Page 10

Nic

The suite at The Solaire is pure luxury, but I don’t see any of it.

I’m more aware of the weight of his jacket around my shoulders and the heat of his hand hovering at the small of my back—not quite touching.

I should have taken the quick fuck in his backseat. It would’ve been over by now, leaving me with nothing but the sharp sting of guilt and self-loathing. Anything but this—standing on the edge of something vast.

He moves to the thermostat and turns it down.

“You’ll warm up in a bit.” The certainty in his voice makes me wonder what exactly he means.

Without a word, he pulls his black T-shirt over his head in one fluid motion. The fabric clings briefly to his damp skin before falling away, and my mouth goes dry. That single sleeve of Nordic tattoos draws my eye first, but it’s his body up close that steals my breath.

Broader than a swimmer’s build, with abs that ripple and flex as he moves, tapering down to where his slacks sit low on his hips. This is what brutal training looks like—the kind of physique that, even at thirty-nine, speaks to endless hours when most ex-athletes would have quit.

He stalks toward me, shirt still in hand. I instinctively step back as he lifts it to my face.

“Close your eyes,” he murmurs.

I obey.

The fabric is soft against my skin as he wipes away my smudged make-up. I wait for that same feeling from the car, that moment when everything went quiet under his touch, but his movements remain clinical. Almost detached.

“Shoes off,” he says once he’s done.

I toe off my sneakers as his hands settle on my hips.

“Arms up.”

He eases my wet T-shirt over my head, his fingers barely grazing my skin. When the shirt clears my head, exposing my plain black sports bra, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly conscious of my smaller chest. Of how I never quite fill out tops the way those willowy socialites do.

But his eyes never leave mine. Not even when he kneels before me and helps me step out of my yoga pants.

Something about him in that position sends a strange heat through me, but then his gaze falls on my thighs.

I bite my lip, waiting, wondering what he’s thinking as he stares at the places where they took skin for the grafts.

His gaze moves lower and lower until it catches on my leg. He lifts it, resting my foot on his thigh.

His fingers trace the edges where they pieced me back together. Multiple grafts, endless laser treatments, and still, the contour will never be quite right, the texture always slightly off. But he stares with an intensity that makes my chest constrict.

Heat coils low in my belly.

By the time he rises to his feet, I can’t take it anymore.

I lean up and catch his mouth with mine, desperate for that overwhelming feeling. That pull. That burn. That thing that shuts off my brain and makes everything quiet.

But he gentles the kiss to soft hesitant pecks, like we’re in some slow-burn romance instead of whatever the hell this is.

I press closer, chasing the heat, but he won’t let me. Instead, he captures my wrists, pulling my hands away like he’s setting some ground rules. His kisses stay light and teasing, his body never fully pressing against mine.

I wanted a repeat of last night; his raw commands, his punishing grip, and the way he’d ripped through every wall and made me vent. Bite him. Swing at him.

This isn’t even close. This is a slow, agonizing denial that makes frustration flare under my skin.

This isn’t what I came here for.

I rip my mouth from his and step back, my breath ragged. “What are you doing?”

The gleam in his eyes and that infuriating smirk tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

I grit my teeth, hating the way my body still wants to lean into him. “Look, this is a mistake.”

His head tilts, lazy amusement flickering across his face. “Is it?”

I turn away, willing myself to pick up my clothes from the floor, but my feet won’t move.

“Tell me, Nic.” His voice comes from just behind me, too close. “Do you really want to leave? Or do you need something else?” He leans in slightly, his breath fanning my temple. “Something a little darker, maybe?”

I whirl around to face him, my pulse racing.

His heated gaze drags down my body. “Something you might want to get on your knees and beg for?”

My belly clenches hard—with fury.

Obviously.

Totally.

That’s what this feeling is.

“I’m not into all . . . that crap,” I snap.

He lifts an amused brow.

“No?” He takes a step closer, reaches for my left hand and twirls my ring. Slowly. Possessively. “Then why are you here with a man you don’t even like?”

Heat crawls up my neck.

Asshole.

I should slap his hand away.

“What were you hoping would happen when I brought you here?”

“Certainly not this much chit-chat,” I snap.

He lets out a low, amused hum, tilting his head slightly, watching me like I’m a caged animal.

“Last chance, Nic.” His voice is a dark promise. “Get on your knees, or get out.”