She felt compelled to put distance between them, to exert some kind of control in a situation where she really didn’t have any.
“It is my business,” he said.
“No, Lazaro, it’s my business.” She started to walk toward her bedroom.
“You’re mine, Vanessa, that means I have a right to know how you spend your time.”
She turned sharply. “I do not belong to you. And I never will. A marriage license isn’t a deed of ownership.”
He slammed his palm on the top of the bar. “That is not what I meant.”
Anger fired through her. “It is, though, isn’t it? You want me to be this sparkly possession that you can show off. The proof of how far you’ve come. A chance to give the world the finger. Well, great. But you had to make sure that I had no other options open to get me to agree to marry you. I had no other choice. Don’t forget that.”
She walked straight ahead to the balcony, tears, hot and angry, blurring the lights of the city. She slammed the sliding door behind her and leaned against the railing, pressing her palms hard against her eyes, trying to stop herself from dissolving, trying to keep from making a total idiot of herself.
She couldn’t let him affect her like this. Because he was dangerously close to being right in some ways. It wasn’t that she truly believed he had any ownership of her, but power … she was letting him have all kinds of power over her emotions. And as long as she did, he would always be the one in control, because she didn’t have a hold over him. He might like her body, but that was sex, and with nothing other than lust behind it, it would be temporary.
And what would happen then? She would be left behind, the faux-political wife committed to standing at her husband’s side no matter what he’d done. No matter how broken she was inside.
And if she let him, he could destroy her.
She gritted her teeth. She didn’t know why it was Lazaro. Why was he the only one who brought this out in her? She only knew that he was.
She closed her eyes and pictured a day twelve years earlier, the hot summer sun warming her skin, a boy with a smile that seemed to be meant only for her.
It hadn’t been true then. Yet part of her still clung to the ridiculous fantasy. The part of her that had been waiting for him …
It was why she’d slept with him. She’d told him she didn’t know why, and that had been a lie. He was the only man she’d ever really wanted.
And part of her … part of her believed he had to feel the same way. She housed some serious delusion inside herself.
“I didn’t force you into bed last night. It had nothing to do with our agreement or blackmail or the future of Pickett.”
She turned around and saw Lazaro striding toward her, his expression cold with black fury.
“I didn’t get in your bed. That was your couch,” she said tightly.
“I didn’t force you to have sex with me.” he said. “You wanted it.”
She couldn’t deny it. She wished she could. Wished she were capable of lying on that level, to his face, without remorse. But she couldn’t. She’d told him last night that she wanted him. She had directed the evening activities once they’d left the club.
“You want me,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers, coal-black and intense, glittering in the dim light. “Say it.”
She swallowed hard and turned away from him, her eyes focused on the skyline.
She felt him approach, her body responding to his, her breasts getting heavy, the pulse between her thighs pounding hard. The empty ache threatening to swallow her. She wanted him, again, during a fight. She didn’t know herself. Didn’t know what it was he did to her.
Only that he sparked a fire in her that no one else ever had. And it wasn’t just about sex or lust or desire. It was so much more. He showed her how lacking her life was. Being with him, near him, seeing the steps he’d taken to change his life, made her so acutely aware of how little she’d done. Of how hollow all of her so-called achievements were. She’d had it all handed to her and she’d still messed up.
All her thoughts evaporated when Lazaro put his hand on the curve of her waist, swept her hair to one side, exposing her neck to the warm night breeze. “Tell me you want me,” he said, a raw note in his voice now, showing a crack in his iron control.
And she realized that he needed to hear it. That her words hadn’t glanced off his thick armor, but that they’d struck a blow. She’d imagined that he was invincible—a man with so much power, the freedom to do what he wanted. A man who lived without restriction.
But he wasn’t. She flashed back to that moment in the club and saw his anger for what it was. She had hurt him. She had rejected him.
He slid his hand up, cupped her breast, the thin barrier of her dress providing no protection from the sensual assault. He pinched her nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger and tugged.
Her head fell back, and he took advantage, kissing her neck as he continued to tease her body.
“You want me, Vanessa,” he said, not a question this time. “Me.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“And it’s not about money or what I can do for Pickett right now, is it?”
She shook her head, biting her lip to hold back the whimper of pleasure that was climbing her throat. She felt her dress give as he slid the zipper down, exposing her back. His hand drifted over the line of her spine, the light touch sending heavy waves of arousal through her.
She relaxed her shoulders and let her dress fall, the warm, heavy breeze kissing her bare skin, a completely foreign sensation. But no one would be able to see them. Even if someone might be able to, she wasn’t certain she could bring herself to care.
Lazaro moved his hands over her stomach, his touch firm, warm, so sexy it made her knees weak.
“No, it’s not about anything but …” She sucked in a sharp breath when he covered her breasts with one of his hands and pressed against her stomach with the other, drawing her more tightly against him, bringing his erection into firm contact with her bottom. “But how much I want you,” she choked out.
He kissed her neck, her shoulder, and a tremor wracked her body, longing making her weak. But there was a fire smoldering in her stomach, a need for more. For more than simple lust. She’d confessed to wanting him, apart from their marriage arrangement and everything else.
She needed him to do the same.
She wiggled out of his grasp and turned to face him, her back against the balcony railing, her breasts pressed tightly against his chest. “Tell me you want me too.”
He rocked against her, the hard length of him pressing into her stomach. “Doesn’t it feel like I want you?”
“Tell me you want me, right now. Me. Not my status. Not my connections.” She slid her hand down his chest, past his belt, pressing her
