It didn’t seem that erotic, but he looked at me like it took all his strength to stay in that chair.
He was the most dangerous man on this planet, but I somehow felt safe in his presence, even when I was wrapped in a thin towel. He had the physical authority to force me to do whatever he wanted, but he never tried. He always asked for permission, and when he was denied, he respected that decision. He was the reason I was there in the first place, but he also gave me more power than anyone ever had in my life. When he’d first come in here, I sobbed because I thought I was about to be raped. But I was given more respect than any other man had shown me.
If they could get away with it, most men would do the unthinkable. Without the law and the police, without retribution, they probably would regularly force women against their will. The boss had nothing to keep him accountable, no repercussions whatsoever, but he still didn’t do it. That actually implied a lot about his character.
I pulled the tray of food toward me. “Why won’t you do it?”
He repositioned his head slightly, but his gaze never flicked away. One hand remained on the empty glass, which he must have consumed while I was in the shower. “Rape and sex are two different things. Rape is about taking. Sex is about giving. I want to give you things, chérie.”
It was a question I shouldn’t have asked, but his answer put me further at ease.
“I want to make you feel beautiful. I want you to give yourself to me completely. I want to make you come. I can’t do those things if it’s not mutual. We can’t have the passion or the fire unless you want me too.”
“I’ll never want you.”
A subtle smile moved on to his lips. It only lasted for a few seconds before it disappeared.
I knew what that look meant.
He didn’t believe me.
When I entered my cabin the next evening, I made sure to take in the entire room.
My tray of food was there, filet mignon with a cream sauce and a side of pasta with veggies. There was also a thick piece of chocolate cake and madeleine cookies. A stack of books was on my nightstand.
He was there too.
Sitting in his armchair, his empty plate on the end table beside him. A bottle of scotch was next to him, along with a half-empty glass. The most striking thing about him was his bare chest.
His big, strong, muscular bare chest.
His pectoral muscles were each the size of a plate, the muscles defined and wide, cut into his flesh with a sharp knife. Now that he was shirtless, it was easy to see the way his strong body came together, the way his bulging arms connected to his powerful shoulders, the way those connected to this enormous chest that looked like the concrete wall of a parking garage. He was relaxed in a seated position, but his stomach was so naturally tight that it was flat as a board. The grooves of his eight-pack were just as deep, as if an artist had taken a knife and dragged it through his flesh, cutting into his body like it was the trunk of a tree. He was in sweatpants instead of jeans, low on his hips, showing those deep lines over his hips. He’d just eaten his dinner, and his stomach was still a flat surface.
I flinched at his appearance. I was used to seeing him decked out in black, used to discerning his strength through the tightness of his clothing. Now I could see his slightly tanned skin, a golden color to his complexion. His jawline didn’t have a shadow, and his hair was a little shorter like he’d gotten annoyed with the length and shaved it off.
His eyes were the same as always. Dark. Angry. Authoritative.
I moved to my bed, where my tray sat, feeling timid all over again.
His chin was propped on his closed knuckles. Veins like rivers flowed from the back of his hand, along the mountains and valley of his arms, over his shoulders, and then up his neck. Thick like a horse but cut like a marathon runner, he was the strongest man I’d ever laid eyes on. There had never been a man in my life who looked anything like him, even the best ones. He was a different cut of premium meat, composed