If I Were You
Page 26

“Come back later,” I call out, and press my lips to Chris’s, my hand sliding down his hip and around to cup his shaft, stroking the thick ridge through his jeans.
He growls low in his throat and pulls his mouth from mine, and his eyes are dark pools of turbulent passion. He’s mad. Holy shit. He’s furious. “Losing control and you taking it from me are two different things, Sara. You won’t ever take it from me.” He shoves off the walk and stalks to the door and opens it, whistling to get the bellman’s attention.
Frozen to the wall, I feel shell-shocked. The dark Chris, the dangerous damaged Chris I keep forgetting exists, is back. What just happened to set him off? And damn it to hell, why does it turn me on when it shouldn’t?
The bellman is in the door with our bags and I haven’t moved. I feel his eyes on me and I know I must look a disheveled mess. Somehow, I focus on the room, bringing the amazing detail into focus. Vaulted ceiling encase me and to my right is a living area and full kitchen. A California King-size bed is to my left, a stucco fireplace in the corner in front of it, and beyond that a private patio overlooking the mountains.
The hotel door shuts and Chris locks it. My heart is thundering in my chest. I can’t look at him. I don’t think he wants me to look at him. I don’t know why. It’s just a feeling.
He rolls my suitcase to the center of the room and unzips it, pulling out a pair of cream-colored strappy high heels he drops on the floor, and a pale yellow chiffon dress he lays on top of the case when he closes it. “Put them on.”
I force my eyes to his. “You want me--”
“Yes.” I wet my dry lips. Okay. He wants me to dress up. Sounds like a good excuse to escape and regroup and boy, does regrouping sound appealing. I walk to grab the dress, intending to head to the bathroom, wherever it is.
“Right here,” Chris says. “Where I can see you.”
I gape and try to clarify again. “You want me--”
“Yes. I want.”
He sits down on the bed and I realize he intends to watch me undress and dress again. This is about control, about him demonstrating what he has and I do not. He needs it. He needs it on some deep level, and I am not going to deny him. For reasons I’ve yet to understand, giving Chris control doesn’t bother me, but I know in my heart, it keeps me at a distance. This is his wall, his barrier, his great divide; I am beginning to wonder if I can ever conquer his barriers. Right now though, I’m happy to let him conquer.
I swallow hard, my throat like sandpaper, my body wet and wanting. I am aroused by this and everything Chris does. I reach for the dress.
“No,” he orders. “Undress first.”
I nod and lean against the wall to unlace my boots, and pull them and my socks off. He stares at my pink-painted toes and good lord, he makes even that hot. I reach for my pants and unlace the strings holding them closed before sliding them down over my h*ps and down my legs, leaving the expensive, gold-jeweled cream-colored panties in place.
My shirt comes next and I pull it over my head and toss it to the floor, standing before Chris in only my bra and panties.
His gaze sweeps over me, hot and heavy, his eyes dark, hooded. “Everything.”
I blanch. “But--”
“Everything. I want to be able to get to you when I want you. And we’ll both know I can anytime, anywhere.”
Heat rushes over my skin at the implication. He means to have me in public. I should be appalled. I should say no. Instead, I am weak in the knees with desire. I slide my fingers into the thin strings of my thong and slide it to the floor.
Chris’s gaze follows the path they take, his stare traveling my skin, touching me with such heat that it might as well be his hand. I step out of the panties and have no intention to stand there and wait for his next command.
I unhook my bra and toss it at him. “Happy now?” I challenge.
He arches a brow and I think I might see a hint of a smile on his lips, maybe. Perhaps not. “Don’t test me, Sara. You won’t like the results.”
“Or maybe, I will.” Maybe I’ll push his control. Maybe I’ll get inside him and tear down the wall.
“You won’t.” His words are hard and too certain to be comfortable for me.
He pushes to his feet though, and I silently cry out with joy. Touch me. I don’t care how you do it, just do it. He saunters over to me and stops out of reach. He scoops up the dress, his eyes raking over my body. My ni**les pucker under his scrutiny, tight balls of aching need and I pray for his mouth on me sooner, not later.
He hands me the dress. “Put it on.”
Put it on? Without him touching me? He can’t be serious. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
You know I have to punish you. Rebecca’s words come back to me. He’s punishing me, absolutely torturing me. Making me pay a price for daring to take control. But deep down, I come to a conclusion. I came close to breaking through his wall or he wouldn’t be doing this. It’s this information that makes the torture bearable.
I take the dress, and I notice he is careful not to touch me. I pull the chiffon material over my head and the silk rasps over my ni**les and skin. I am so ultra-sensitized I think I could come with one touch of his mouth in the right place. And I believe there would be many right places at this juncture in time.
The dress falls into place and Chris’s eyes never leave mine. “The shoes.”
I slip them on and he walks around me, giving me a careful, penetrating inspection before stopping before me. “Beautiful, baby. You look stunning.”
My chin lifts. “But not stunning enough to f**k right now.”
“More than enough to fuck, just not yet.” He leans in, his lips by my ear, but he is careful not to touch me anywhere else. “Because when I do, you’ll be so hot and wet, you’ll be mine to do with what I want. And believe me baby — I want plenty.”
“You’re punishing me.”
He looks at me and his eyes soften as he brushes his knuckles over my shoulder. Goosebumps lift all over my skin. “Does that feel like punishment?”
More like pure bliss. “No.”
“Then you have your answer.”
***
We step into the hallway and Chris takes my hand, his eyes meeting mine, and I know he can see the sweet relief washing over me at his touch. His green eyes dance with amber heat and he leads me down the hallway, all masculine sensuality and raw power. I am insanely into this man. He pushes every button I own, in all the right ways. Every second I am with him, I feel more alive.
Another couple waits by the elevator, and we step inside behind them. Chris leans against the wall and pulls my back against his front. I soften against all his hardness, and his fingers curl around my waist, where they begin a slow caress. My ni**les pucker against the thin material and I become ultra-aware of how na**d I am underneath the dress.
The man across from me glances down, stroking my chest with a stare that makes me want to smack him for the woman he is with. I turn in Chris’s arms, giving the man my back. “Where are we headed?”
“In light of recent events, I thought food before wine seemed a good idea.”
“Yes. Please.”
The elevator dings and we let the other couple exit first. Chris takes my hand and I hit the elevator button to hold the door. “I need to go upstairs.” I glance down at my dress, my ni**les puckering too obviously.
His lips quirk. “I already planned to have the hotel bring you a shawl and a coat to match the dress in case the evening gets chilly.”
Relief washes over me. “Thank you.”
“You just let me take care of everything tonight.” He pulls me under his arm and I let go of the elevator button as we step into the lobby. Let Chris take care of everything. It is a thrilling, dangerous idea, I cannot help but crave.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We are escorted to a circular private dining room. Chris holds the chair for me as I settle next to an oval window overlooking green mountains and a glorious blue skyline. I slide my purse onto the chair and I am in awe of the view. “It’s spectacular.”
Chris claims the window seat across from me and slips out of his leather jacket he’d put on as we’d left the room. “So is the food, but since I’m taking you to a special winery that will serve their vintages along with fruit and cheese, I suggest we eat fairly light. I thought we’d visit the restaurant for brunch tomorrow before we leave, if you’d like?”
“Yes. Very much. Sounds perfect.” I am warmed by the romance of this place and his actions, but I tell myself not to get carried away. This isn’t romance. It’s a sexy adventure. After all, I’m not wearing panties or a bra.
“Anything look good?” Chris asks after I’ve studied the menu a moment.
“Everything. I’m starving.” It’s nearly three and we haven’t eaten since early morning.
A waiter appears and Chris arches a brow at me. “Ready?”
“I am. Cobb salad for me.”
Chris hands both of our menus to the waiter. “Burger for me. Well done. And bring us a bottle of the recommended wine selection — the Robert Craig Zinfandel.”
The waiter gives a small bow. “Coming right up, Mr. Merit.”
“No beer for you?” I ask when the waiter departs.
“It’s never good to mix alcohol and I have a few friends around these corners of the world, that would have my hide for drinking beer over wine.”
It hits me how well Chris is known here, how the waiter and the doorman knew him by name. A sick feeling hits me. I never bring women to my home. Is this where he brings them? Where he wines and dines them into panty-less submission. “How often do you come here?”
“A couple times a year.” He gives me a shrewd, narrow look, and I’m pretty certain he’s reading me like a book. I hate that I am transparent, that I have knots in my gut, and that I am reacting this way at all. I worry I’m getting emotionally attached to Chris and I don’t want to be hurt.
Chris slides a brochure of some sort from the edge of the table in front of me. “This is why I visit.”
I blink down at what appears to be an advertisement for the art gallery on site and swallow hard at the list of featured artists, including Chris. I’ve jumped to conclusions and made it obvious.
“And to be clear, Sara, until now, I’ve never brought a woman here.”
My gaze jerks to his. “Never?”
“Never.”
“Then why am I here?”
“You tell me. Why did you come?”
“Because you asked me.”
“I’m sure there are plenty of men who’ve hungered to give you an escape, even take care of you, whom you’ve rejected.”
It’s true. I’ve barely dated since college and the few dates I’ve had were disasters. “And I’m sure there are plenty of women who’ve hungered for more with you.”
He studies me a long moment. “Why five years, Sara?”
The unexpected probe sets my pulse to racing. “I thought you didn’t ask personal questions?”
“I’ve done a lot of things differently with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you are you.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Neither do I, but I’m hoping to find out.”
There is an odd tightening in my chest. Emotion. I don’t want to feel any emotion but he pulls it from me anyway. “Can you tell me when you do?”
He smiles, and it’s a gorgeous smile that chips away at the tension prickling at my nerve endings. “You will be the first to know.” He turns serious quickly. “Who was he, Sara?”
“He who?” I ask, but I know where this is going.
“The man who f**ked with your head enough to make you celibate for five years.”
The waiter appears and saves me from answering. I don’t want to talk about Michael. I don’t want to remember him. He’s the past.
The waiter settles two glasses in front of us and then pulls a bottle of chilled wine from a silver ice bucket. The waiter works the cork from the bottle but Chris ignores him. He leans back and watches me, his eyes intense with scrutiny.
The wine is uncorked and a sample is poured for Chris. He smells the wine and tastes it. “Excellent selection,” he says to the waiter. “Give your wine expert my regards.”
The waiter fills our glasses, gives a small bow, and departs. “Yes, Mr. Merit. I absolutely will.”
I sip from my glass, and my taste buds explode with a tangy fruit flavor with a hint of oak I quite enjoy. Chris stares at me. “Who was he?” His voice is low, taut.
I inhale sharply and set my wine back down. “The past. Leave it at that.”
“No.”
“Chris--”
“Who was he, Sara?”
“My father’s prodigy, the son he never had.” The confession slides from my mouth without a conscious decision to allow it to.
“How long were you with him?”
“Six months.”
“How serious?”
“An engagement ring.”
Surprise flashes in his eyes. “That’s pretty serious.”
I run my hand over my tense forehead and for once, words escape me.
“Did you love him?”
“No,” I say immediately, dropping my hand. “I was infatuated. He was five years older — successful and confident. He was…everything my father wanted for me.”
“What about your mother?”
“She wanted whatever my father wanted. I barely know the person that would do anything to please…him.” I cannot bring myself to say Michael’s name, and not because I have any emotional connection. I simply dislike remembering who he made me, or rather, who I let him make me.