“Why didn’t you say anything then?”
“I promised my father I’d behave myself,” he replies, “and I was afraid your man-friend would start a fight if I stole you away.”
My man-friend? Oh, of course—I was still with Garrett at the time. I’m glad Calder had the sense to stay away. As controlling as my ex was at the end, he would definitely have caused a scene if he thought another man was coming onto me.
“Is he the one who’s been calling you?” Calder says, reading into my silence.
“It’s long over, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I assure him. “But I don’t want to talk about him. I want you to continue explaining how you didn’t notice my breasts.”
He laughs.
"I'll admit," he continues, drawing his finger down my body, "that I noticed your breasts, too." To emphasize his point, he curls a hand around one of my breasts, filling his palm. "So soft, so round, so perfect…” He brushes his thumb across the tender skin of my areola. "With such delicate pink nipples…”
I suck in a breath as he rolls my nipple between his fingers. He gives me another one of his grins and then continues down my body. His hands move down across my skin slowly, delicately, as if I'm a precious, breakable thing that might shatter at his touch. He traces each of my ribs in turn, as if has all the time in the world to explore my body, not just this night I’ve promised him.
"And your arms," he says, taking me by the wrist and lifting my arm from the sheets. "Such long, lovely arms, with soft, perfect hands." He raises my fingers to his lips and kisses them one by one.
"They look so innocent," he continues, "but I know very well what pleasure and what pain they can cause." He brings my fingers around to his back, placing them on the scratch marks I made this morning. Was that only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago.
I look up at Calder. How many days have I been here now? Two? Three? They're all running together. I hardly know this man, and what I do know isn't particularly good, but I feel something when I look at him, when he looks at me—it's strange. There's something, some understanding, some connection that I don't think either of us could put a name to, even if we tried.
"And your legs," he says, sliding further down my body. He takes a single finger and traces me, light as a feather, from hip to ankle, and then back up again. It tickles, but I don't feel the urge to laugh. I feel like a blade of grass shaking and helpless beneath the wind.
Calder leans down and kisses my toes, one by one, as he kissed my fingers.
"Every inch of you is beautiful."
I close my eyes for a moment, letting his words wash over me, but I don't let myself enjoy them too long.
"That's a pretty line," I say, eyes still closed. "But you don't have to try so hard. I'm already at your mercy."
He doesn't say anything for a moment.
"It's not a line," he offers finally. His hand sweeps over my throat once more. "Do you think I'm exaggerating?"
I peer up at him through my lashes. "Maybe. Maybe not. I think you're a man who's had a lot of practice charming women into bed with him."
My bluntness seems to surprise him for the briefest of moments.
"I've been with other women, of course. But I’m here with you now, and every word I speak is the truth.”
I raise my eyebrow. I don't think I'm unattractive, by any means—in fact, I've always been a little proud of my figure—but I know better than to trust the compliments of a silver-tongued billionaire playboy, especially one who’s admitted to romancing starlets and supermodels.
"You hardly know me," I say.
"And that means I can't think you're beautiful?"
I suppose it doesn't.
"Besides, it's not fair to compare yourself to any other women anyway." His thumb roams lazily along the line of my jaw. "I've never had a woman force her way onto my property before, and I've never had to tackle one in the mud."
I roll my eyes, but he catches me by the chin and forces me to look up at him.
"And I've certainly never had so much fun playing hide and seek with one. You're something else completely."
My neck and cheeks go hot at his words, but he still has me by the chin and I can't look away.
"You're something else yourself," I manage after a moment.
His eyes darken at my words. "Oh?"
Where do I begin? He's the most infuriating man I've ever met—and the sexiest. In any given moment I can't decide whether I want to scream at him or stick my tongue in his mouth.
I reach up and place my hands on his bare skin. He's propped on his arms, leaning over me, and all the muscles of his chest are firm, contracted. I slide my hands down his belly, reveling in the hardness of his body.
Then, without warning, I give him a shove. He topples off me, landing on his back beside me, and before he can recover I've sprung up and reversed our positions. Now I'm leaning over him and he's helpless beneath me.
"You don't always get to be the one in control.” I gaze down the length of him, taking in every delicious inch of his body. "I think it's my turn to explore you."
The hunger on his face is unmistakable, but he makes no move to stop me as I sidle up his body and place my finger on his collarbone, exactly where he began his inspection of me.
He truly is spectacular. I’m getting turned on already, and I haven't even moved past the PG section of his body. His skin is soft and warm beneath my touch, and I brush the pads of my fingers lightly down his chest. I glance up at his face, and I find him staring down at me, his eyes dark and half-lidded. His breathing is heavy.
I continue my exploration down over his ribs, across his stomach. I want to feel every muscle, to know the power of his body beneath my fingers. This body could hold me down, take me again and again until I begged for mercy.
His arms come next, and his warm hands. I close his fingers in my own, marveling at the callouses I find: stories, each one. Where did this rough patch on his thumb come from? How did he earn this mark on his palm? They're the hands of a man who's done things.
It only reminds me how little I know about this man in front of me. What was he doing, a week ago from now? A year? Five? He has a life outside his business with the Center. A life outside his interactions with me.
There's another mark on his left hand. A red streak on his palm.
"What is it?" he asks when he notices me lingering.
I flip over his hand and trace the scar with my finger. "What's this from?"