He takes his time, sliding his palms down, down, down… everywhere at once, slow and leisurely. He palms my curves, savoring them. He’s firm, slow, and purposeful… someone who knows what he’s doing and what he wants.

I twitch when he passes over my nipples. They’re hypersensitive in my cold, wet shirt. He barely brushes them before he trails further down, down my sides, over the swell of my hips. I want to buck against him when his hands cup my breasts as he pulls me toward him.

I don’t need to, though. He slips his fingers under my shorts because he knows I’m not wearing underwear. He slips those long fingers in, all the way in, into me.

Into where I’m waiting for him.

I moan long and low. He’s feeding the fire he slowly built inside of me and I don’t ever want him to stop.

I glance up and everything around is a blur. We swoop past the ride operator on the ground, past the crowds, past the food smells and the sunshine, past the sidewalks and the shops. All of it is a blur and none of it matters.

The only thing that matters is what shouldn’t.

Him.

He shoves up my shirt and pulls one cup of my bra down, licking at my nipple, teasing it until it’s standing up at full attention, as erect as his dick is. I can feel him, hard and rigid, pushing into my leg. But he doesn’t rub against me. He doesn’t act feverish, like me; he acts calm and controlled, slow and easy. He’s not asking for anything in return, he just plays with me with his mouth.

His tongue is wet against my skin, against my nipple, against me. It’s hot and moist, and just when I’m ready to beg him to fuck me in this very public place—suspended 150 feet in the air—he stops.

Just like that.

“We should go,” he says quietly, his arms collapsing casually back into his lap. Like we’re just sitting here, taking a normal ride on the Ferris wheel.

I yank my head up and realize that we’re coming to a stop on the ground. The ride is over. I pull my shirt down and stare at him, trying to focus my blurry eyes.

Seriously?

He’s unaffected as he climbs from the gondola and holds his hand out to me, waiting for me to let him help me from the car. I pointedly ignore his hand, choosing to dismount all on my own with my rubbery legs that feel like jelly.

Oh my god, I’ve never felt so humiliated, because I’m so affected and he’s so… not. It’s so easy for him to turn it on and off, to stay so fucking detached. My cheeks burn as I follow him down the sidewalks of the pier, as I focus on his broad shoulders swaying through the crowd, at the back of his neck, at his hips.

Everything about him is unfazed.

And I’m an idiot.

I totally just let him play with me. In public. And for what purpose? So that he’d have a fun distraction from the people that were chasing us in the streets?

Fuck that. I’m no one’s distraction and I should’ve known better.

We get into the car without speaking and we drive silently down the streets of Chicago. Several minutes pass before he even glances at me.

“What’s wrong?” he asks innocently, as if he doesn’t know.

I glare at him.

“What the fuck was that about?” I demand, although I’m madder at myself than him. I let him do that. I let him fuck with me. After all of the lectures I’ve given myself over the past few months about having more self-respect, I let him finger-fuck me on a Ferris wheel. I’m pathetic.

“What was what?” he asks, staring sideways at me. “It was just… having a good time. You seemed to enjoy yourself.”

I glance at his crotch, remembering the way his hardness had strained into me just moments before.

“You seemed to, as well,” I remind him. “But why? I don’t understand you at all. The entire world isn’t your plaything, Dominic. I’m not your plaything.”

“I never said you were,” he answers easily as he turns onto my street. “You didn’t say no. If you didn’t want to participate, all you had to do was say the word.”

And that’s what pisses me off. I didn’t say the word. I didn’t say the word because I wanted him.

I want him still.

That’s why I’m so pissed. I want a man who couldn’t care less if he’s with me or not. He couldn’t care less how I react, how I feel. It’s exactly the kind of thing that I always do, and it always gets me into trouble.

I’ve. Got. To. Stop.

I grit my teeth and open my car door.

“Want me to come in?” Dominic asks, raising an eyebrow. He looks so relaxed behind the wheel, stretched out and casual. Not hot and bothered like me. I don’t affect him in the same way, and that pisses me off.

And crushes me.

“No.” I answer curtly. Leaning into the car, I pause for just a minute. “Thank you for an interesting day.”

I slam the car door and take joy out of his startled expression.

Apparently, no one slams doors into Dominic’s face, because he looks absolutely stunned.

This makes me smile as I unlock my door and head into the house. I toss my purse down and head into kitchen, where I immediately pop the cork on a bottle of red and drink several gulps straight from the bottle.

When my fingers have stopped shaking, I pour myself a glass and head to the bathroom, where I run a bubble bath and soak away my agitation.

The smells of lavender and vanilla assail my senses, soothing away my stress. Or so I hope. But try as I might, I can’t get Dominic’s face out of my head. I can’t forget the way his hands felt, the way his fingers slipped so easily inside of me. The astonished expression on his face when I stalked away from his car.

There’s something to be said for surprising someone and putting them in their place. And Dominic needed to be taken down a few notches. He’s too arrogant by half.

I’m toweling off, still smiling about that, when the doorbell rings. Puzzled, I pull on my robe and pad down the hall to answer it.

Dominic stands in front of me, casual and sexy and bigger than life, a bottle of wine dangling from his hand.

“I don’t take no for an answer very well,” he says with a slow grin. His trademark sexy grin. The one that drops panties. The one that turns my knees weak even though I’m pissed at him, even though I want to tell him that my no means no. That I don’t want him here.

But that isn’t true. I do want him here. And when it comes to him, my no doesn’t mean anything at all.

Chapter Thirteen

Dominic

I’m a hostage of my hormones. Or of my fucking fascination with this girl. And why? She’s just a girl. Blond, big-busted chicks are a dime a dozen in Hollywood. What’s so fucking special about this one?

But as I stare at her… I don’t see a blond, big-busted chick. I don’t see a Hollywood chick. I see a girl, naïve and feisty, who is standing in her doorway in a pink fuzzy robe with an innocent expression, her pink lips slightly parted. Her brown eyes are wide, and there’s something in them that says, I want to trust you. Don’t make me regret it.

And I want to tell her not to fucking trust me, not ever, because I will fucking hurt her. After everything she’s revealed to me about herself, I know that I’m the last thing she needs. She needs someone who is everything I’m not.

But of course I don’t say that. I can’t… because something in me pulls me to her, and I’m too selfish to resist it. So instead, I hold out the bottle of wine.

“Just a glass of wine. That’s it. I promise to keep my hands to myself, unless you ask me not to.”

She looks at me. “Hmm. I don’t think I should.”

I roll my eyes with a sigh. “Trust me. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want.”

“Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of,” she answers softly. I’m startled, staring at her, but she opens the door wide and gestures me in.

She leads me to the kitchen where I see an open bottle of wine already on the counter, but she ignores it. Instead, she grabs a corkscrew, and when she turns back around she finds that I have trapped her in the corner. We’re both in the small space, so close I can practically hear her heart beat. I can definitely feel the heat emanating from her body. She takes a breath, and I take a step back, holding up my hands.

“See? I come in peace.”

She grins and grabs the bottle from me, popping the cork and pouring a couple of glasses. I watch the red liquid sloshing against the sides of the crystal glass as I carry mine to the living room. We both drop onto the sofa, and Jacey turns toward me, curling her legs beneath her.

“So. Is this your M.O. with all the girls? You pretend to hate them, then you seduce them into the sack?” She smiles and takes a sip of her wine, but I can see in her eyes that it wasn’t completely a joke. She’s as confused by my behavior as I am.

I laugh it off. “Yeah, it usually works like a charm. How’s it working for you?”

She shakes her head, not gracing that with an answer, instead giving me a direct look and following the look with a very direct question.

“Who was that girl, Dominic? The one at the party. She was the same one in the parking lot. She means something to you and you definitely mean something to her.” She pauses and swallows, then looks back at me. “I like spending time with you—when you’re not biting my head off—but not if you belong to someone else.”

I scoff at that. I can’t help it.

“I don’t belong to anyone,” I answer wryly. “And trust me, few people ‘mean something to me.’ That girl… her name’s Kira, and I grew up with her. She’s been a friend for a really long time.”

“Do you make out with all your friends?” Jacey answers dubiously. She stretches her leg out, and I can’t help but watch as her robe falls slightly open and I can see even more of her thigh.

“No,” I tell her, reluctantly pulling my eyes up to her face. “Not generally.”

I feel a twinge at the thought of Kira. Not because I’m cheating on anyone, because I’m not. But because Kira has called about ten times this week and I haven’t returned her calls. Whenever I’m in town, she puts her life on hold, always making sure that she makes herself available to me.

My thoughts are dangerously close to guilt, which annoys me, so I shove them aside. I don’t deserve to feel guilty. Booty calls with me are a choice Kira makes. I don’t force her, by any means.

“So you’re not dating her?” Jacey confirms slowly, her eyes still doubtful.

“I’m not dating her,” I promise. Because I’m not. Fucking her up the ass, yes. Tying her up and coming on her face? Yes. Whipping her? Teasing her? Sucking on her? Biting her? Yes to all. But dating her? No. And I’m not above using semantics to get around a question.

“Did you mean what you said… few people mean anything to you?” Jacey asks hesitantly, her hand wrapped tightly around her glass. “Because that’s really sad, Dominic.”

I stare at her harshly. “Don’t judge me, Jacey. You have no idea what it’s like to be me. You don’t know what’s happened in my life, you don’t know how people try to use me. Trust me, it’s just easier to not give people the chance.”