“Those are your words,” he pointed out smoothly, “not mine.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Any more questions, my Lane?”
Right. Her mind went back to la-la land at the endearment. She should have more questions, she knew, but now all she could think of was she wanted to hear him say that again and again. That she was his—
“Maybe if you look away,” she suggested hesitantly, “I could maybe think of more questions.”
“Or maybe deep down inside you already know there’s nothing to question.” The smile he gave her was pure iniquity, almost like it was telling her to simply seize the day and forget about worrying.
Trust me, that immorally beautiful smile said. You will love being a masochist because I’ll be the one to torture you.
His smoldering gaze roamed her body, as if he was already thinking of ways to make her cry out—
Lane hastily took a sip of her milkshake. Gosh. Why did it feel like the place had suddenly become hot? She focused on the swirls of liquid in her drink, and without his heated gaze to distract Lane, the question she most needed to ask slowly came back.
“Does being a masochist really mean I’d be whipped and, well, be on the receiving end of pain?” When Angelo didn’t answer right away, she couldn’t help looking up—
His lips curved, as if he had only been silent to make her worry.
Oh!
Her toes curled at the sight even as she protested, “Stop teasing me, I’m being serious!” Lane wasn’t sure whom she was more irritated at – Angelo for always wanting to keep her on her toes, or at herself for actually feeling like that smile of his had been a reward.
“But I am being serious, too, tesoro. That was my way of making you realize the kind of masochist you are.” Before she could answer him, he had reached for her hand across the table, and she nearly jumped in shock.
“Most of them think it’s all about the physical pain, but it’s not.”
“Umm…” Lane could barely understand him. She was too busy trying not to swoon at the feel of his fingers twining with hers.
“A few of them are…different.” Angelo continued playing with her hand, alternating between stroking her knuckles and tracing random lines on the back of her hand.
She strove hard to concentrate on his words, but it was impossible. Gosh. Oh gosh. Her body was on fire, and her pulse was leaping madly at every leisurely stroke of his long, graceful fingers.
“Like you.”
His gaze cast a spell over her, and completely enthralled, she could only whisper dumbly, “Like me?”
The barest hint of a wicked smile slashed his lips. “Yes, my Lane. You’re different from most. You’re the kind who crave emotional torment, the kind who like being made to beg, forced, and blackmailed.”
When he finished speaking, weaving a spell so much darker and harder to resist, she could only surrender to it, saying dreamily, “Yes, I’m…”
No, wait.
What had he said?
Lane instinctively jerked her hand out of his hold, stiffening in her seat. “What did you say?”
He leaned back with a smirk. “You heard me.”
Most times she wanted to kiss him, but at that moment she had a surprising urge to slap his smirk off his too-beautiful face. She said fiercely, “I’m not an abuse victim waiting to happen!”
“I know that.” His smirk disappeared, but his voice remained calm as he continued, “And it’s where you’re wrong. Masochism isn’t about abuse at all. That’s just how people who don’t understand it twist things. It’s like what I said earlier, tesoro. Sadism and masochism is merely a form of pleasure, a specific way of making one feel good. And for masochists—” He shrugged. “Pain is the stimulus for pleasure.”
That was it? She gazed him uneasily. “You make it sound so simple—”
“Because it is.” Again, he caught her off guard, leaning forward as he reached for her face. “And you believe me, don’t you?” His gaze captured hers as he ran his knuckles on her cheek.
Every cell of her body came alive at the contact, and Lane’s eyes involuntarily drifted close to savor the feel of his touch. “Yes…” And then she realized what was happening. Her eyes flew open, and she said accusingly, “You’re making me say things again!”
He pulled away with a shrug, a gesture that was infuriatingly and effortlessly sexy at the same time. “Mi dispiace, tesoro, but is it my fault if it’s in you to obey me?”
She turned red and tried to hide her dismay behind a glare, sputtering, “So now I’m not just a weird masochist but a Sub, too?”