Play Me Wild (5 page)

Maybe both.

At least that’s the excuse I’m giving myself about why I don’t immediately leap away. Why I stay there, pressed against him—sheltered by him—for far longer than I should.

Not that he seems in any hurry to let me go. No, his hand is curved around my hip, his thumb stroking my waist. My nerve endings spark at his touch, heat sizzling through me with every back and forth brush of his thumb.

“Are you all right?” His voice is low, primal, with just enough gravel in it to send shivers down my spine. It’s a strange, new feeling, one that calls to mind tangled sheets and long, sweat-drenched nights. With him.

He’s intense, powerful, and so darkly sexual that I find myself reacting physically to him. To the authority he exudes simply by breathing. My pulse speeds up, my nipples tighten, and my breath comes in short, harsh pants that I desperately try—and fail—to control.

“I—I’m okay,” I tell him finally, my voice much shakier than I’d like it to be.

I feel him nod, his chin brushing the top of my head as he uncurls his arm slowly—almost reluctantl
y—from around me.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” he tells me, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk.

It’s the reminder I need to shock my brain back into focus. Finally. Sticking my chin in the air, I make sure I sound firm—or as firm as any woman can after she’s just been caught, held and caressed by her boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m just here to pick up my paycheck.”

He lifts his brows then, a quick up and down motion that makes my belly flutter. “Sit down, Aria.” He sounds accommodating but at the same time, I know an order when I hear one. I want to object on general principle—the woman I am now doesn’t follow orders well at all, but I need that money. And a not terrible evaluation. Which is why I bend my knees and sink slowly, painfully into the chair.

He closes the door and I expect him to circle his desk, to sit in the huge, imposing chair that faces the one I’m currently sitting in. But instead, he drops down onto the chair next to me before reaching into his pocket and handing me an envelope.

“I believe this is what you came for.”

I nod without bothering to open it. Instead, I slide it into my purse and move to stand. His hand flashes out, rests gently on my arm as he applies just enough pressure to keep me in my seat.

Heat rushes through me from the contact, my nipples peaking despite my determination to keep this professional. He smiles then, a dark curving of his lips that sends shivers of electricity through me. That makes my body tremble and my breathing erratic.

I shrink back against the chair—a move that’s totally not me—and try to figure out what the hell is going on. He’s not threatening me, there’s nothing predatory or particularly sexual in the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s touching me. And yet my body is lit up like the Strip at midnight, my every cell sparking at nothing more than a casual touch from him.

I don’t get it. I don’t understand why I’m responding like this to Sebastian Caine when I’ve never responded anywhere near this quickly or strongly to another man. Oh, I’ve dated some. I was even engaged, and spent six months of that engagement trying to convince myself that I loved Carlo. And still I never responded like this, so quickly and desperately. Breasts aching, skin burning, sex growing wet.

The oddity of it is enough to keep me in my seat for long seconds, my eyes pinned to his as he stares back. But then fear sets in and I go to stand up again.

Again, he presses me gently but firmly back into the chair. He’s still smiling at me, his face schooled into perfectly pleasant lines. But his eyes are filled with a predatory interest he doesn’t even try to hide.

It worries me. Not because I think he’ll hurt me, not because I don’t think I can handle myself. But because I like it. I like the way he’s looking at me, like the way my body feels under his gaze.

Which is ridiculous—and why I come out swinging. “Look, I don’t know what you think is happening here, Mr. Caine—”

“Sebastian,” he says, interrupting my diatribe. “My name is Sebastian.”

“Good for you. I’m sure somebody probably cares about that, but I only came here for my paycheck and I have it now, so I’m leaving.”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like you to stay for a few minutes and talk to me. See if we can get to the bottom of this mess.”

For a minute I think the mess he’s referring to is us, and the way we’re responding to each other. But then I realize he means the Russian whale, me being fired. And suddenly I’m afraid I’m in for a lot more than I bargained for. I was prepared to fight Richard Caine for my paycheck, was prepared for derision and annoyed condescension. I live every day of my life with it, after all, and have learned to control myself and those situations to the best of my ability.

But this. This is something different. There’s no arrogance on Sebastian’s face, no assumption that I’ll drop to my knees and blow him as a thank-you for my paycheck. No sense that he thinks he can fuck me simply because he’s got a corner office on the top floor of Las Vegas’s hottest casino.

That’s not the scary part. I can handle that. Hell, I do handle it pretty much every day of my life. But the rest…the rest gets to me. The quiet respect, the obvious interest, the darkness that mirrors my own. I don’t know how to deal with those things, don’t know how I’m supposed to respond. I’m off-kilter, confused, searching for answers when I feel like I don’t even know what questions to ask.

Maybe that’s why I stay instead of running out of here as fast as my feet can carry me.

Because I want to find out—both the questions and the answers.

I see the moment Aria decides to stay instead of running screaming from my office. Her whole body relaxes and she settles back into the chair instead of staying perched on the edge, ready to flee at any moment.

I relax as well, or at least give a good imitation of it. It’s hard to actually relax when my dick is already semi-hard and every instinct I have is screaming at me to take her, to fuck her, to tie her up and do a million unspeakable things to her.

But she’s skittish, ready to bolt and that’s the last thing I want. Not that I blame her—she gets hassled by rich men every day. Has, in her mind, even lost her job because of it. Why should she think I’m any different? Why should she think I want anything other than to take the last bit of control she’s hanging on to?

But the last thing I want to do is strip her of control—I want to give it to her, want to show her for the first time in her life what it means to be powerful. Strong. In control. But before I can do any of that she needs to understand just how different I am from the men she’s used to.

I start down that road with “I’m sorry about what happened to you last night. You were the only one on the floor who handled the situation and I think it’s appalling that David fired you for it.”

She looks at me like I’ve grown three extra heads. “I’m sorry?”

“I should be the one apologizing to you. I’m not in the habit of letting women be harassed in my casino and that’s exactly what was happening last night. You did what you could to stop it when the security guard, the dealer, even David wouldn’t. You shouldn’t be penalized for that.”

She still looks confused. “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not firing you, Aria. Not for doing what needed to be done. You can take today off, with pay, but your job will be waiting for you tomorrow if you still want it.”

If possible she looks even more astonished, eyes wide and mouth half-open in an adorable display of shock. “Are you serious right now?” she finally demands.

“I’m completely serious.”

“But I racked a whale.”

“I am aware of that.”

“With my drink tray.”

“Yes. I saw the footage.”

“Hard.” She draws the word out, stresses it, just in case I have any doubts about what I saw on the casino video. “I hit him hard.”

“And I’m really glad you did. My only regret is that you didn’t hit him harder—the bastard still managed to get up and hobble away a few minutes later. More’s the pity.”

“More’s the
pity
?”

I shrug. “He deserved that and a hell of a lot worse, in my opinion. Men who treat women like they’re property deserve what they get when it turns out that the property bites back.”

She does jump up from the chair then, and this time I don’t stop her because she’s not planning on running. She’s filled with nervous energy that needs an outlet. I have more than one suggestion on how she can deal with that energy, but sexually harassing my employees isn’t something I make a habit of. Ever. Especially ones who have to deal with it at work every night.

And so I clench my fists to keep from reaching for her and I watch, and wait, as she paces to the window and back.

“I don’t get it,” she says when she’s once again standing in front of me. “What’s the punch line?”

“No punch line. Your job is yours if you want it.”

“Even though I assaulted a customer?”

“Assault is such an ugly word. Let’s just say you defended a customer and leave it at that.”

“That’s not actually untrue. But you know, if you keep me here, he’s probably going to sue you.”

I smile then, a predatory baring of my teeth that has her eyebrows shooting up and her eyes sharpening with something that looks an awful lot like interest. Or fear. I can’t really tell at this point.

That makes me uncomforta
ble—I want a lot of things from Aria, things that include sweat-drenched sheets and unlimited access to every inch of her gorgeous body—but I don’t want her fear. Don’t want her to feel, even for a moment, like she isn’t safe with me.

“He can try to sue,” I tell her. “He won’t succeed.”

“How do you know?”

“It might be ten years since I’ve set foot in the Atlantis, Aria, but I grew up in Vegas. I know how this town works.”

“So do I. And I knew when I hit that bastard I was going to end up paying for it one way or another. So if I’m not losing my job, how exactly are you expecting me to pay?” She’s back to pacing toward the window.

Anger sparks inside me at the implication, pricks along the inside of my skin. At her for thinking all I want from her is a fast blow job or a faster fuck on my desk as payment for doing the right thing, for taking care of her. And at the world she’s living in that has taught her to be so suspicious. That has taught her all rich men want only one thing from her.

Because it won’t get me anywhere with her right now, I shove the anger down deep. Concentrate on being cool and rational, on showing her that I’m in control, since instinct tells me that’s the only way to reassure her at this point.

“I expect you to repay me by doing your job. From what I hear, you’re a hell of a cocktail waitress. That’s why David and Todd have you working the high roller area. I don’t plan on losing you because some asshole doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.”

I see the moment she picks up on my phrasing, and the double meaning that can be applied to the concept of me losing her. Still, she doesn’t respond the way I expect her to. Doesn’t seem relieved by my reassurance. Instead, she narrows her eyes at me and demands, “Are you fucking with me?”

The strength and the heat behind the question get me hot, have my dick growing harder even as my own temper flares. I push to my feet then, making sure my suit jacket is buttoned up and hiding my suddenly raging erection. And then I stalk toward her slowly, making her wait. Making her wonder.

I stop about a foot away from her—too close for regular business standards but not close enough to send her running for the hills. And then I ask, “Does it feel like I’m fucking with you, Aria?”

Those beautiful dark eyes of hers go wide and it’s all I can do not to touch her. Not to drag her into my arms and show her just how serious I am about her—about fucking her and about holding her afterward.

“I don’t know,” she says after a minute. “That’s the problem. I can’t figure you out.”

“That’s because you’re looking at me all wrong.” I step forward then, run the back of my hand softly down her cheek. “But I can assure you, love, when I’m fucking with you, you’ll know it.”

She jerks her head back from my touch. “So you do want sex.”

I like her bluntness. “From you? Absolutely.”

“I knew it.” She grabs for her purse, which is resting in the curve of the chair she’d been sitting in. “I don’t want the stupid job. You can keep it.”

She brushes past me on her way to the door, all fire and fury and long, fast steps. I grab her arm before she gets very far, swing her around to face me. She meets my eyes head-on, hers burning hotly as she tries to stare me down. And I can all but see the steel in her backbone, the force of will just waiting to come out.

I caught a glimpse of it hours ago, when I was watching the film of her working the tables. I didn’t focus on it then, was too caught up in my anger at her being placed in a situation like that to begin with. But looking at her now, I can definitely see it. The need for control—of herself and the world around her. The need to make her own rules, to set her own boundaries instead of having them set for her by men, by work, by life.

The low-grade arousal that has been growing inside me since the moment I opened my office door to find her standing on the other side suddenly bursts into full-blown want. Full-blown need. It’s not a response I’m used to, this sudden, insatiable desire to touch, to taste, to
have
. I’ve spent too many years working toward total control of myself and my environment to lose it like this over a woman. No matter how sexy, how smart, how real that woman is.

And yet, what’s the alternative? Let her walk out the door? Never talk to her, never see her, never think about her again? I know myself well enough to know that’s not going to happen.

She’s melting against me, her body going soft and languid where it rests against the heat of my own. And still she challenges me.

“You should let go of me.” Her voice is husky, but her eyes are steady. Resolved.

I uncurl my fingers from around her forearm, watch as she brings her elbow into her waist and lowers her arm to her side. She stares at it for a moment, almost like she’s trying to figure out what happened. Why it was so easy to get me to release her when she had obviously braced for a struggle. When she might even have wanted one.

But there can be no question of consent here, no thoughts of coercion or duress. Not with what I want to do to her, with her. Not for what I have planned.

And so I step away, hold my hands out to the sides, palms up, in the universal gesture of acquiescence. There’s a flash of disappointment in her eyes—so fleeting I would have missed it if I hadn’t been looking for it—but there, nonetheless.

It’s all the confirmation I need and I feel myself relax, the stress leaching out of my body like it never existed. My dick is still hard, my senses hyper-alert. But good things come to those who wait…and patience has always been one of my virtues.

“I need to go,” she tells me, and already there’s a hint of a question where fifteen minutes ago there would have been only assurance. Determination.

I nod, gesture to the door in a feel-free kind of motion.

For long seconds, she doesn’t move. She just stands there, staring at me, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides and her lush bottom lip caught, worried, between her teeth.

“So I’ve got my job back?” she asks.

“Yes, of course.”

“I just report for work tomorrow at the normal time?”

“Absolutely.”

“And there are no strings?”

“Strings?”

“I don’t have to fuck you to keep my job.” She looks a little embarrassed at her blunt request for information, like she expects to be reprimanded for her vulgar language. But I like the bluntness, like the fact that she’s so frank and open. It will make things so much easier between us in the long run.

“Your job is yours no matter what happens—or doesn’t happen—between us.”

“I just want to make sure we’re clear. Nothing is going to happen between us. I don’t sleep with rich men.”

“Good thing I don’t plan on doing much sleeping then, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Caine—”

“Sebastian.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but in the end just gives in with an exasperated sigh. “Fine. Sebastian.”

“I like the way my name sounds on your lips, Aria.” I like the way hers sounds on mine.

“Since you’re playing semantics, let me be clear. I’m not going to fuck you.”

“Okay.” The word rolls off my tongue with a nonchalance I’m far from feeling.

She looks suspicious. “That’s it? Okay?”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. You sounded so sure before…I guess I expected you to be upset, annoyed.”

“I don’t see the point in getting upset about something I have absolutely no control over. Either you’ll decide to fuck me”—I use the crude term deliberately, enjoying how she squirms a little as the word leaves my lips—“or you won’t. Either way, the decision is yours. I’m just along for the ride.”

“For the record, there will be no riding.”

I grin then, liking her quick wit almost as much as I like her backbone. “We’ll see.”

“We will see.” She pauses, ducks her head, and I can practically hear the wheels turning in her mind as she deliberates about what she wants to say next.

“Okay. Yeah. I’ll be here tomorrow. For
work
.” She turns to go then, striding toward the door with the long-legged, confident gait I first noticed in the video of her. At first I think that’s it, she’s going to walk out without so much as a backward glance. But she stops at the last minute, doorknob in hand, and shoots a look over her shoulder at me.

“Thank you,” she says.

And just that easily my body tightens up again, my muscles locking into place as heat sizzles beneath my skin. I love the sound of those words on her lips. Can’t help imagining other times, other places, other
reasons
for her to say them.

“There’s nothing to thank me for.”

She smiles then, just a quick uptick of the corners of her mouth that has me longing to lick along the seam of her lips.

“Sure there is. Most guys in this office would have fired me first and asked questions never.”

“I’m not most guys.”

“Yeah. I’m getting that.” She opens the door but still doesn’t tear her gaze from mine. “It was nice to meet you, Sebastian Caine.”

“Nice to meet you, Aria Winston.”

This is it. What she says here, how she leaves things, will determine absolutely how this thing proceeds. Will determine if I back off and leave her in peace or if I pursue her with the intention of taking everything she has to give, of pushing her limits—her control—right to the breaking point and beyond.