Losing Control(41)
“There’s a walk-in attached to the bathroom. Should be in there.” He leans up on one arm, the blankets falling aside to reveal his perfect chest. “Or you can wear this.”
He tosses me the blue T-shirt he had on earlier. Reflexively I catch it and hold it to my nose, breathing deeply of Ian Kerr. God, he smells so good. Over his shirt, our eyes meet. His have taken on a feral glow. “Wear the shirt, Tiny,” he commands. And this time my reaction is a purely sexual one.
I imagine him ordering me to do all sorts of things in this bedroom and me liking it very much. I back away into the bathroom and lean against the door, breathing heavily. It’s like he can touch me with his words. Against my better judgment, I slip the T-shirt over my head.
He says nothing when I climb into bed next to him. I notice he sleeps on the right side of the bed, closest to the door. When my back hits the mattress, I release a moan of pleasure.
“How long has it been?”
“Months.”
He grunts. “Who was he?”
“Who was who?”
“The guy you were sleeping with months ago.” He sounds like he’s speaking through gritted teeth. When I look at him, it’s too dark to tell if his eyes are even open.
“What are you talking about?”
“What’s this ‘months’ you are referring to?”
“That’s how long it’s been since I’ve slept on anything but the pullout.” I shake my head. “How long has it been for you?”
“I sleep in a real bed every night, bunny,” he says with obvious amusement.
“Ha. Ha. Fine.” I turn over on my side and thump my pillow. “It’s probably yesterday. FYI, I’m an only child. I don’t like to share.”
“Back at you,” he says. “I’m not fond of the idea of you sleeping with anyone else ever again.”
I don’t fall asleep immediately because having a man in bed with me is just strange. I hardly ever slept with Colin, my one serious boyfriend, and the few random hookups since him didn’t warrant a sleepover. Sleeping with someone can be more intimate than fucking him.
“Ever again?”
“Ever again.” He confirms in a husky voice, knowing immediately what I’m talking about.
“Ever seems like a long time, or is that a rich person’s term for like six months?”
He chuckles. “You define the length of time that makes you feel comfortable, bunny.”
“I can’t decide if ‘bunny’ is a term of endearment or an insult.”
“Endearment.”
“Seems kind of insulting sometimes. I need to pick out a nickname for you.”
“I thought I was Bruce Wayne.”
Ian rolls me to my side and begins to rub my back, his hand underneath my shirt, lightly stroking my shoulder blades, tracing my spine, and then sweeping back up again. It feels good and would be non-sexual if not for the hard-on the size of the Empire State Building pressed against my ass.
“That’s not insulting in any way.”
“You’re right. I like being compared to a superhero.”
“But you call me ‘bunny.’ That’s not kick-ass or super in any way.”
“You looked like a scared bunny the day I saw you outside the wig shop. You wanted to come with me but were afraid, and you hopped on your bike and rode away.” He sounds so smug, but I’m tired. The feel of his hand as it rubs away the pains of my long bike ride is too good to mount a protest against. “I appreciate the Bruce Wayne imagery, and I have to tell you I’ve always wanted the Batmobile.”
“You can’t buy that with all your money?”
“Unfortunately no. Technology hasn’t advanced that far yet.”
“So if I ever come into a lot of money, the perfect gift for the man who has everything is a Batmobile?”
“Don’t forget the butler. I want Alfred, too. Steve is no Alfred.”
“I’m telling Steve that the next time I see him.” I can barely force the words out as I get drowsier with each pass of his hand.
“You do that. And tell him I want him to start dressing like a butler and referring to me as ‘sir.’”
“Do you think he’ll change his behavior?”
“Yeah, I think he’ll become more of a prick.”
“If you don’t like him, why do you employ him?”
“Who says I don’t like him?” Ian pulls me snug against his body. I feel his hard chest around my back and the massive boner wedged even tighter against my ass. He throws one arm around my waist. A heavy calf slides over my legs, and I’m pinned down like a butterfly on a mat. And it feels great. “I fucking love Steve, but he’s got two emotional settings: stoic and a little less stoic.” His quiet laugh ruffles my hair.