Lovegame(65)

So I don’t look at him, but I don’t look at Ian, either. Instead, I keep my head up and my eyes focused anywhere—everywhere—but on the man who is holding me so close. The man whose hand is on my lower back and whose breath is hot against my cheek.

I can do this, I tell myself. I can keep myself from melting into him, can keep this dance completely impersonal. I just have to pretend that I’m dancing with anyone but him. It should be easy—after all, pretending is what I do for a living.

But in the end, it’s not as easy as that. How can it be when Ian is all around me? Crowding me, pinning me down, making me remember everything that happened in that hotel room last night. Making me forget all the promises I made to myself about not sinking into him again.

I take a deep breath, then regret it immediately as the sexy and now familiar scent of bergamot and orange seeps into my senses, into my skin.

I try to move back, to put some distance between us, but he follows me and the overwhelming strength of his long, lean body presses against my breasts, my thighs.

I try to tune him out, but the dark sound of his voice, low and gravelly and just a little hoarse, murmurs hotly against my ear.

And his hand—the same hand that pulled my hair, that pressed bruises into my hips, that spanked me—is now resting against my collarbone, while his long, elegant fingers softly stroke my neck, my jaw, the hollow of my throat.

“Where are the bruises?” he asks quietly, his warm breath sending shivers up and down my spine.

Again I try to ignore him, but there’s something in the black magic of his voice that demands an answer. I want to resist on general principle, except…“Still there. I used makeup to cover them up.”

What is it about this man that makes it so necessary for me to give in to him? No one else would get away with what he so effortlessly does.

“I’m glad. No one needs to see those marks but you and me.” Except even as he’s saying it, his thumb is rubbing back and forth against the right edge of my jaw. It’s a tender spot, one that I know houses a bruise. Just like I know that when he finally stops rubbing it’s because the small, dark purple love bite he left there has finally been exposed.

I should be annoyed considering the effort I went through to cover it, but instead I’m just turned on. There’s a part of me that likes the fact that he knows exactly where the bruises are that he left on me. It’s the same part that likes knowing he wants to see those same bruises—and that he wants others to see them, too, no matter what he says.

The final chorus rings through the ballroom and never in my life have I been so grateful that a song is almost over. I’m trying to stay aloof here, trying not to let him know just how turned on he makes me, even after everything that’s happened. But the longer he holds me, the harder it is for me to fake it. The harder it is for me to keep my body under control.

So much for bringing him to his knees. At this point, I’m almost ready to drop to mine and to hell with anything that’s come before or will come after.

But just as Natalie croons the last lyrics, Ian whirls me around so that my back is to his front. It’s definitely his favorite position when we’re together and I fight the newest wave of arousal it brings on as I try to decide if I’m going to let him get away with holding me like this. Before I can make a decision, he loops one arm around the top of my shoulders and another around my hips even as he propels me toward the closest set of doors.

We make it there in seconds and he pushes the doors open, leads me onto one of the twelve small pocket balconies that surround the ballroom.

I’ve deliberately kept the lights off out here, choosing instead to string twinkle lights across the ceiling and through the wrought-iron railings. The result is fairy-like and sophisticated, light enough for people not to stumble around and dark enough to grant privacy to any guests who find their way outside.

Once the doors close behind us, I wait for Ian to make a move even though I’m still deciding how I’m going to respond. Am I going to be magnanimous or am I going to make him suffer? Am I going to let him kiss me or am I going to make him work for it? My panties might be damp, but I felt his very long, very hard cock pressed against me when we danced. I’m not the only one who’s aroused here.

I’ve just about decided to go the suffering route—at least until I get some kind of explanation for why he all but kicked me out of his hotel room this morning—but he doesn’t reach for me. Instead, he moves me forward, out of the shadows, and doesn’t stop until we’re looking out over the grounds of the estate.

We’re on the east side of the ballroom, though, which means the grounds we are looking over are the same ones that were ravaged this morning by Jensen and his crew. I try not to look at the lit path that used to be my rose trail, try not to look at the belladonna plants that have replaced them.

I’m afraid if I do I’ll freak out and tumble down the rabbit hole again. I’m barely holding on as it is and the last thing I want right now is to lose it in front of Ian. I may be f*cking him, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. Not after what happened in his hotel room this morning—and not when he’s writing an article about me. He might not be a typical journalist, but in my opinion, that only makes him more dangerous, not less. He sees too much, knows too much about the dark side of human nature.

And so I turn away from the gardens, choosing to face him instead of the desecrated mess below me. Sleeping with him might have been a mistake, but at least I remember every second of it. I know it’s real and, right now, that’s all that matters.