“You really should stop.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t want to.” His attention turned to the back of my knee, his clever fingers stroking a spot so delicious the sensation pooled between my thighs and I actually moaned. “I’ve had you,” he said. “But I haven’t yet savored you.” I looked at his face, and the pure, open desire I saw there was as deep and vivid as my own.
“Please,” I whispered. I meant to say please stop. At least I think I did. But it didn’t come out that way.
His hand cupped the back of my leg and stroked down my calf slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly.
“Please,” I said, trying again. “People will stare.”
“People might. I don’t believe you care much. I know I don’t.”
I closed my eyes. He was right.
Finally, his fingertip brushed lightly over my ankle, then skipped over the leather of my sandal before finding the arch of my foot and gently tracing the edge. On any other day, I might have cringed from being tickled. But right then I wasn’t remotely ticklish. I was too damn turned on.
“No,” he murmured, as he carefully returned my foot to the floor. “I don’t have a foot fetish. But if I was going to develop one, I would surely start with yours.”
“So you have no interesting proclivities?” I teased, trying to sound bold so that he wouldn’t see how well he’d twisted me up. And, yes, trying to get a sense of what he intended for me once we reached his room. “No fetishes of your own?”
“I didn’t say that.” He stood, then held out a hand to help me up.
“If not feet, then what?” I asked, appreciating the firm way his fingers closed around mine.
His gaze skimmed slowly over me, the inspection both unnerving and very, very erotic. “You’ll know soon enough.”
My stomach fluttered as he led me toward the elevator.
The doors snicked open, and Tyler released my hand, only to replace it at the small of my back as he directed me into the well-appointed car. More like a little room, actually. A floor to ceiling mirror dominated the back wall, flanked on either side by wall-mounted light fixtures. At the base of the mirror, and directly in front of us, was a charming little couch.
“A fainting couch,” Tyler said as I met his eyes in the mirror, my own brows raised. “A throwback from the days of corsets and minimal air-conditioning, I assume. But it certainly raises some interesting possibilities in our modern world.”
“There aren’t that many floors in this hotel,” I countered, looking over my shoulder at the man rather than his image. “We don’t have time for that many possibilities.”
“A valid point.” He stepped around me and moved to sit. “But it’s a sad fact of our society that we don’t ever seem to enjoy the time that we do have.” He held out his hand, palm up. “As I mentioned, I believe in never squandering time.”
I looked at his outstretched hand, and my mouth went dry, my knees suddenly weak. His lips curved up in the kind of smile that promised long kisses and slow hands, and I think I melted just a little bit right then. My only saving grace was my reflection in the mirror. At least I didn’t look as unbalanced as I felt.
Why was I so twisted up? He’d already touched me intimately—already made me come. I’d already fucked him, taking charge of the moment. Riding him, watching pure passion on his face.
So what about now was keeping me so unbalanced?
But it was a foolish question, because I knew the answer. I’d surrendered to this man despite having no idea what was coming, what he wanted. How far he would go.
This was no longer about Amy. No longer about getting inside Destiny or about Kevin’s accusations.
Right now, this was about nothing but me.
And that simple fact excited me as much as it scared me.
I still hadn’t taken his hand, and now he crooked a finger. “Come here, Sloane,” he said, and there was nothing left of the light banter or even the sharp tones of the man who refused to be played. This voice was sensual, commanding. It was a voice designed to make a woman wet, and to ensure that she obeyed.
I did.
One step, then another until I was standing in front of him. I looked down at him, not wanting to catch my own eyes in the mirror. Not wanting to see the anticipation and desire that I knew colored my face.
I felt like a rookie, unsure of what would happen next. And I was acting like a teenager, craving that first brush of his lips over mine.
Slowly—achingly slowly—his eyes roamed over me. He said nothing, but I could almost hear the low thrum of his approval vibrating in the air. He stood, the motion filled with both grace and power. And then, with unfailing gentleness, he reached out and brushed the edge of his thumb over my cheek. “I wonder,” he murmured, then trailed off into silence.