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Authors: Angel Payne
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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
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
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