I shrugged a tiny shrug, and he cursed again.
“That damn shrug is the most infuriating thing I’ve ever seen! What does it mean? That you don’t give a damn, one way or another?”
I shrugged again. “It means tell me or don’t tell me. But if you want my information, you’ll give me yours.”
“About eight days, I think. The day before I met you,” he said, and I felt him watching my face like a hawk.
So it was as I had suspected, I thought, keeping my face blank. He does this all the time. I was right to place no stock in this.
I just nodded, though unaccountably, my chest hurt a little.
“Yes, you scare me,” I told him, after a very long silence, while I processed his answer. “But I’m irrevocably fucked up, so you excite me in equal measures. I find it liberating, to let someone control me. Someone who makes me tremble with fear. I’ve spent a great deal of my life running from the things that scare me, so this has been illuminating for me.” My voice was quiet, but that damned accent was back.
He stiffened and backed away from me, looking aghast.
I glanced over my shoulder, surprised. “Is that unusual? Isn’t that how this little game is played? I just assumed that most of the women who liked pain with pleasure were like me. But I suppose you are probably a far bigger expert than I am about that.”
I studied him closely. His face held a harsh sort of tension, though I could see that he was trying to hide it.
“I don’t want you to fear me,” he said, his voice raw. “I want to make you nervous and skittish and submissive, but not scared. I want you to trust me.”
I blinked at him, at a loss. “I’m sorry.”
I went back to cooking, and he fell silent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Mr. Charming
“You get a faint accent sometimes. What is that?” he asked, breaking the long silence.
It was almost a relief to have him do something other than just stare at me, brooding, though I didn’t care for the question. I would have preferred that he not notice my slip.
“Another exchange, so soon?” I asked cooly. “I would have thought the last one was enough for one night.”
He didn’t speak for a long time, though I knew without looking that he was angry.
“Fine. Ask me anything,” he said through clenched teeth.
“How many women have you slept with?” I asked, and immediately wanted to kick myself. If I was going to reveal my feelings so recklessly, I would have preferred a better question.
“A lot. I haven’t been counting. More than I’m proud of. Mostly submissive’s in the last five years or so, and, for the most part, very short acquaintances.”
“Have you ever had a serious relationship?” I plowed on, hoping he wouldn’t make me reveal two things as well, though if he tried, I was ready to point out that he hadn’t technically answered my first question.
“No. I was basically a slut in college, if I’m honest. I fucked any hot woman I saw. And after that, I found girls with very specific tastes, but it was never about anything but sex and dominance.”
I sighed, not knowing if I was relieved or appalled. I’d have to examine my feelings later.
“I was born in the states,” I began. “My parents, however, were both from Sweden and spoke with heavy accents. I had a slight accent myself, until they were gone. Then I tried to lose it. It comes back sometimes. I don’t know why.”
“It’s lovely. I don’t know why you would make an effort to disguise it.”
I gave him my little shrug, not looking at him. “Stephan and I stood out enough already. We attended a few high schools together. We were inseparable even then, but I didn’t want to make us stand out even more with a strange accent. We were already the only two ridiculously tall blonds at every school we went to. We were a head taller than everyone else there.”
I glanced at him.
He was focused on me with that certain look on his face that made me think he was soaking up every scrap of information I fed him.
I fell silent. He had actually gotten me to chat about myself. I was a little dismayed at the realization.
Eventually James went back to answering his phone, and I went outside to put the chicken on my tiny charcoal grill. I texted Stephan that dinner would be ready in twenty minutes.
He brought a bottle of red wine, revealing it with a flourish.
I gave him a wry smile. We both knew he would be the only one drinking it. He grinned back, going directly into the kitchen to open it and pour himself a glass.
“Would anyone like some?” he asked politely.
James shook his head, ending his phone call quickly.
I refused, and James sent me a warm look. The man did not like alcohol, it was clear.