I walk into the office, determined to stay on the path, even as I close the door behind me.
Looking into his eyes I can read an encyclopedia’s worth of information. He wants me. He’s curious. Like me, he doesn’t know what to expect and he wants to know where the line is today, the line between pulling me in and pushing me away.
“It’s going to stop,” I say.
“It?” he asks from his seat.
My voice is even and so much cooler than my warming cheeks. “No more transgressions, no more mistakes. It’s done. Dave and I . . . we’ve decided on a ring.”
“Dave.” He says the name carefully as he rises and steps around his desk but not in front of it, still looking for that line in the sand. “That’s his name?”
I nod in acknowledgment. “He’s a good man. Kind, considerate . . . he buys me white roses.” The words are shooting out of my mouth like arrows but I have no aim. Not one has come close to hitting its mark.
“Then he doesn’t know you very well.”
“He’s known me for six years—most of my adult life.”
“Which means there’s no excuse for his ignorance.” He takes a step forward. “White roses are pretty but they have nothing to do with who you are. You’re more of an African violet. Have you ever seen an African violet?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a flower that often comes in the deepest of purples, the color of royalty.” He studies me, folding his arms casually across his broad chest. “Its petals are velvety; they actually seem to want to be touched. And at its center, it’s core, the very spot where the bees can coax out its nectar, it’s a vibrant gold. Its sensuality isn’t cartoonish like the Anthurium and it’s not as clichéd as the orchid, which is too fragile to be compared to you anyway. The African violet is strong, enticing, and its beauty can be seen, but to fully appreciate its depth, it needs to be touched. It’s a very intricate flower.”
“No,” I say, “I like traditional roses. I don’t care if they’re common. They’re simple, elegant . . . sweet.” I straighten my back but don’t meet his eyes. “It has to stop,” I whisper. “No more mistakes.”
“We haven’t made any mistakes. Everything we’ve done was considered and deliberate.”
“No, I didn’t think it through. I was . . . overwhelmed.”
He smiles again. I like his smile. I like the way it makes him look younger and mischievous. I like the way it heats the inside of my stomach . . . and other parts of me.
“I didn’t carry you away from the blackjack table,” he says. “You walked with me. You ordered whiskey.”
“It was just meant to be a drink.”
He takes another step forward.
“You rode the elevator to my room.”
Another step.
“You made yourself comfortable, accepted a glass of very expensive scotch.”
Another step.
“And when I tasted that scotch on your skin, you grabbed my shirt.”
And another. His hand reaches forward as he grabs the front of my white silk blouse. His other hand goes to my hip, then slides to my belly, then lower.
I gasp as he cups me.
“You asked me to take off your panties.”
The skirt I’m wearing is too loose today. It allows him too much access. I feel his hand press against the cloth that separates skin from skin, applying just the right amount of pressure. I dig my nails deeper into my palms but the pain is dulling, becoming insignificant in the face of other sensations.
“Ask me to stop and I will,” he says quietly. “But don’t tell me that it’s going to stop. This isn’t an it. This is you and this is me. We’ve always had the option of restraint. We’ve had the power to say no.” He lessens the pressure of his hand. “Or yes,” and with that word his hand begins to move, back and forth. I feel myself respond, my hips aching to move along with the motion.
“Ask me to stop, Kasie, if that’s what you want. All you have to do is ask.”
“Mr. Dade,” I whisper before breathing, “Robert.”
“Yes.” He says. The word doesn’t sound like a question. It’s a proclamation. A statement of what is and what isn’t.
I grasp the hand that still holds my shirt, I look into those eyes, I read what’s there.
“Robert Dade,” I say quietly, “stop.”
His hands fall away. Without breaking eye contact he takes a step back. My breathing is still irregular. I wait for my arousal to dissipate. But it doesn’t. It just shifts, morphs into something else.
Something that feels a lot like power.