him. Of course, he doesn't let me budge, not a millimeter. Against his strength, I am helpless. His force of will, his confidence... How is it possible that he always seems to know what he wants? Unlike me. My entire life is a two steps forward, one back kind of scenario. "Let me go," I mumble.
"Not a chance," he growls. The edge of his voice shivers down my spine, sinks into my center.
"Wes," I plead, "you're making this very hard."
"I'll make it simple." He releases me, only to flip me around. "Look at me."
I stare at his chest, the smattering of hair that peppers the dent between his perfect abs. We'd walked in and I had headed for the view and lost my composure. Now, when I lean in and press my nose into his skin and inhale, notes of sweetness mixed in with his darker scent fills my senses. "You smell like us," I whisper, draw in another breath, then bend and lick him. "You taste like honey and chocolate bomb overlaid with cinnamon and cloves and a dash of vanilla." Yum!
A groan rumbles up his chest.
"Woman you've got to stop comparing me to desserts."
"Oh?" I glance up at him, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day instead?"
"Shakespeare?" He tilts his head.
I stare up at that perfect visage, that strong jaw, the mean upper lip that hints at the dominance inside that drew me to him...those thick eyebrows, the eyelashes that fringe his keen gaze. Everything about him is right, more than right. He is the complete package—he fits me; body, mind and soul, and damn it... This is all wrong. I can never have him, could never keep him. What do I have that could hold his attention? Why does he have to understand me so well? Tears knock against the back of my eyes.
"What's wrong?" He frowns.
"I don't belong here."
"You belong with me.
"I don't want you."
"You do."
"I can't do...this."
"What?"
"Whatever this is." I wave my hand in the air, "Playing house...or rather playing mansion—or whatever it is the other half calls it."
"Is that what you think this is?" He seems perplexed.
"Isn't it?"
"Maybe," he concedes. "Maybe not." He releases me, then steps back. He'd changed clothes, and now his tailored slacks mold his thighs and cling to that spectacular butt as he paces the floor in his Italian shoes—how many of them does he have in his closet, huh?
He drags his fingers through his hair, drawing my attention to how his biceps bulge against his button-down shirt. My mouth waters. Whoa down girl, haven't you feasted on his delectable body enough? And that's the problem. I'd prefer to lick his sculpted abs—and uh, other parts of him—over chocolate. Shit, I am so screwed.
"I am not sure what this is between us," he concedes.
"You're not?" I blink. The alphahole is always bloody sure of himself. He rolls his shoulders now, then cracks his neck, then pivots to face me, with his eyebrows knitted into a look I can only describe as confusion. This is a first.
"I'm not," he confirms my suspicion. "When I walked in and realized you were in danger, when he held that knife to your neck, something changed."
"It did?"
"I thought I'd failed you. If something had happened to you, I could have never forgiven myself."
"You're not my keeper," I mutter. "I've taken care of myself for so long."
"And look where that has gotten you." He scowls.
"What?" I blink, "Did you just say what I think you did?"
"Look," He holds up his hands, "I'm not saying you haven’t tried your best, but I could make things much easier for you with my money, my contacts."
I swallow and something hot stabs at my chest. My throat closes and my eyes burn. Why the hell had I thought anything had changed? Because he'd chased that goddam burglar from my apartment? No, hold on, I'd played a part in that too. Because he'd ensured that my friend would be safe in my apartment? That was because he wanted me close, where he could keep an eye on me, take care of me, control me. That's what this is about.
He wants me here so I can be his little fuck toy. He'd have his way with me... Oh, yeah, I'd enjoy every second of it too.. And then what? He'd throw me away? Well, he'd have paid me for my time...
And I don't want it. I'd rather live in debt for the rest of my life, than be obligated to him.
Not