I’m going to get what I need tonight.”
Something shifts inside of me at her words. She licks her lips again, and all I can think about is what her tongue would look like tracing slow circles around the head of my cock.
I kiss her. Not gently. Not the slow, controlled way I kissed her at Vellum or in her kitchen. I kiss her like I'm done with patience, done with restraint.