“Hi, sexy.” I lower my tiptoes to the tiles.
He’s so much taller than me I have to tilt my head way back to smile at him.
“Hi, gorgeous.” His expression softens, and he trails a knuckle along my jaw. “Thank you for the text last night. I won’t say I slept well, but your message made it easier. I missed you.”
“I missed you, too.” I glide my hands down the crisp lapels of his suit jacket.
“Stay with me tonight.”
“Okay.” I rest my cheek against his chest and close my eyes as I breathe in the seductive scent of his aftershave. “Swim with me?”
He holds me for a peaceful moment before stepping back to prowl a circle around me.
“If I get in the water with you while you’re wearing this…” He pinches the crisscrossed straps on my waist. “This abstinence bullshit ends.” Stopping behind me, he trails his fingers from my thighs to my ribs, his arms slipping under mine to flick the strings beneath my breasts. “Take this off.”
Tendrils of heat curl through my body, hardening my nipples and prickling my flesh. Taking off the swimsuit is a no-go. I’m tempted to grab his tie and tip him—suit and all—straight into the water with me. But he’d have to remove his ruined clothes. Then he’d be all wet and naked and irresistible.
Damn my no sex rule.
I twirl out of his grip, take a running leap toward the pool, and cannonball into the deep end. The water temperature is perfect as it rushes over my head and saturates my skin.
Skimming along the bottom, I swim toward the shallow end and come up for air near the stairs.
Trace lowers onto the edge of a lounger a few feet away. In his shiny shoes, starched black slacks, and tie, he should look out of place. But it’s the other way around, like the lapping sound of water and chlorine-dense atmosphere shouldn’t be here. The clothes and the surroundings don’t make the man. He sets the ambiance and commands the space, no matter what he’s wearing or where he is, as if his aura defines the very air that touches him.
Perched on the end of the lounger, he bends his knees, supporting his elbows and the lean of his upper body. His bearing exudes lazy nonchalance, but the glare in his arctic blue eyes reminds me he’s not at ease, not tonight. There are too many uncertainties about us and the future.
I wade over to him and fold my arms on the decking. “What did you and Cole talk about?”
“I will not spend my time with you discussing Cole.”
“So you’re going to pretend he doesn’t exist?”
“For now…yes.”
“We need to talk, Trace. Sooner rather than later. Like tonight.”
He stares at me, motionless, expressionless, without a glint of capitulation on his beautiful face.
I release a frustrated breath. “I’d like to swim for a few minutes. What are you going to do?”
“Watch you.”
He’s already watching me. Intensely. Compulsively. I look away, chewing the inside of my cheek. Sweet Jesus, this man…this buttoned-up, rigidly-layered, wickedly good-looking man with a gooey center is so deeply under my skin I can’t swallow the thought of separating myself from him. The agony of pushing him away would be unbearable.
Shaking off those thoughts, I propel my body into motion and slice through the water. Back and forth, I dive and float, without direction or purpose. But each time I come up for air, my gaze falls unerringly to his.
Still as a statue, his posture is that of a powerful man, as if to say, I’m the biggest and meanest in all the land and you better pay attention.
What’s remarkable is that he’s a leader without being aggressive or loud. He captures my attention with sophisticated subtleness—the cool tone of his voice and the calm calculation in his body language, like the know-it-all mannerism he always slips into with his hands clasped behind his back. He’s comfortable in his position no matter where he is or who he’s with. Including sitting in a humid pool room wearing a heavy suit.
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.”