“Who the fuck do you think—?”
“Get in,” he cuts across me, dropping his right hand after testing the water temperature.
“No,” I return coldly, reminded all over again why I detest dominating men.
He doesn’t say a word. In the next second, I’m lifted off my feet and placed beneath the hot spray. Welcoming warmth cascades over me and I realize how cold I’d been. But I’m too angry to appreciate the heat.
Hell, I’m incandescent.
Before I can say a word, he steps in with me, crowds me against the marble tiles. I gasp and raise my head to find his eyes—a deep hazel that appears almost dark gold in the soft lights placed around the shower—narrowed, his gaze daring me to do anything other than what he wanted.
I push his chest. Hard.
He doesn’t budge. Just stares at me like I’m a puny fly and he’s a fucking mountain. Which, I guess he is. It dawns on me right then how big he is. Well over six foot three to my five six. Normally, my heels lend me a good four inches of confidence. But I came out here barefoot. And I have a giant in front of me.
A giant with a chest built to stop tornados in their tracks. Or stupid women intent on ruining his friend’s engagement party. That’s what his gaze tells me.
I push harder.
His hands capture mine, holding them prisoner against his chest. I blink at him through the water cascading down my face and glare harder.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Anyone tell you that you have a very dirty mouth?”
“Do I look like I care what anyone has to say about my mouth?”
His gaze drops to my lips. The water running over them intensifies the sudden tingle of awareness at this stare. I have to fight the impulse to lick them. Just as I fight the urge to stare at his mouth.
“No, you don’t. It’s still no excuse to talk like a goddamn sailor,” he says.
“I believe in getting to the point as quickly as possible. Equivocating isn’t really my thing.”
“I hear you fine without the extra filth.”
“I don’t think you do. Because here you are, still in my fucking way.”
Something dark and dangerous gleams in his eyes and a residual shiver crawls up my spine. His chest expands beneath my palms and he slowly exhales.
“If you were mine, I’d spank that dirty mouth right out of you,” he murmurs, his tone once again that deep and mesmerizing quality, which makes me want to stand on tiptoe and strain closer so I can hear more of his voice.
“Well, I’m not yours , Rusty. And FYI, I hate being spanked.”
“Probably because it hasn’t been done in the right way. But I could teach you to love it,” he replies, those eyes raking my face with an intense intimacy that fires up a spark in my belly. “I can teach you to love a whole lot of things, Keely.”
That spark turns into a flame. For a moment, I can’t define what the feeling is. Then I realize it’s arousal. I’m at once sad and elated. Sad because it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what arousal feels like. Elated because...well, I’m not dead below the waist after all.
But this arousal isn’t the kind I normally feel for a guy I want to sleep with. This feeling is different. It’s sharper, more intense, as if it could actually cause damage if ignored.
Which is ridiculous. I pull my hands away and he lets me go. But he doesn’t move from his guardian position. I turn around, let the water cascade down my back. My silk Donna Karan dress is ruined, but what the hell, it feels good to be warm. Despite the guilt and pain clawing through me, it feels good to be alive.
“You can go now. I promise I won’t try to drown myself,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear.
He doesn’t move.
I sigh. “I wasn’t really going to drown myself. I was just trying to clear my head a little.”
“With a bottle of champagne inside you? You have to do better than that.”
“Look, Rusty—”
“My name is Mason. Mason Sinclair. You can call me Mason or Sinclair. Rusty
“Get in,” he cuts across me, dropping his right hand after testing the water temperature.
“No,” I return coldly, reminded all over again why I detest dominating men.
He doesn’t say a word. In the next second, I’m lifted off my feet and placed beneath the hot spray. Welcoming warmth cascades over me and I realize how cold I’d been. But I’m too angry to appreciate the heat.
Hell, I’m incandescent.
Before I can say a word, he steps in with me, crowds me against the marble tiles. I gasp and raise my head to find his eyes—a deep hazel that appears almost dark gold in the soft lights placed around the shower—narrowed, his gaze daring me to do anything other than what he wanted.
I push his chest. Hard.
He doesn’t budge. Just stares at me like I’m a puny fly and he’s a fucking mountain. Which, I guess he is. It dawns on me right then how big he is. Well over six foot three to my five six. Normally, my heels lend me a good four inches of confidence. But I came out here barefoot. And I have a giant in front of me.
A giant with a chest built to stop tornados in their tracks. Or stupid women intent on ruining his friend’s engagement party. That’s what his gaze tells me.
I push harder.
His hands capture mine, holding them prisoner against his chest. I blink at him through the water cascading down my face and glare harder.
“Get the fuck out of my way.”
“Anyone tell you that you have a very dirty mouth?”
“Do I look like I care what anyone has to say about my mouth?”
His gaze drops to my lips. The water running over them intensifies the sudden tingle of awareness at this stare. I have to fight the impulse to lick them. Just as I fight the urge to stare at his mouth.
“No, you don’t. It’s still no excuse to talk like a goddamn sailor,” he says.
“I believe in getting to the point as quickly as possible. Equivocating isn’t really my thing.”
“I hear you fine without the extra filth.”
“I don’t think you do. Because here you are, still in my fucking way.”
Something dark and dangerous gleams in his eyes and a residual shiver crawls up my spine. His chest expands beneath my palms and he slowly exhales.
“If you were mine, I’d spank that dirty mouth right out of you,” he murmurs, his tone once again that deep and mesmerizing quality, which makes me want to stand on tiptoe and strain closer so I can hear more of his voice.
“Well, I’m not yours , Rusty. And FYI, I hate being spanked.”
“Probably because it hasn’t been done in the right way. But I could teach you to love it,” he replies, those eyes raking my face with an intense intimacy that fires up a spark in my belly. “I can teach you to love a whole lot of things, Keely.”
That spark turns into a flame. For a moment, I can’t define what the feeling is. Then I realize it’s arousal. I’m at once sad and elated. Sad because it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten what arousal feels like. Elated because...well, I’m not dead below the waist after all.
But this arousal isn’t the kind I normally feel for a guy I want to sleep with. This feeling is different. It’s sharper, more intense, as if it could actually cause damage if ignored.
Which is ridiculous. I pull my hands away and he lets me go. But he doesn’t move from his guardian position. I turn around, let the water cascade down my back. My silk Donna Karan dress is ruined, but what the hell, it feels good to be warm. Despite the guilt and pain clawing through me, it feels good to be alive.
“You can go now. I promise I won’t try to drown myself,” I mutter loud enough for him to hear.
He doesn’t move.
I sigh. “I wasn’t really going to drown myself. I was just trying to clear my head a little.”
“With a bottle of champagne inside you? You have to do better than that.”
“Look, Rusty—”
“My name is Mason. Mason Sinclair. You can call me Mason or Sinclair. Rusty
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