I finish my swim and use the stairs to exit the water, studying him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for his gaze to stray. It doesn’t.
He’s told me time and time again he enjoys looking at me, but that isn’t the only reason he watches me. It’s his nature to be in charge of everything, to be aware of everything going on around him. And around me. If he had it his way, he’d control the air I breathe, the water on my skin, and the beat of my heart.
I love that about him, and I suppose it means I’m submissive. But I also like making him work for it. To keep things challenging and interesting.
When he gets his way—he usually does—I don’t mind. Because his intent is genuine. He doesn’t try to oppress or harm or degrade me. He wants to protect me from all of life’s dangers, like drowning in a pool, getting robbed in my unlocked house, and spending years mourning a dead man.
My chest clenches. I might whine about him being an overprotective controller, but he knows as well as I do his overbearing ways please me to no end.
As I dry off, he stands and follows me to his bedroom and into his closet. I drop the towel and reach for the straps on my shoulder, eying his hovering frame in the doorway.
“A little privacy?” I give him wide, innocent eyes.
He knows I’m not modest about nudity. He also understands my need for inhibition during this confusing point in our relationship. Yet he makes no move to leave.
Instead, he stands taller, hands on his hips with his chest open. Like a fluffed rooster with a make-me-if-you-dare attitude.
The simplest way to battle stubborn Trace Savoy is to simply not submit, which I think he actually gets off on.
First step is to out-stare him, and I’m not above cheating. The trick is to look at the bridge of his nose because seriously, his eyes are bone-melting lasers, and no one can compete with that.
His nose is perfect like the rest of him. It fits his face, proportional and aristocratic with sleek sidewalls that support a blocky masculine shape and a natural degree of flatness sloping down the bridge tip.
Okay, it’s just a damn nose. I really want to fall into the luster of his cerulean eyes, but I also want to win.
“I can do this all night.” I feel myself caving by the second.
“Or you could just remove the swimsuit.” He adopts a wider stance, legs apart, shoulders back, with those pools of ice blue never looking away.
Time for the second step. Touch him, before he touches me. Because if I make the first move, I get the upper-hand, right?
I reach out and glide my fingers along his jaw, dipping into that sexy hollow behind his necktie. “Turn around. I’ll just be a second.”
He slowly releases a breath and scowls his nonconsent.
My gaze slips, as if pulled and grabbed by his tractor-beam eyes. It’s a trap. I’m not holding his unflinching eye contact. He’s holding me. With just a look, I’m caught and shackled.
Damn. This is no longer about removing my swimsuit. It’s become a battle of wills, and I don’t know why, but I want to beat him.
The third step in a stand-off with a man like Trace is to appear friendly and demure while ignoring his finespun signals. Like the way his fingers slide into his pants pockets with thumbs angling toward his cock, as if to remind me who has the biggest tool.
Seeing how I don’t have a tool and the whole point of this charade is to not draw his attention to the assets I do have, I’m at a loss. But I can negotiate. Somehow I managed to haggle a helluva counteroffer when he hired me to dance at Bissara.
“Where are you sleeping tonight?” I give him my back and search the drawers for pajamas.
I won’t find any, because I’ve only ever slept naked with Trace.
“I’m sleeping in the bed.” His deep timbre shivers up my spine. “With you.”
“On two conditions.”
“It’s nonnegotiable.”
I won’t let Cole share my bed, and I should apply the same rule with Trace. But I’ll make an exception, because I unequivocally trust Trace’s self-control. Cole? Not so much.
But I’m only doing this if Trace meets my conditions.
“The first condition,” I say. “I sleep in clothes, and they remain on all night.”
His hand moves in my periphery, yanking a white button-up from one of his hangers and holding it in front of me.
The shirt is thin, almost see-through, but I accept it and remove a pair of white panties from a drawer.
“The second condition.” I peer at the hovering scowl behind me. “Step out while I dress.”
“This is bullshit, and you know it.” He drifts closer, his chest brushing my back, as he caresses his hands over my shoulders, slipping the straps down my arms. “I’ve kissed every inch of your body. I know each curve, dip, and delicate freckle. You have nothing to hide—”