3. Chapter 3 #2
“If all I wanted was to fuck you, baby girl,” I let my voice drop low. “I’d have already had you. But I told you last night—when you decide you actually want to fuck, you will beg me for it, not manipulate your way into it. Believe me . . . I know the fucking difference.”
She stops breathing for a second. I watch her thighs press together on the stool, and I know she’s wet. I can smell the arousal on her.
“I’m not trying to manipulate you.”
“You’re trying to use your pussy to gain control over me.” I lean in closer, bracing one hand on the counter beside her. “But here’s the thing, Reese. I’m not like the other men you’ve handled. Your usual tricks aren’t going to work on me.”
“You think you’re so different?” She doesn’t back away.
Instead, she leans forward, and suddenly her face is inches from mine.
“You’re just like every other man I’ve ever met.
You see something you want, and you convince yourself you’re entitled to it.
The only difference is you’re playing a longer game. ”
“You don’t know a damn thing about what I want.”
“I know you’re hard right now.” Her gaze drops deliberately to the front of my jeans, where my cock is straining against the denim. “I know you’ve been staring at my tits since I walked in. And I know that if I slid off this stool and got on my knees right now, you wouldn’t stop me.”
My hand moves before I can think about it. I grip her jaw, tilting her face up so she has to look at me.
“Test that theory and find out what happens.”
Her eyes go dark. Her lips part slightly. And then she does something I don’t expect.
She leans into my grip instead of pulling away.
I really don’t want her to test me. Because I’m losing confidence in my ability to resist her.
“Maybe I will,” she whispers.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. My hand is on her jaw.
Her face is tilted up toward mine. Her breathing is ragged, and I can see the flush spreading down her neck toward those perfect tits.
Her thighs are pressed together so tight I’d bet money she’s soaked right now, and she hates herself for it.
Good. She should feel as fucked up about this as I do.
I want to kiss her. And I never want to fucking kiss.
But every time I get close to her, kissing is one of the things that comes to mind.
I want to yank her off that stool and find out what sounds she makes when I push inside her with my lips against hers.
I want to bend her over this counter and make good on every threat I’ve made.
Instead, I let go and step back.
Her expression shifts—surprise, maybe disappointment—I don’t know which. Then she shakes off whatever it is.
“Eat your breakfast.” I don’t do a great job of sounding unaffected, which pisses me off. “Then we’ll talk.”
I turn away and walk to the other side of the kitchen, putting the island between us. I need the distance. I need to not be able to smell her, feel her heat, see the way her nipples are peaked against that flimsy fucking fabric.
What the fuck just happened?
She was supposed to be off balance, not me. I’m the one running this interrogation. I’m the one in control.
But she leaned into my grip like she wanted me to kiss her. Like she wanted me to lose control.
And I almost fucking did.
I’ve interrogated terrorists who held out longer than I just did against this woman in borrowed sweatpants. My brothers would never let me live this down.
I hear her pick up the fork again. I don’t turn around. I stare out the window at the trees surrounding the cabin and try to remember why I brought her here.
My family is going to bring down her father’s sick trafficking operation. My brother is going to get his revenge for what they tried to do to his wife. That’s why she’s here.
Not because I can’t stop thinking about the way she sucked her fingers in the dark. Not because I want to know what she tastes like. Not because I feel something uncomfortable twist in my gut every time I see the fear she’s trying so hard to hide.
“You still live with your father, right?” I ask without turning around.
A pause. “Why does that matter?”
“Humor me.”
“Yes.” Her voice is flat. “Is there a point to this?”
“Do you travel much? Do you ever leave Boston?”
“Not often. My father prefers to keep me close.”
There’s an edge to her tone when she says that.
“When’s the last time you went somewhere alone? Without his knowledge?”
Silence.
I turn around. She’s staring at her plate, fork frozen halfway to her mouth.
“Reese.”
“Never, I guess.” She sets the fork down. “He can track me on my phone.”
It’s one of the reasons I brought her out there. The signal was lost from the moment I picked her up. I have a jammer in my car so they won’t know where she went after Velum, and then without service, he won’t know where she is now.
She looks up at me, and there’s something defiant in her expression. “Is this the interrogation part? Because I liked the breakfast part better.”
“This is me trying to understand your situation.”
“My situation is that I’m trapped in a cabin with a man who wants to use me to destroy my father.” She stands up from the stool, and the movement makes her tits shift under that shirt in a way that’s extremely fucking distracting. “That’s my situation. Is there anything else you need to know?”
“Yeah.” I cross my arms to keep from reaching for her. “I need to know why you haven’t once asked about checking in with your father. Is there some reason for that?”
She goes still. And I know I’m onto something when I see the fork tremble in her hand.
“Why would there be?”
Her tone is anything but convincing.
“Bullshit. What is going on, Reese?” I push off from the counter and walk toward her. “What or who are you afraid of?”
“No one. I just didn’t feel like dealing with—”
“Don’t.” I stop in front of her, and soften my tone. “Don’t lie to me about this.”
We stare at each other. She’s breathing faster now, her chest rising and falling, and I’m acutely aware that I’m still half hard from the counter confrontation.
I should not be thinking about fucking her while I’m trying to interrogate her, but apparently my cock didn’t get that memo.
I can see the war happening behind her eyes.
There’s something she wants to say but she won’t allow herself.
“Even if I told you,” she says quietly, “you couldn’t do anything about it.”
“Try me.”
She shakes her head, but I catch the way her gaze drops to my mouth for just a second before she drags it back up. She’s thinking about kissing me. Even now, even in the middle of this, she’s thinking about it.
Fuck, this woman is going to destroy me.
“You don’t understand. My father—the people he’s connected to—you can’t just—”
“I can do whatever the fuck I want.” I step closer, crowding her space.
This close, I can smell that floral scent again, can see the rapid flutter of her pulse in her throat, can imagine exactly how easy it would be to pin her against the counter and taste her.
But I won’t. She knows what it’s going to take for me to do so.
“I’m Tate Sinclair. My family runs Talon enforcement.
I’ve killed men for less than whatever put that fear in your eyes.
So tell me who I need to add to my list.”
“Your list?”
“The list of people I’m going to destroy for hurting you.”
I know something has happened to her. I don’t know what or how bad yet, but someone is going to fucking pay for it.
She stares at me like I’ve grown a second head. “I never said anyone hurt me.”
“I know.” I hold her gaze. “I can see it all over you.”
Something cracks in her expression. Just for a second, just a flash of raw pain before she locks it back down.
“I need to—” She steps back, shaking her head. “I need some air. Where can I—”
She turns away from me, reaching up to push her hair back from her face.
The movement makes her tank top ride up.
And there, on her left side, are a series of bruises, one the size of a man’s fist.
Everything stops.
The bruise is yellowing at the edges and is at least a week old. But the center is still dark purple, still ugly, still unmistakably the result of someone hitting her hard enough to leave damage that’s lasted days.
“What the fuck is that?”
She spins around, yanking her shirt down so fast she nearly rips it.
“That’s nothing.” Her voice is too bright. And I know it’s definitely something. “I fell a few days ago. I’m clumsy sometimes. It looks worse than—”
“Who did that to you?”
The rage is bubbling so close to the surface that all I need is a fucking name and they are dead in the amount of time that it takes me to find them.
“I told you, I fell—”
“That’s not from fucking falling.” I’m surprised by how calm my voice sounds, because inside I’m not calm at all.
Inside, I’m already planning my weapon of choice to kill whoever did this.
“That’s from a fist. And I want to know whose.
I promise you that I will make sure they never fucking do it again. ”
She presses her lips together.
“Was it your father?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Whoever was in that car?”
Her face twitches. Just barely, just for a fraction of a second.
“It was him.” I feel my hands curling into fists. “The man in the car. He did this to you.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tries to move past me. “Just leave it alone.”
I step into her path. “Give me a name.”
“No.”
“Reese.” I’m close enough to touch her now, close enough to see the fine tremor running through her body.
Five minutes ago I wanted to bend her over the counter and fuck her until she screamed.
Now I want to wrap my hands around whoever did this and squeeze until I hear bones crack.
Both impulses are equally strong, and I don’t know what the fuck that says about me.