Revealing Us (Inside Out #3)(12)

“Do you remember what I promised you back in that Los Angeles hotel?”

“Yes: that you’d stop protecting me from you. But you haven’t,” I accuse, certain now that it’s the right time, the right mood, to push him.

“Baby, I held back today to let you get over all you’ve been through. But don’t let that mislead you. You wouldn’t be here if I planned to protect you from me.” His hand splays possessively on my stomach. “What else did I tell you?”

My lashes lower, heat slicing through me at the memory of lying in that Los Angeles hotel bed, his body intimately wrapped around mine. “That you’d own me if I stayed with you.”

“Every part of you,” he agrees huskily. “That means I know you completely. All of you. And it’s time you understand what that means.”

“Show me,” I challenge, wanting him to own me, when no other man will ever come close to having this much of me.

When I never thought I’d want this much from a man. But this is Chris, and that’s the only answer I ever need.

“Show you what?” he demands.

“How it feels to be owned by you,” I dare to reply, and heat pools low in my belly at the many erotic things this might invite. “Because I haven’t felt it yet. And I want to.”

His teeth scrape my earlobe, his breath teasing the delicate skin there. “You will, Sara. You will.” He steps away from me, leaving me cold and wanting. “Turn around.”

I swallow hard, aroused by the possibilities his promise has stirred, relieved that we’re taking our journey together, past the wall the loss of Rebecca almost erected. I tentatively turn and meet his stare, and instead of hot coals and burning embers, I ind tenderness.

He lifts his chin at the doorway. “Walk inside, baby.”

My heart squeezes at the soft endearment he uses often, and the message I read behind it. Whatever journey he’s about to take me on, we’ll still be just us when it’s over.

He’s not out of control. He’s not even on the edge anymore.

He’s about to take me to the edge. And I want to go with him.





Five


It’s warmer in the house than outside, but still a cool contrast to the heat burning inside me as I walk into the living room. Anticipation tingles along my nerve endings but my steps are slow, tentative. I do not know where Chris wants me to go or what he expects me to do, but I’m ready for anything.

“Stop,” Chris commands when I’m standing beside the couch. I do and he adds, “Face me.”

I turn to ind him standing on the other side of a six-foot-long, cream-colored, high-piled throw rug. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, the brightly colored dragon tattoo stretching with the lex of his muscle. “It represents power and wealth, two things as a very young man I knew I wanted,” he’d told me when I’d asked about the design. I burn to know what made him need those things. What he wants now.

“Undress.”

My gaze snaps from Chris’s arm to his handsome, unreadable face, searching there for what he is thinking and inding nothing but wicked demand. I’m not surprised by his command; Chris has a thing about getting me naked while he remains fully clothed. It’s about power and submission. His power. My submission. I haven’t always given it to him willingly. Or maybe I have; maybe I simply haven’t admitted it to him, or even myself.

I toe of my shoes, like I’m playing strip poker and I’m discarding the least intimate article of clothing irst. I might be willing to be submissive, but that doesn’t mean Chris as a dominant isn’t a bit intimidating. And sexy. So damn sexy.

Next I reach for my jacket, and even now, as much as I want this, as much as I trust him, I feel vulnerable and exposed as I toss it aside. I want to understand why. But I’m also aroused by undressing for him. It seems that being vulnerable and exposed with Chris turns me on. On another occasion, undressing for him might be a seductive game to draw out, but this isn’t one of those times. I’m ready to have it over with and to know what comes next.

I don’t look at Chris as I quickly remove my T-shirt and then slip out of my velvet sweats. I’m left with a red bra and red panties, and I hesitate only a moment before I just go for it.

I unhook my bra and toss it aside. My panties go next, kicked away with a brush of my bare foot. And now things are as Chris intended. I am naked and he is not.

His gaze does a slow, hot slide down my body, and I’m shaken by how intensely erotic it can be just having this man look at me. I’ve experienced it before, yet it’s no less explosive when it happens. I’m aroused beyond belief, naked when he is not, and while this has bothered me in the past, it doesn’t now.

It’s part of his control, and he was right earlier. I not only like him being in control, I’m done trying to analyze why being at his command is almost a physical need. It simply is. And I like it.

“On your knees in the middle of the rug,” he orders.

I go from aroused and conident to a spike of nerves and a racing heart. On my knees? This is like nothing he’s ever asked, or rather commanded, of me.

I was completely at his mercy, naked and on my knees, in the center of a soft wool rug. The similarity between Rebecca’s journal entry and this moment is striking, but it’s the diference between the two that twists me in knots. Rebecca was writing about Mark displaying her in front of the club, about how that had upset her. I’m here alone with Chris, who I’m certain would never do such a thing. She wanted what I have.