Wherever It Leads(25)

“I’m not sure I believe in love at all,” he says finally.

“What? How can you not believe in love? It’s as real as the air we breathe or the water we drink!”

“No, those things are quantifiable. Love is . . .” he sighs. “If love is real, it’s simply a comfort level in a relationship built on a network of dually respected qualities and preferences. It’s two people that both acknowledge they like most of the same things and enjoy being with the other person and, eventually, they agree to just do those things together. They have a different capacity for feelings for that person over most others. Maybe that’s what everyone calls love.”

“No,” I protest. “It’s more than that. It’s chemistry. Someone making you want to be a better person. A willingness to put someone else before you. A feeling of not being able to breathe without the other person at your side. A feeling of . . . completion.”

He presses his lips together in amusement. “And this ex-boyfriend of yours did those things for you? How is that? How did his lies make you feel complete? How did his needing to borrow money from you make you feel like he put you above himself?”

“What?” I hiss. I’m appalled and affronted and embarrassed in the same moment. How does this man think he knows who I love or how I love? I’m not going to defend the way I love to anyone.

“If love exists,” he quips, his voice gruff, “Then it should be something that’s given out after thoughtful consideration.”

“Love exists,” I insist, “And it’s given out because you can’t not.”

“Let me tell you something,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “I’ve had women say they love me before. And those same women confessed their undying devotion to me based on a fa?ade I present them. They know what it feels like to have an orgasm at my hands. They know what it’s like to go to a fancy dinner on my arm or spend a weekend in a city while I work. But those women, those same women that ‘love’ me, know nothing about me. And do they care?” he shrugs, amped up by his little speech. “No. They don’t. Because while they profess their love for me, they’re really in love with what I offer them and that has nothing to do with me.”

Narrowing my eyes, I smirk. “I guess it’s good for you that I’m not looking for love. Just a good time.”

“No, that’s good for you because a great time is all I’m giving you.”

We’re both breathing hard, impassioned by our debate. When the waiter clears his throat, we both jump.

“Can I get you anything else?” he asks, looking from Fenton, to me, back to Fenton.

“No, I think we’re done here.” Fenton looks at me with raised eyebrows and I nod. I’m too worked up to eat. The last couple of days have had me on edge, and this little exchange has me riled up yet again.

The only thing I need is a break from the anxiety, a way to settle down. And the key to that sits with the gorgeous, frustrating man staring at me from across the table.

The server scurries away.

“Are you ready?” he asks, scooting his seat back and coming around the table. He takes my hand and brings me to my feet. The corners of his lips turn and there’s no denying that question is filled with innuendo.

“Maybe.”

He chuckles, pressing a palm in the small of my back, urging me towards the entrance. “You better be,” he rasps. “You better be ready for what I’m going to do to you. And if you aren’t, you shouldn’t have worn this dress.”

“Don’t worry,” I say, smiling politely at a man holding a door open for us. When we walk through, I lower my voice so only he can hear. “I won’t fall in love with you.”





My heels click against the tile and echo off the walls. The only other sounds are my labored breathing and the door shutting behind me.

The serenity of the suite has been replaced with a feeling of uncontained lust. I can smell it, taste it, and above all else, I can feel it. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, my hands trembling in anticipation, I listen in the darkness for Fenton.

When his hand finds the small of my back, I startle. He guided me in the same way all the way to the room, but now, alone, in the darkness, it feels completely different. His touch now, as he presses me forward into the living area of the suite, is intimate, yet needy.

I feel Fenton’s hot breath on my neck right below my ear. He doesn’t touch me, just brings his lips close enough so that if I leaned in, they’d touch. But I don’t. There’s something entirely sexy about feeling him this close that I close my eyes and anticipate the moment when he starts something he’s going to have to finish.

I need that. I need a release from the build-up of this moment, a crescendo that started at the banana display days ago. Making it worse is that I haven’t quite lost the fire from the conversation in the restaurant and I’m about to spill over.

His palm flattens against me and he takes a step closer until his hard body is up against my back. He slides his hands roughly over my sides, dragging them across my abdomen. They join at my navel and push down my middle, marking my body in some way I can’t fathom.

I feel my breath catch as he glides over the apex of my thighs and then reverses, leisurely retracing his path like he has all the time in the world. His touch leaves me struggling for air. The heat from his mouth, lingering on my skin, drifts across my neck and my head falls back against his chest, taking in the masculine scent, adding it to the overstimulation.