by Angel Payne
She surrendered to a nervous laugh. At the renewed curiosity in his golden-silk eyes, she explained, “You sure you’re just a mild-mannered businessman, Mr. Burnett?”
“Define ‘mild-mannered.’” He kneaded his neck harder. “Why’d you ask?”
She settled her back against the cab’s door and regarded him for a long moment. “Because you talk just like the army sergeant who’s going to be my brother-in-law come New Year’s Eve.”
His expression didn’t change. But if it was true what the New-Agers said about a person’s energy having a color, his just amped from focused purple to alarmed crimson. Before she could discern why, he flashed an extra-smooth smile and countered, “You know, I’m tempted to boomerang that at you.”
What was this? A hint at playful? The switch-up gave her hope of gaining back some composure. “Is that so?”
The man leaned forward, matching the angle of his head to hers. “Are you sure you’re just a mild-mannered dancer, Miss Chestain?”
She arched a brow. “You’re asking that of a Las Vegas backup dancer, mister. They make us check our ‘mild-mannered’ cards at the door.”
“Ahhh, yes. That’s right. A dancer for a ‘hot’ Sin City show.”
“Did Brynn and El tell you that?”
“They supplied the ‘hot’ part. The rest is original material.”
She tossed her head the other way, giving the move some spunk. The man was comfortable to talk to when she stopped fantasizing about him with a paddle in his grip or his hand on her ass. “You know ‘Sin City’ isn’t exactly new, right?”
She raised a hand to put the cliché into air quotes but lowered it when he straightened his head, zapping her with the full, delicious effect of his darkening stare. “Sin itself isn’t original, little dancer. But what one does with it can redefine a man.” He jolted her anew when scooping up her hand, rotating it over, and then dipping his lips to the center of her palm. “Or a woman.”
So much for comfortable.
Or any semblance of rational.
Do it again. Oh God, please do it again.
Fortunately, her brain was more cooperative than her libido. One second of clarity later, she successfully yanked her hand back. “You’re a naughty man, Mr. Burnett.”
She didn’t have any strength—or motivation—to add humor. That didn’t stop the guy from smirking again, looking like a Survivor player who’d found the immunity idol. “Nah,” he drawled. “Just a grunt doing my job, ma’am.”
She narrowed her gaze. “Who really likes doing it with a shitload of those cute military words.”
For a second, long enough for her to notice, his smile wavered. “Some of my best friends are ground pounders,” he supplied. “That probably explains it.”
“Hmmm.”
She didn’t alter her gaze. He maintained his too.
“You don’t believe me,” he finally asserted.
Zoe bit the inside of her bottom lip. “Actually, I do. But that’s the trouble.”
He propped his head on a tripod of the fingers that had just been on her skin. “Why?”
She had an answer. But the best way to phrase it? Caramba. Thankfully, her confusion lasted for all of two seconds. “What the hell. It’s not like we’re going to see each other again.” She squared her shoulders. “Because there’s something else you’re not telling me, Mr. Burnett. Maybe a lot of something elses. And—”
“And?” His soft smile matched his prodding tone.
“And I can’t figure out why that bothers me.” She frowned and glanced back up. Not unexpectedly, his stare awaited her again, though now his neck was taut, and his strong lips pressed together. He seemed poised and ready.
For what?
“I understand that,” he murmured.
“You do?”
“I want to know more about you too.” Even as the driver guided the car around a tight turn, requiring him to grab Ellie’s calves to stop her from slipping off the seat, his focus didn’t waver. “A lot more than we can handle in a five-minute cab ride.”
Zoe had done her part to prevent El’s fall. But releasing her grip from her friend’s elbow played her hand back into Burnett’s grip. Her breath snagged as his fingers, massive and warm, closed around hers. Dios, he had big hands. So certain and strong. Was there a shred of truth in the adage about the size of a man’s hands in correlation to his other…parts?
Get your mind out of the gutter. Now.
Fat chance. She wet her lips before stammering, “Five minutes can be an eternity.”
He molded his hand tightly around hers. “Is that so?”
“Mmm-hmm. Just ask a dancer trying to look sexy during a major show finale at a dance rave pace.”
He chuckled. The expression spread over his face, igniting it into a captivating sight. She’d have no trouble with taking up a new hobby—counting the flecks of topaz in his eyes. “You have a very good point.” Just as quickly, those specks heated. “So maybe we should take full advantage of our eternity.”
Once more, everything from her head to her toes felt like electric lines in a hurricane.
Stop. This is crazy. The temptation they flirted with…all the ways she longed to define advantage and eternity… They were ridiculous, dangerous fantasies. He was a stranger. A man possessing only a name and some vague occupation.
And a stare that dissolved the hinges on some of the deepest doors in her soul.
She turned to the most dependable go-to in her wardrobe of emotional defenses. Dark humor. “With one of my friends snoring in the front seat and the other drooling in my lap?”
He considered that for half a moment before setting her hand free—in order to raise his touch to her face. Alluring officially gained a new ambassador as he grazed his knuckles along her arm during the trip. “I only require the use of these.” He caressed the corner of her right eye. “And this.” He drifted his touch over her mouth.
Before she could think about containing it, a long sigh escaped. Dios. The man didn’t look beneath her neck, let alone drift his touch there. So why were her panties already drenched, taunting her with the liquid he’d just coaxed from her most secret tunnel? Why did her heart thunder and her pulse careen?
“Miss Chestain?”
His prompt was a command, ordering her to answer whether she was capable or not. “Huh?”
“Look at me.” He curved his thumb beneath her chin and gently tugged up. Her gaze was again filled with his face—only now, his boyish charm was gone. The garish neon of the club lights, joined with the glow from the stoplight ahead, turned him into the granite-hard Dominant she’d previously only guessed at. “And now, I want you to answer me.”
She swallowed again. Flames and icicles fought for control of her limbs. Caramba. The power of his fingers on her face…it was the beginning of her end. “Yes, Sir.”
No, no, no! She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes, fighting to lock him out—even as her senses predicted what he’d say next. What he’d command next…
And how every cell in her body wouldn’t give her rest until she answered him.
“How long have you known about your submissiveness, Zoe?”
Chapter Three
Nail on the head.
The catch in Zoe Chestain’s breathing, along with the flair of her dark-blue eyes, blared the victory cry through Shay’s senses.
He’d taken a calculated risk on the question. While it was ridiculous to think of his life being stable enough to keep a steady subbie, he’d become damn adept at picking one out in a crowd—and Zoe had given herself away from the start. The way she moved. The way she watched him move. The way that made her lips part and her breath quicken. And then that defining moment, when she’d ducked her head with such sweet deference, all but daring him to stride across the room and stroke her hair in praise…
Fuck yeah, that moment.
The clincher? Hearing those two perfect words, tumbling so naturally from her lips. Yes, Sir.
He practically held his breath, waiting for her answer.
The cab jerked to a stop at the Hilton’s lobby doors.
Damn it.
He couldn’t help noticing Zoe’s big whoosh of breath. As he paid the driver, she actually thanked the man and wished him a good night. Somebody was a little too happy to be off the hook.
Enjoy the freedom now, tiny dancer. I’m not done with you yet.
He didn’t want to give his ego full credit for the promise, though his brain blared a reminder. Careful, buddy. She’s already wise to the army-boy vibe. Your call sign may be Ironman, but she’s peeling back the armor. You really want this to go that much further? To risk exposing who you really are?
He turned the voice off to care for the more urgent pair of matters at hand. Brynn needed to be roused and Ellie somehow muscled from the car. As Shay handled things with El, Zoe opened the front passenger door and went to work on waking her friend.
Her chica woke with a cute little start, releasing the same drunken tigress she’d been back at the airport—only at a louder volume. “I got the eye of a tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fii-ire—c’mon, Zo, sing with me, baby!—I am a champ-eee-on, and you’re gonna hear me rooooar!”
Zoe gave her friend an indulgent smile as Brynn slumped against her. “You don’t want me to go there, girlfriend; we both know it. Besides, you’ve got this handled.”
She threw a sardonic glance to Shay as the doorman let them in, and Brynn treated everyone in the lobby bar to a miniature Katy Perry tribute while Zoe picked up the room keys. Though Shay kept his attention fixed on Brynn’s antics, he continued his unfaltering study of Zoe, including how she recommitted herself to the all-business air while turning from the desk. Shit, did that mien say things—like her obvious consideration of the options for now giving him a tactful goodbye. The challenge was Ellie. Brynn was still in no position to help, and hauling one’s friend to the room on a bell cart was only excusable during New Year’s Eve and Mardi Gras.
The woman’s dilemma intensified as men waved money at Brynn, shouting requests for other tunes. As the damn fool girl grinned, ready to indulge them, Shay drilled a glare at the bastards. Before they finished backing down, Zoe’s ambivalence cracked. She grabbed her friend, nodded at Shay, and then led the way to the elevators.
Once they entered Brynn and Ellie’s room, Zoe pulled back the sheets on one bed so Shay could slip El in fully clothed. On the other side of the room, Brynn attempted to strip. The woman shucked her T-shirt without effort, but the painted-on jeans weren’t as cooperative. Still humming the Katy Perry anthem, she hopped around until stumbling onto the bed and falling back asleep.
Zoe gaped at her friend, stunned into silence.
Shay snickered. Hell. He couldn’t help himself. She’d been so I-am-Woman-Hear-Me-Roar all night, making her awkward moment an enticing surprise.
He couldn’t help another laugh. Shrugged as if to apologize but let out another. Though Zoe shot him a glare at first, one glance at her friend had her giggling too. They laughed harder as Brynn rolled over, her jeans still locked around her knees, her lips mumbling through the final bars of her song.
“I have ibuprofen in my purse,” she murmured. “Maybe I should get it?”
He mellowed his laugh to a smile. She seemed to always think three steps ahead of everyone, and those thoughts were always full of kindness. “Good idea. Grab some water to go with it, and we’ll set it on the nightstand for them.” He nodded toward Brynn. “I’ll handle the rest of this.”
He had to admit, he’d peeled more cooperative wrappers off taffy before. When Zoe came back from the bathroom, he was still battling the denim around one of Brynn’s ankles. When she was finally free, he gently tucked her under the covers before following Zoe from the room.
Once they got to the hall, they both leaned against the wall, releasing relieved breaths. He let a long moment pass, though it was total torture. All he wanted to do was pivot around, press her between his body and the wall, and lean in for the kiss he’d been craving since he met her. Now it was his turn at the clumsy shuffle.
“Wow.” He tried to laugh once more.
“What?” She glanced up, caught him staring, and returned to tracing the pattern on the carpet with her ankle-booted toe.
“I haven’t felt this dorky since I was sixteen. For the record, that’s a long damn time.”
She looked back at him for a pulse-grabbing second, flashing a captivating grin. “Mr. Burnett, I’m pretty sure you and ‘dorky’ have never crossed paths.”
Though she tossed the statement out with plenty of sass, the essence of her submissiveness flowed over him once more, this time with her voice as an added pleasure. The silk of her soft accent was an offering to him, a test run of her trust that danced around the answer she never gave in the cab. Clearly, the progress wasn’t easy for her, and he was moved by her bravery. It stabbed to the core of everything he loved about being a Dom. The first tendrils of her surrender…believing in his ability to take her courage and transform it into more…
Holy fuck, did he want to try. They had a lot of hours until dawn.
Or maybe not.
She stopped the process at the gift of her words. Her stance remained rigid, her arms tightly folded. Despite this wild, wonderful energy flowing between them, she scooted away by a nervous step.
Shay didn’t let her get far. He leaned toward her with renewed resolve. Damn it, fate didn’t simply plop a connection like this into any Dom’s lap, during any random airport closure. There weren’t a lot of magical things in his life anymore, which probably explained his obsession with this gift. He was determined to fight for it, at least a little.
He reached, gently cupping her elbow in his hand. When she didn’t resist, he slid his fingers up the back of her arm. “Tell you what. I’ll confess about the dorky skeletons in my closet if you spill about the submissive ones in yours.”
She squirmed again. Turned her head and gazed back down the hall. “I…really should go back over to the terminal. Someone else may decide to take a snooze on the bar, and—”
“And you’re not their mother.”
That compelled her head back up. The surprise in her eyes wasn’t a shock, but he couldn’t stand the idea of her bolting from him either. Not yet. There were deeper layers to this woman. Depths he was strangely, intensely curious to explore.
Summoning his biggest cojones, he lifted both hands to bracket her shoulders.
“Mr. Burnett—”
“That’s not easy for you to hear, is it?”
“Easy or not, it’s just not accurate. I’m the dance lead on our show, which means technically, I am their mother.”
He lowered his head, leveling the trajectory of their gazes as much as he could. “Agreed, though I suspect you’re a willing natural for the role, as well.”
Her brows jumped. He’d either stunned her or insulted her. Perhaps both. “Willing? Natural? Well, it certainly wasn’t what I expected when I accepted the job.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been taking care of people, in some way, shape, or form, since I was eleven.”
“Then you must be good at it by now.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“And tired of it.”
“Haven’t been told that.”
“Really?” He was genuinely bewildered and didn’t hide it. That shadowed her gaze with curiosity too. Shay took advantage of the chance to scoop a hand beneath her chin, ma
intaining the silent, potent lock of their eyes.
“Let the kids take care of themselves tonight, Mom.”
Conflict took over her face as if he’d asked her to blow up the hotel instead of trusting her friends to behave like adults. It didn’t surprise him. They’d met less than an hour ago, but he already saw letting go was a back-burner issue for the woman. She’d been taking care of others for so long, she’d nearly lost herself.
It made him a little furious. A hell of a lot more sad. She had no idea how stunning she was, how she mesmerized him even as she stood there working her lips against each other, turning them the color of crushed berries. For the twentieth time, Shay battled the urge to ram her against the wall and show her exactly what it felt like to be “taken care of.”
Focus on something innocuous.
Not happening, either. Even her goddamn earlobes were delectable, begging him to dip his head and taste them…
“Fine,” she quipped at last, cocking her head in defiance. “For argument’s sake, let’s say I leave the kids alone and let them stumble back on their own. You going to stand there and tell me there’s nothing in it for you, Burnett? That you don’t simply want the chance to poke around for my skeletons a little more, señor?”
Her intelligence, showcased with that mix of adorable and incisive, poured even more juice into the elixir of his attraction to her. “Guilty.” He raised both hands. “You got me. But your skeletons are damn appealing, señorita.”
“To a guy like you.”
He lowered his hands, letting a weighted moment go by. “Yeah. To a guy like me.” Their gazes met once more, conveying a mutual understanding. From the way they both emphasized “guy,” it was clear they meant Dom. “Who, if I’m not mistaken, might be very interesting to a woman like you.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken.” She pushed from the wall, letting him see the sadness that sliced across her face. “I’m not a woman like that.” A little snort followed. “Look, I’ve been…curious…in the past, okay? There was a time when I craved the Dominant/submissive thing. I had a boyfriend who even helped me try it all out, and—”