22. Scarlett
TWENTY-TWO
SCARLETT
He opens the large metal warehouse door, and waits for me to take a step inside the dark, cavernous space.
Cool air immediately hits my exposed skin, and a chill settles in, but it's not just on the surface, it's bone-deep.
What the hell have I gotten myself into?
I don't even know this man. It's on the tip of my tongue to demand that he return me to the restaurant, or anywhere else but here, for that matter, but I also don't want to be in another confined space with him.
The drive over was intense. We were both lost in our thoughts, and a thick silence filled the enclosed space.
He brushes past me, his body pressing against my back, and causing a shiver to slide down my spine with his proximity, as he reaches for something on the nearest wall, and suddenly the darkened space is flooded with light.
My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline at the large warehouse space that's been converted into a masculine, minimally decorated loft space before me.
Aged, rustic, red brick covers most of the walls, which are devoid of any artwork.
The ceiling is a patchwork of dark, metal beams and concrete, and in contrast, the floors are a rich, dark, amber-scraped wood that looks original to the space.
He has only a few pieces of furniture I can see.
A large, cognac leather sofa sits in the middle of the space on a charcoal rug that looks like it would be soft to the touch, and a reclaimed-wood coffee table, that must once have been a massive electric wire spool, is placed in front of it, with neatly stacked books and a laptop on its surface.
To the side, there's a small kitchen with an island and dark wood stools, all done in matte black and chrome, with Edison-style light bulbs hanging above it.
In fact, they seem to be spaced out, hanging from the ceiling throughout the loft.
The space should feel sparse and empty, yet it doesn't. Instead, it's elegant.
I take a few steps farther into the area, my heels clicking loudly on the floor, noting the large windows covered with thick, chocolate velvet panels that hang from the ceiling to the floor.
There's a chrome and glass bar cart to the side with an assortment of bottles, and my nerves are begging for a drink to steady myself, and keep from running for the hills.
Two dark, metal doors grab my attention, both of them closed.
Xavier must notice the direction of my gaze, because he clears his throat, the sound startling me and making me jump.
"Bathroom and the only bedroom. This building was once a fabric cutting warehouse. "
He moves past me, dragging his hand through his pale hair and ruffling it, and heads for the bar cart. "Drink, Scarlett? You look like you need one."
I want to dispute his words, but what would be the point?
I am fucking filled with anxiety right now, and I'm questioning my actions and sanity.
Common sense is telling me to leave, that no information Xavier has is worth degrading myself for.
The other part of me, the one that dreams of dark things, and fantasizes about men in masks, primal chases, and enjoys pain with her pleasure, is fully on board and refuses to move an inch.
The FBI agent in me starts to look for clues, and warning signs. Anything that can lead me to understand who Xavier Poine is and what his motivations are. Well, I guess his motivations, other than to get me under him.
I observe carefully as he pours a generous helping of a clear liquid into two glasses.
The thought that he might try to slip me something blares in my already overstimulated mind, but he never turns his back on me or obstructs my view.
He returns to my side, offering me the glass, and when I hesitate to take it from him, he smiles and quirks an eyebrow, taking a sip from the glass he's offering me, before doing the same to his own.
"I have no need to drug you, Scarlett, you came here willingly, and you're free to leave any time you want. "
"Without the information you mean, Xavier. You won't willingly part with anything until you've received your part of the bargain." He doesn't dismiss my accusation, instead, he gives me a patient look, as one does when humoring someone.
I feel a flush of heat rise to my cheeks, and neck, at the thought of being so transparent. His slender fingers reach out, his forefinger brushing gently down my cheek before tapping below the glass now clenched tightly in my grip. "Drink, Scarlett."
He watches me take a hesitant sip, the liquid burning a path down my throat, with its warmth and smoothness. "Good girl," he smirks, and my core instantly clenches at his praise as I choke on my own saliva.
I take another large gulp, needing the liquid courage and meeting his heated glance. "Why me? You could have any woman you want, and we barely know each other."
"Why not you, Scarlett? You're beautiful, sexy, tenacious, and highly intelligent.
If my suspicions are correct, and I believe they are, you have more than a touch of darkness within you, and crave danger, passion, and violence.
All the things that appeal to me." He leans forward, the side of his face brushing against mine, as his lips graze against the side of my head, and his warm breath tickles my ear.
"Tell me I'm wrong and this isn't doing anything for you, Spitfire.
Tell me your thighs aren't clenching and your panties aren't wet. "
Spitfire? Heat rises up my limbs at the unusual endearment.
I'm not sure whether I like it, or if it just pleases me that he has one for me, and that makes me even more pathetic.
His hand reaches out, caressing my neck, before his fingers wrap around the slim column and tighten, and a whimper flees my lips.
My own body is betraying me right now with the way I sway into his touch.
My other hand grasps the front of his shirt, my nails digging into his flesh through the material, and a groan fills the air between us.
"More," I croak, urging him to tighten his fingers.
Instead of complying with my request, he releases me and takes the tumbler from me, leaving me gasping as I siphon in air.
He moves away from me, placing both glasses on his island before turning and leaning against it, as if he has all the time in the world.
"Last chance to leave, Scarlett. After this, you're fully mine.
" His words are not a statement, but a claiming, as if he knows exactly how this will play out, and is confident I won't deny him.
I give him nothing but a pointed stare, and he nods his head in acceptance.
His almost-white hair falls in front of his eye, giving him a softer appearance that I instantly know is deceptive.
There's nothing soft about Xavier Poine, he's a determined fucker who won't relent until he gets what and whom he wants, and right now that's me, and my submission to whatever game he wants to play.
"Remove your dress, slowly. Let it fall to the floor and step away from it. "
I stall for a moment, but at the amused quirk of his lips, I reach for the side zipper without further hesitation, my skin both breaking out in goosebumps and feverish with just his intense gaze.
I push the dress off my shoulders and let it slide down my body, hugging all my curves in the process, until it pools around my feet like a puddle of red blood.
His eyes follow the material, moving upward across my skin, taking in my black sheer-and-lace panties, and matching bra.
His chest rises and falls more quickly now, as he continues to stare at me with hunger, and my nipples pucker into tight points against the delicate material with his heated expression.
"Remove the rest, but leave on the shoes," he murmurs darkly, his voice gravelly but stern.
My trembling fingers move behind my back, releasing the clasp on my bra, before it slides down my arms and meets my dress on the floor.
I allow my fingers to trail down my skin, cupping my breasts, which causes his breath to hitch, before sliding down my abdomen to the sides of my panties on my hips.
He bites down on his bottom lip, his hands clenched in front of him as if he's forcing himself not to reach for me, and instead enjoying the strip show I'm putting on for him.
I push the black sheer fabric down, allowing it to slide past my ass before shimming seductively until they're past my knees, and meet my other clothing items. All the while, I never allow my gaze to move from him, cataloging his reactions to my every movement, and allowing them to embolden me.
"And now?" I question with a raised eyebrow as I step away from the puddle of fabric.
"Jesus, Spitfire, you're stunning." His words make me want to preen like a damn peacock, and I'll never admit it out loud, but his term of endearment amuses me.
He forces a ragged breath past his lips and steps toward me.
One hand reaches out, as he trails a finger along my collarbone, before circling me and allowing his touch to slide down my spine until it stops right where my asscheeks meet my back, before he cups one tightly in his grasp and squeezes.
My head tilts back to meet his glance as I force myself to stay still, my own breathing ratcheting up until my chest rises and falls as if I were running, instead of standing here, allowing him to explore my body.