The Phoenix Candidate(3)

He takes a step closer, one foot between mine, our bodies aligned to press chest to chest, so I can feel the length of him. The hardness. The tightly wound coil within him.

His hand traces my jaw, then it slides to the back of my neck and plunges into the long, dark curls at my nape. His stubble tickles my cheek as his lips explore my jaw line: not kissing exactly, just brushing his lips.

He inhales, his chest expanding against mine. His touch makes me throb and shiver, but I can’t get out of my own head. We are consenting adults. We are consenting adults. Doubts creep in.

“Stop it.” His voice is low and ragged, his lips vibrating against the side of my neck where he tastes me. “Stop overthinking this, Grace.”

I sigh and try to force my doubts away, but it only makes them stronger, makes my body more rigid. Jared drops his hands and pulls back, putting a couple of feet between us.

This is awkward. “What?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” He turns to the fridge, pours a mini of bourbon in a glass and then sits in the lone club chair in the hotel room. Now I’m standing, stupidly, ten feet from him.

He crosses his legs. “Take off the dress.”

“Here?”

“Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but it gets my hackles up. I hate being told what to do. “Slowly.”

I close my eyes, debating whether to run from this room while I still have my clothes on and wits about me, or follow his command and see where it leads. Loneliness slams into my chest, the knowledge of what’s waiting back at my condo, and my hesitant hand pushes a sleeve off my shoulder, exposing the top edge of my strapless bra.

Jared takes a drink, his eyes burning into me. “Keep going.”

I’ve never in my life stripped for a man. My hand shakes as I push the other sleeve off my shoulder and then the stretchy material down my chest, to my waist. I grip the roll of material with both hands and turn around, trying for a bit of modesty.

“Don’t overthink it, Grace,” Jared repeats. “Just be here with me.”

Be here with me. Not on the House floor. Not in my past. Not weighing the pros and cons of every action. Just here. Now.

I slide my dress down over my hips, back still to him, revealing barely-there panties. I turn and his controlled expression is taut, as if he’s at war with himself. His eyes drop to the carpet.

“Kneel.”

What the fuck? This game we’re playing is almost a war of wills—maybe I liked him better when he was sweet and crinkly-eyed and kissing my neck, but maybe I like him better now, his intensity liquefying my insides the same way he did when he grabbed my hips in the bar and told me no stories, no strings, and no regrets.

Fuck regret. A whole boatload of regret and a dollar won’t buy anything but a lottery ticket.

“I won’t repeat myself, Grace.” Jared’s tone is warning.

And so, in my heels and underwear, I kneel.

“Crawl to me.”

Every warning bell goes off in my head, a five-alarm fire, but my body is electrified, not horrified, by his command. For once in my life, I listen to it, rather than parsing out the logic in my head. The rational part of me would still be sipping her pinot gris at the bar.

I lower my hands to the carpet but never let my gaze leave his. Jared uncrosses his legs as I crawl toward him, my eyes precisely even with the bulge in his jeans.

I stop at the chair, my head even with his knees.

“Take my belt off.” I straighten, still on my knees, the toes of my heels digging into the hotel room’s plush carpet. My fingers work his belt open and I trail a hand down the fly of his jeans, making him hiss.

I pull his belt free and drop it, and I release the top button of his jeans. I draw down the zipper until I can pull his white button-down shirt free and the jeans lay open to reveal black boxer briefs.

Jared is watching me from beneath lowered lids fringed with dark lashes, one hand gripping the arm of the club chair, the other holding his glass. He’s giving me no signals to continue—or to stop—but my chest rises with eager breaths. I want more.

I unbutton his shirt, exposing a smooth chest with just the right amount of dark, curling hair. I trace my hands over his stomach, over the material of his boxer briefs, and I relish the satisfying moan I get as I stroke the length of him.

“What do you want now?” I ask, not quite chickening out of taking the next step, but close.

“I want you, Grace. I just needed to know if you were here with me, or off somewhere with other thoughts.” He sits forward and brings his face so close to mine that I can smell the bourbon on his breath. “I don’t do anything half-assed or halfway.”