fine,” she says, stepping to the side like it will be that easy to get rid of me.“Should I curtsy or something?”
“Please don’t.” I can’t help grinning. She looks so defiant that my palm itches as I imagine putting her over my knee. I almost hope I can’t tame her. Almost.
“I wouldn’t want to offend you, Your Highness,” she tacks on the title like a jab, but it doesn’t strike.
I want this moment to last. It’s foreplay. I know she feels it as well: this tension building between us. There’s only one outlet for it. As eager as I am to claim her, I want to enjoy this. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes.” But she frowns as though surprised by her own answer.
“What is your poison, Miss Bishop?” I ask her slowly. I want to tell her she’s mine. That the only thing I want to taste in this room is her. I want her on my lips. On my tongue. No poison is sweeter than a beautiful woman.
“I just graduated university, so I’m not picky,” she says, her voice slightly strained.
“Used to the old plonk then?” I ask, flashing her a smile. “Sadly, Brimstone tends toward—”
“Real booze?” she says with a snort of laughter.
“Exactly.”
“Then I’ll take what you give me.”
I suck in a breath, wanting that to be true. I’ve imagined exactly what I would give her for days. I’ve pictured her on her knees with those wide eyes staring up at me, her mouth full of my cock. I’ve wondered what shade of red that pretty skin will turn under my palm. I have so much to give her, but I’ll start with a drink.
Clara peers down at the club, riveted to the scene. Brimstone has that effect on people. The club, decorated to look like the pit of hell, is hot enough to be the real thing. The owner is an old friend if a man like him can be called that. He doesn’t seem to mind me making use of the upper room. Another night I might have found a girl downstairs and invited her up. No one here holds a candle to Clara.
“Can they see us?” she asks as I hand her a Scotch.
I shake my head. “It’s like those mirrors on police procedurals. To them, it reflects back the club.”
She takes a long sip, and my attention focuses on her lips. I watch her throat glide as she swallows. Her long neck is elegant, and she carries herself with artless ease. Clara Bishop is the definition of a good girl. I can already see that. It makes me want to play with her. I want to free her from herself and see what she’s like when she’d come undone.
“You must come here often,” she says.
“I’ve been told to go to hell a number of times,” I say tightly. “I decided to take the advice.”
“Ahhh,” she says, a nervous giggle slipping from her. “Brimstone.”
“My natural habitat.”
“I doubt that.” Her words soothe me, and her hands begin to reach as though she wants to touch me. The desire in the movement is different from the energy crackling between us. I don’t have a name for it. It’s nothing I’ve felt before, but it radiates off her like sunlight on a warm day.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, moving next to her and brushing my shoulder against hers. Her response is what I hope. Her lips part, her nipples harden under her shirt until they poke against the thin cotton shirt. She’s as attuned to my body as I am to hers.
“No harm done,” she says, adding, “Your Highness.”
I can’t help laughing at her stubborn adherence to decorum. We’re past the point of her acting like I’m above her. Although I’m increasingly interested in having her under me. “Alexander, please. Norris informed me that no less than two dozen members of the press are camped in front of your flat.”
“Alexander,” she says, my name tripping over her tongue like it’s new vocabulary. “Once they see how boring my life is, they’ll go away.”
“They’ll make your life hell until then.” I need to remember that I’m no good for her. This interest I feel shouldn’t go farther than this room, not while we have the media’s attention. I know all too well how relentless they could be when pursuing a story. I won’t do that to her.
“Is that why you went to Iraq?” Her eyes flash like the question escaped without her permission.
I want to