Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(65)

“A fox?”

“No!” She elbowed him, laughing. “No foxes. They could be fox spirits, and all your stories show what a terrible mistake it is to cross them.”

“Especially golden ones,” he said, flicking his eyes toward her hair. He slipped out of his coat and laid it on the back of a rocking chair near the heater. “Getting warm, little fox? Your cheeks are rosy.”

She was burning up, yet unsure if it was due to the heater or her vibrating nerves. If she was being honest with herself, she was terrified. Too many what-ifs plagued her thoughts. What if they were terrible together? What if it changed their feelings about each other? What if he found her boring? What if it was as disappointing for her as it was with Luke? She’d never spoken to Luke again, and Bo had ended things with Sylvia after . . .

What if this was the beginning of the end?

“Hey,” Bo said in a soft voice, grasping her shoulders. “It’s just me. Just us. Forget about all of that.”

“Why can you always read my thoughts?” she murmured.

“Because I’ve spent far too much time looking at your face,” he said, tugging her coat over her shoulders and guiding it down her arms. “And I know the way you rub the first joint of each finger with your thumb when you’re worried about something. And the way the way your eyelids lower when you’re coming up with a terrible scheme.”

“I don’t scheme,” she argued weakly as he draped her coat atop his. But what she really meant was: I love the way you notice everything.

“Not very well.” But what he said with his eyes was: I adore even the less-than-admirable things about you.

She tried to respond, but he was taking off his suit jacket, and she was suddenly very, very nervous. Her throat wasn’t working correctly. She didn’t seem to be able to swallow, and her mouth was dry.

He removed the leather shoulder holster that held his gun and stepped closer. He didn’t take his eyes off her as his hand went to his necktie. He wriggled it back and forth to loosen it and then tugged until it fell apart and slid off his neck. After tossing it aside, he opened the top two buttons of his shirt and dipped his head to speak into her ear. “I know you’re nervous,” he said sympathetically, but with no hint of compromise. His nose grazed a few strands of hair, and that tiny motion sent a single chill down her neck, like a lone scout riding out to survey a battlefield.

His hand cupped the side of her face, and he spoke in a low, calm voice. “Just because we came all the way out here doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind. If you want me to take you back home, tell me now.”

“No,” she said softly. “I haven’t changed my mind.”

“Do you still want me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

He placed a small kiss on her temple and released her face to remove the silver clip from her hair. He threw it on their growing pile of discarded clothing and combed her hair out with his fingers, sending more chills through her. A little warmth sparked low in her belly. Her shoulders relaxed.

“This is what’s going to happen,” he said in voice that sounded like the low purr of a big cat. Like someone who was calculating, very certain of himself, and unconcerned with trying to hide it. “I need to be in charge now. You’ve got to let go and give me the reins. You’ve got to trust me. Whatever I say, you do.”

“Are we pretending?” she said in hushed voice.

“No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “No more pretending.”

She was confused. “Why, then?”

He exhaled slowly through his nose and made a small contemplative noise in the back of his throat. “I can’t explain it, but whatever things are like outside this room . . . right now, when it’s just us, I just need to be in control. And I think maybe you need that, too.”

Maybe she did, because she thought she might just understand what he meant. Out there, he conceded and compromised every day. Bit his tongue when he wanted to speak. Bowed his head when he wanted to fight. Out there, he did it because he had to. Alone with her, he wanted to be himself.

As for her, and what she needed . . . well, the idea of yielding to him was oddly pleasing. A relief, even. And a bit thrilling. “All right,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Tell me what you want me to do.”

Dark pupils dilated. He nodded once, the matter settled, and stuffed his hands in his pants pockets. The way he looked at her now was predatory. Startlingly so. She fought the urge to back away from him and felt her heart gallop inside her chest. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and when he finally did, it staggered her.

“Take off your dress.”

TWENTY-TWO

They stood together for several moments, and he didn’t lower his gaze. Didn’t offer her a way out or ask if she wanted to change her mind again. No quarter whatsoever. The cottage was quiet but for the distant waves crashing against the cliff below the lighthouse and the crackle of wood in the heater.

“Take off your dress,” he repeated.

A little shudder went through her. He meant it.

And she meant to comply.

She pulled the top of her tunic dress over her head, unbuttoned the skirt, and let it drop in a puddle on his shoe. Goose bumps rippled over her arms. Her nipples pebbled beneath the silk of a shell pink step-in chemise that was lacy and frothy and very, very expensive—but not nearly enough armor to shield her from the intensity of his heavy gaze. Her head felt light. She wasn’t sure if she had the nerve to do this . . .