wise,” he replied dryly, not commenting on the fact that she was snippy. “Maybe you should continue to refrain so you can drive to the hotel later.”
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” She should say no. She knew she should say no. She shouldn’t want to be with someone who’d pulled what he had with Aaron, should she? Someone so controlling?
But isn’t that exactly what you want?
“Why don’t I tell you what I have planned?” His voice deepened, sending a shiver through her. “Then you can decide.”
She was silent for so long that he cleared his throat.
“There’s a bar a few doors down from my hotel. I’ll be there at seven sharp.” He paused, and she heard the sexy rasp of his breath in her ear. “You’ll come sit beside me. You won’t know me, and I won’t know you until you introduce yourself. You can be Meg, or you can be someone else entirely if that makes it easier for you to accept what you want from me.”
“And what if I decide I don’t want to be myself?” Meg swallowed thickly, envisioning the scene.
“No matter who you are, I’ll want you.”
John was propped against the scarred wooden surface of the bar in the dive he’d directed Meg to earlier when she walked in. His fingers clenched around his glass of neat whiskey, anticipation tightening his gut.
He wasn’t used to having to woo a woman. Wasn’t used to apologizing. Hell, he’d never cared enough about anyone to have a jealous fit to apologize for.
But the way she responded to him was like a drug. She wasn’t one of many women who’d read Fifty Shades and wanted to play at kink—she wanted, on a visceral level, to submit.
He pressed his lips together as he watched her scan the bar, her gaze coming to rest on him. Emotions flickered over her face for just a fraction of a second before she’d hidden them away again, and his spirits sank.
She wanted what he could do to her, but she wasn’t overly pleased to want him.
And why did he care? This was just a fling, an affair, right? They were scratching their mutual itch.
Except that he actually liked her. More than liked her. And he wanted to ruin her for everyone and anyone who dared to touch her after he was gone.
As he’d instructed, she made her way across the room, closing the distance between them until she could lean against the bar next to him. He lifted a hand to signal the bartender, but she batted it away, catching the woman’s attention herself. He watched, bemused, as she ordered the same thing he was drinking, though she hadn’t yet glanced at him or his drink. Only once it had arrived and she’d paid for it with cash, did she turn to face him.
Message received—she wanted to feel in control. She was probably slightly uncomfortable with being a strong woman, a business owner, the oldest of her sisters and also wanting to give up that control to him. She didn’t yet understand that she never did give it up, not really. Even when she placed her care in his hands, she held all the power.
“I thought I’d made a mistake when I pulled up here,” she started, taking a sip of her fresh drink. “This isn’t the kind of place I can picture you enjoying.”
“I had a hankering for substandard beer.” He grinned when she looked pointedly at his drink, which was not beer. “No, for real, the food here is supposed to be fantastic.”
“I’m not hungry.” She eyed him over the rim of her drink. “Not for food.”
His whiskey—not the caramel-pear one she’d brought him—burned a path down his throat as their surroundings faded away, his attention focusing in on Meg and only Meg.
“Are you sure?” Please be sure. “There’s no rush.”
“I know what I want.” She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, and his eyes tracked the movement, transfixed. “Are you going to give it to me?”
Setting his glass down firmly, he circled her wrist with his fingers and, with one sharp tug, pulled her against his body. She gasped softly as her breasts brushed against his chest, and she looked up at him with wide eyes.
“You’re awfully saucy tonight.” Cocking his head, he tracked his stare over her face, lingering on those lips that were just begging to be kissed. Dipping his head, he brushed his lips against her ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Maybe it’s time I find something else for your mouth to do.”
MEG COULDN’T CONTROL her nerves as she and John approached his hotel room. She heard the lock disengage as it detected John’s phone. He urged her through the door first with two fingers pressed to the small of her back. Then they were both inside, and her stomach did a slow roll of anticipation.
“Want another drink?” He gestured to the bottle of whiskey she’d brought the night before, which still stood on the table.
“No.” She didn’t want a drink; she didn’t want food. When he turned to face her, she saw the coiled tension in his lean frame and felt the warmth of smug satisfaction.
That tension was because of her—because he wanted her. So many women wanted him, and yet he was here, looking like a lion about to pounce, because of her.
She braced herself for the lion to attack and was unprepared when, rather than grabbing her, he gestured toward the bathroom.
“Let’s have a bath.”
“What?” She frowned, confused. “Why?”
“Partly because we smell like cheap beer and cigarettes,” he replied, eyes tracking the length of her body, “and partly because I want to get you wet and naked.”
“Oh.” She exhaled, and just like that, her body was on fire. She followed him to a bathroom three times the size of her bedroom at home. It was a study in white, clean and bright and luxurious, but what caught her attention was the giant Jacuzzi tub under the window.
She watched, silent, as John started the water, and she felt the kiss of steam on her skin. He added droplets from a selection of small essential oil bottles that lined the edge of the bath, and her next breath was full of bergamot and cedar wood.
That done, he turned to look at her. Eyes on hers, he pulled a condom from the pocket of his pants and set it on the edge of the tub. She swallowed a whimper when he quickly undid the buttons of his dress shirt, shrugging it open and then off. She hadn’t seen his naked chest before, and, oh, it was a work of art. He had to log serious hours in the gym, because for a man who spent most of his time sitting at a desk in a suit, he had the musculature of an athlete.
Before she had decided to move, she’d closed the space between them and was trailing her fingers over his abs. He sucked in a sharp breath when her hand moved lower, dipping just below the waistband of his dress pants.
