Losing Control(39)
“So sell it.”
“I will. In fact, the broker came over and met your mother today. She promised to help keep it clean and that you and she would vacate the premises when it came time to move. Sophie understood that it was easier to sell if it looked like people were living here instead of a sterile staged place that couldn’t get off the market for some hidden reason.”
“Oh.” That sounded really reasonable. “I guess I won’t get used to being here. How long do we have?” I try not to sound completely deflated by this news. I’d spent the entire day justifying how it was okay to accept this generosity, only to find we will be pushed out soon. I cast a longing glance behind me at the marble counters and the white, shiny glass appliances. This place is so nice that stainless steel is too down-market.
“Long enough for you to find your own place. With the money I’m paying you and the money you’re likely getting from Malcolm, you should be able to find something better and safer than where you were living.”
The doorbell rings, and Ian strides over to retrieve my food. Less than fifteen minutes. That’s some amazing service.
“What’s this about insurance?” I ask, taking a huge bite of the grilled cheese. It’s delicious and I gobble down half the sandwich in no time.
“Jesus, Tiny, why is everything a battle?” He runs a hand through hair that already looks like it lost a fight with a pillow.
“Jesus, Ian, why does everything have to be your way?”
“My way is best.” He leans forward and grabs a bite of the other half of my sandwich. I bat his hand away and he retreats, sucking some extra cheese off his thumb. My lower body stirs at that simple sight.
“Arrogant much?”
He just smiles and taps the side of my plate. I finish eating in silence. Leaning back in the chair, I stretch and then pat my belly. “God, I’m going to sleep so good tonight,” I say absently.
Ian makes a sound—something between a grunt and a cough. “I hope so.”
“By myself,” I look at him reprovingly. “I want you to explain to me why I’m an employee of Kerr Industries. Is this for real? I thought the project was an off-the-books sort of thing.”
Instead of answering my question, Ian asks, “How many boyfriends have you had?”
The non sequitur is so bizarre that my answer tumbles out before I can stop it. “A few.”
“And did you have such an immediate visceral attraction that you couldn’t stop thinking about them? That thoughts of them interrupted meetings and business deals and evenings out with other people?”
The thought of what other people constitutes burns the back of my throat like an acid wash, but I’ve no right to be jealous that Ian has had other women. “So you’re saying that the sight of me in my spandex bike shorts made you instantly attracted?”
“Maybe. Maybe it’s instant attraction followed by finding out other things that make you more intriguing.” He is leaning toward me now, both elbows on the table, fingers clasped together.
“Because I’m this challenge?” I roll my eyes and force out a laugh because earnest Ian is too much of a threat to my self control. It’s easier when I’m mad at him, when I’m counting all the imperious means he employs in an effort to control me. “That’s such a lame pickup line.”
“Do you know how many people tell me ‘no’ right now? Maybe five. None of them are sleeping with me. I won’t give you a sob story about how hard it is to meet women because obviously that is not a problem. The challenge is finding the right one who is more interested in things outside of what I can provide.”
“Really? Because you play so hard to get with your funds. Christ. The only reason I’m here is for the money.” I gesture toward the apartment.
“If I believed that for an instant, you wouldn’t be here,” he retorts.
“I think your cock is deluding you. My hard limits aren’t very hard when it comes to money.”
“Fine,” he says impatiently. He flexes his fingers as if imagining how good my neck would feel being squeezed between them. “What else will do you for money? Will you come over here and suck my cock?"
“How much?” I say recklessly. His green eyes are glittering with anger. Or maybe with desire? I don’t really know, and I’m a little afraid to find out.
“How much do you charge?” He flings back.
It’s like we’re playing verbal chicken, neither one of us wanting to swerve off our stupid road regardless of the impending injury.
We stare at each other, the air around us so charged I’m surprised the whole place doesn’t explode. I start to rise from my chair and he shifts backward, his powerful thighs falling open. Are we really doing this? I hold my breath and sink down onto my knees between his legs. Our eyes are locked together and though I can’t read his clearly, he must see the disbelief in mine.