Permanent Marker (The Kinky Truth)

by Angel Payne

“And you’re what, Ms. Fabian?”

  Hell.

  Confronting his stare now was like standing naked in the summer sun—with all the resulting heat to the layers of her sex. “You’re…overwhelmed.”

  A smirk inched back across his lips. “Overwhelmed isn’t bad, Ms. Fabian. Sometimes you can’t, and you won’t, control everything.”

  “So what then? You surrender and get yourself killed?”

  “Sometimes you surrender in order to survive. Sometimes surrender is your freedom.”

  Air was becoming a rare commodity to her lungs. He was so close. Too close. Too strong, hard, golden, and beautiful…and infuriatingly sure of himself.

  Especially as she realized, with every instinct in her body, he wasn’t talking about the mission anymore.

  Damn him.

  She fought his little trick with an irritated snap. “I respectfully disagree.”

  He reacted to that with leonine grace, returning to his feet in a couple of smooth steps. But his gaze, hard as stone again, never left her. “Overwhelmed is inevitable.” His voice drilled into her with the same unflinching intent. His words weren’t conjecture. He gave them to her as pure, hard fact. “It. Will. Happen. And the only thing you can do is be prepared, Ms. Fabian—to accept it.”

  She parted her lips a little, letting him see her locked teeth. “Accepting dangerous plans isn’t what I do anymore, Senator.”

  “Then for the first time, I am worried about your fate on this project, Ms. Fabian.”

  Okay, forget the emotional sunburn. He’d just pulled out her spirit, and fried it to a crisp. As Rose blinked from the blow, Kai obliged the class by filling the air with a low whistle. “Oooh! Senator Moore throws down!”

  “Shut up, Mr. Thomas.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mark gave her one last look, nearly dismissive in how icy it was, before looking out across the room once more. “All right, I want everyone at page fifty in your study manuals. We’ll start in on daily rituals and project work habits until first break in a couple of hours.”

  Chapter Seven

  If she checked her watch one more time, Mark was certain she’d bust the thing from overuse.

  Under other circumstances, he would’ve chuckled at the way he’d clearly pushed some of her buttons. Correction: had nearly short-circuited that control panel she’d worn in here this morning. And yes, he would have laughed at his handiwork—if that had been his intention. After secretly shadowing her back to her room last night to make sure she got there in one piece, he’d taken a walk on the beach in hopes of clearing his head about the way things had gone in the fitness room. Maybe, he’d thought, he could dissect why it went down that way. If he could drill it down to that, discern why he’d gone right to the discipline and the domination with her, he could purge the whole thing and write it off as the aberration she insisted it was.

  Instead he’d replayed every second of the episode again. Then again. The rightness of it. The perfection of her submission. The beautiful notes of her climax, and every gorgeous tear of her breakdown in his arms afterward. And yes, the glory of what she’d become, and the triumph of what he’d discovered in himself again.

  All of it…all the way up to the moment she’d bolted.

  Damn it, he needed to talk to her again. He had to get into her head just one more time. Every instinct in his head screamed for it. He couldn’t let her go on thinking there was something wrong with who she instinctively was created to be…all the joy she was meant to have…

  Suddenly, the suit, the tie, and the room itself weren’t the only things that felt too tight and hot. Even in her ire, maybe especially in it, she was a delicious mix of movement and attitude that aroused him with visceral force. He observed the feisty little stabs of her hands as she grabbed water and a tea bag from the catering table in their break patio, then bypassed the platter full of doughnuts and cookies to press against a wall, brooding at the world like she wanted her orange pekoe to turn into a murder dagger. Her nostrils flared, shadows clashed in her eyes, and her mouth was a twist of stewing-in-my-own-juices conflict.

  She needed some time. His instinct also told him that. A little time, a lot of patience.

  He let out a low growl at that. There was his damn rub. He had plenty of the latter, but none of the first.

  “None” wasn’t a word that sat well in his vocabulary.

  And damn it, if he could speed shit along on Capitol Hill, this should be a cakewalk.

  With renewed purpose, he strode across the patio as if needing to go check on something at the hotel’s front desk, making sure his path took him past Rose. As he expected, she let out a little snort. As he hoped, she tossed her tea and followed him.

  “Senator!”

  Her shout stopped him in front of the hotel’s bar. The place was dark right now, scrubbed up from last night’s revelries, though the air still carried the inevitable aftermath of spilled booze, sweaty bodies, and salty snacks. He paused, leaning on the empty hostess podium with a pretense of mild surprise.

  “Miss Fabian. Hello. What’s on your mind?”

  No pretense in her, on the other hand. What thin veneer she had on her ire came off as she closed the distance to him, then dug her nails into his arm with the force of a pissed-off sand crab. She dragged him deeper into the murky room, glancing to make sure they were alone.

  “I think you already know what’s on my mind.”

  He tilted his head. “I’m many things, Ms. Fabian, but mind reader isn’t one of them. And even if you’re right and I do know, what makes you think I’d presume how you’ve processed your thoughts, or would let you get away with not talking to me about it?” He savored the startled flare of her lashes and took advantage of tumbling her more off-center. With a deliberate step, he got close enough to make her head fall back. “Speak up. Let’s hear it, pet.”

  “S-stop calling me that.”

  He dipped his head a little. “Have dinner with me tonight, and I’ll consider it.”

  “That’s extortion!”

  “That’s negotiation.” He couldn’t help it. Her neck called to his fingers, so creamy and elegant. It felt like silk as he caressed from her ear to her collarbone. “And I’m very good at it.”

  Her breath audibly hitched. She jerked back. Well, tried to. He was ready for the move and counteracted it by catching her nape and locking her in place. She countered with a harsh huff. “Okay, fine. You want me to talk? Here’s me talking. What the hell were you trying to pull in there? Is that some kind of specialty test for the students you want to drive the craziest? Is that the reason for the special suit today?” He willed everything south of his eyes into complete composure. That forced her to meet his gaze directly again.

  “I merely bridged off the answer you gave, Ms. Fabian. Extemporization is another handy skill for this project. I happen to be very good at that, as well.”

  She folded her arms. “Extemporization is one thing. Taking the conversation totally off subject, then toting it across the line you did, is another.”

  “You’re right.” He curled his other arm around her, pressing his hand into the dip just above her delectable backside. “But I achieved my target goal.” Her gaze lifted in open question, and he answered by curling his grip yet tighter. “I’m standing here, holding you.”

  “Am I supposed to congratulate you?”

  Mark practically felt the furious thrum of her blood in every pulse through his veins. He looked at the copper tints in her eyes, betraying the awakening in her senses. He savored it all like getting to an oasis after four years of the desert. A rumble prowled up his throat, and he pulled her closer. God, he loved the way she bent for him, innately soft and compliant beneath his strength.

  “You’re supposed to do whatever you want with me. That’s because, sooner or later, I’m going to do whatever I want with you.”

  He lowered his nose to her neck in time to feel her heavy swallow. Still she stammered, “Y-you’re extemporiz
ing into the realm of fantasy now, Senator.”

  “I’m very good at making fantasies come true, Ms. Fabian.”

  “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

  “Yes. Waiting.” He joined his mouth to his cause, wetting her skin with a small kiss. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

  Her chest rose and fell against his. He felt every beat of her effort to steady the pulse now hammering beneath his mouth. “How about, ‘have dinner with me tonight’ please?”

  “How about, ‘have dinner with me tonight, and I’ll spare you an afternoon of further extemporization’?”

  She laughed. At first. He savored how the vibration coursed along her neck, flowing into his beard, then his skin. He made it a point to enjoy it, because in a second or two—

  She’d yank back like she did now.

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  He closed back in on her. “Try me.” There was nothing light in his words now. If she wouldn’t give him credence in Romeo mode, he’d go straight to being Tybalt.

  She was utterly still for a long moment. Only the depths of her eyes moved, anxiously exploring his face.

  “Why?” she finally blurted. “What good is it going to do?”

  “Because we need to talk. Just talk, Rose. You can’t deny this. You can’t ignore the way our bodies, our souls, shout to each other. We owe it to fate, to ourselves, to give it a fair conversation with no distractions. No double meanings. No noise. No waterfalls. No intrusions.”

  “No jump ropes?”

  He brushed a strand of her mahogany hair from where it fell across her gaze. “You liked the jump ropes.” Her hair was thick and warm against his fingers. He gathered more of it in his hold to blend the strand into the rest. “I think your word was ‘wonderful.’” Her throat tightened from his touch, a sight he watched in fascination. She was all over the place in her message now, and he savored the little victory.

  “I also think red velvet ice cream is wonderful. That doesn’t mean it’s good for me.”

  With more calculated intent, he pulled back. She blinked, taken aback, further fulfilling his objective. “Suit yourself,” he drawled. “I look forward to this afternoon’s session, then.”

  She jerked her chin up, again a mesmerizing sight. “Maybe I’ll just be sick this afternoon.”

  “And tomorrow morning too? And every day for the next six days?”

  He could practically hear her teeth grinding through the next thirty seconds.

  “Why are you being so—”

  She snorted herself into silence. Mark’s teeth locked with the effort of hiding his smile. Her torment, battling her honor of him as a teacher against her desire for him as a man, was a bittersweet and beguiling sight.

  “Why am I being so what?” He pulled off his suit jacket, tossed it on the bar, and then did the same with his tie. “I’m not Senator Moore right now. I’m not your trainer or your superior. So what am I, Rose?”

  The curves of her face ignited with eager fire. “Obstinate,” she declared. “You’re being an obstinate, importunate, relentless—”

  “Extemporizing.” He finally gave in to a grin. “Don’t forget that.”

  “Ass!” she countered. “Yes. An ass. A man has one of the most brilliant and stimulating minds I’ve ever encountered, which can’t seem to think its way past the fact that this”—she toggled a finger between both of them—“does not make sense! At all.”

  It was surprisingly easy to keep the grin going. “Thank you for your honesty. Now you’re forbidden from saying that again until after dinner.”

  “Forbidden? Huh; really? Says you and what? Your jump ropes again? Unless you conveniently packed your floggers for a just-in-case scenario?”

  He let the smile fade. Then took a step toward her. Just one. “You really want to push me on this, pet?”

  “‘Pet.’” She muttered it like referring to dog crap. “We’re going to talk about that at dinner too.”

  “Perhaps we will.”

  His quiet, satisfied tone coincided with Rose’s heavy sigh. She just realized what she’d agreed to.

  “Fine,” she spat. “Where? What time?”

  “I’ll come for you. Eight o’clock.” He couldn’t help brushing her cheek one more time with his knuckles. “Thank you, sweet Rose.”

  “You’re welcome, extemporizing ass.”

  Chapter Eight

  The knock on her room door came at the stroke of eight. Rose expected he’d be on time, but she jumped anyway, trying to swallow back the nerves stampeding from her stomach to her throat. “It’s only dinner,” she muttered. “You’re only talking. He said that. You’re only going to talk. And you’re going to do just that. You’re going to set him straight about why none of this makes sense, no matter how much his thunder sets off your lightning. You’re going to tell him you’re off-limits, and there’s going to be no more tying up, pinning down, or senses theft again.”

  Which is why, of course, she’d thought of nothing else all afternoon.

  “Get over it,” she muttered at herself. “Don’t beat yourself up. Just focus on what you need to say to him now.”

  She dropped her head in a sharp nod, forcing her thoughts to realign as she smoothed her skirt and checked herself in the mirror. For the fifteenth time, she questioned her wisdom in choosing the outfit. It’d been a last-minute toss into her suitcase, as she was sure she’d never need something like the white wraparound skirt and matching one-shouldered blouse. The ensemble still felt utterly too revealing for this occasion, but her other choices were casual business-suit sets, work-out clothes, pool sarongs, and a couple of bathing suits. And considering she had no idea where they were going for dinner, the Beyoncé-meets-Margaritaville look was the winner by default.

  That solidified her resolve to throw aside the obsessions of the afternoon and keep her head snapped on straight tonight. Her body was officially cut out of the equation.

  Feeling strong and clear, she stamped a professional smile on her face and opened the door.

  Her smile dropped. An impeccable dark suit filled her doorway, but Mark Moore wasn’t in it. The square-jawed guy with the military hair, and the security radio in his hand gave her a deferential nod before speaking in a warm Texas drawl.

  “Evenin’, Ms. Fabian. I’m Brandt Howell, GRI security team. The senator got a bit hung up and asked me to come escort you to him.”

  She blinked. “Hung up? Is he okay?” And why did he have company security come get her, instead of just calling and saying he’d be late? Dealing with this man was like navigating a very twisted road.

  “Oh, yeah!” Brandt’s grin took up half his face. “Totally fine, darlin’. He just got to flapping lips with the big man, the way they always do, and lost track of the time. You ready?”

  “Uh, yeah.” She didn’t have the guts to ask what he meant by “big man,” since Brandt implied she already knew. Her curiosity spiked with every step they took toward the part of the hotel where the larger suites and VIP villas were located. When they arrived at an arched, ornate doorway, she went ahead and let nervous back in to the party of her emotions.

  The next second, nervous stepped aside for staggered. And to her horror, a case of complete speechlessness.

  Brandt’s “big man” was the big man. Dante Tieri, CEO of Global Restoration. She tried to imagine her eyes were a movie camera and she could just pull focus and change the sight, but the man’s distinct, tall form was still parked on a couch opposite Mark, a tumbler of scotch balanced between his hands as he leaned forward, apparently enraptured by every word from Mark’s lips. Mark took a sip from his own drink before he cracked some quiet joke, making Mr. Tieri throw back his head with its famous thick and tumbling hair. Rose scowled and blinked hard. Was Mr. Arrogance really sitting there trading one-liners with Dante freaking Tieri?

  She shifted, feeling like she’d walked in on something she shouldn’t have.

  “Ms. Fabian.”

 
His voice claimed the word, making it caress and command at once. Her blood went hot, and her nerves turned to icicles.

  She plastered the professional smile back on. “Good evening, Senator. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t realize you still were…uh…”

  What? In a meeting? Flapping lips, as Brandt put it? Holding court, as she saw it? Well, that explained the suit now. Damn, it had to be his thirteenth hour in the thing, and he still looked cool, impeccable, and chiseled as a Dolce & Gabbana ad in it too.

  “You’re not interrupting. Inferno Boy and I are just finishing up.” His entire face warmed as he took her in, eyes crinkling and lips parting, before he pressed a hand to the small of her back and led her over to—Inferno Boy? Now there was an impression impossible to shake for a long time. Like forever.

  “Mr. Tieri,” she murmured. “Hello. I’m—”

  “Rose Fabian.” The head of her company had already gotten up to extend his hand, flashing the signature smile with which, according to the tabloids, he’d shattered supermodels’ hearts across the globe. Now face-to-face with the full wattage of the look, Rose understood why. “I already know all about you,” he said. “Mark’s been singing your praises for the last hour.”

  “Dante.” It sounded almost like a reprimand. “My daughter does the singing, not me.”

  Tieri shot his friend a knowing snort. “Yeah. How could I forget?” He flashed the signature grin at her again. “Scratch the singing. You’re still his star student.” A wink followed, really more a kiss of the man’s upper cheek to the corner of his eye. “And I’d like to thank you for it. Good work, Ms. Fabian. It’s an honor to have you on the Baghdad team.” After releasing her hand, he drawled, “Later, Marker Man. Thanks for the update. You’re right. It was worth touching down from Venezuela. So let’s go take that dive after you get back, yes?”

  “As long as it’s your turn to pick up the beer tab after.”

  “Right!”

  Dante Tieri drew out the vowel on that parting shot, letting himself out and taking Brandt with him.