“Stupid shoes,” she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep. He shifted her in his arms to deactivate the security alarm, and she wrapped her arms around his shoulders, thrilling anew at how big and solid and male he was beneath his suit coat. When she became aware of how good he felt to her, how much she loved being in his arms, guilt wriggled into her awareness at her growing dependence on him … her helpless addiction.
“Put me down now,” she said as he opened the door.
He gave her a hard, dry glance as he stepped over the threshold and kicked the door closed.
“You’re fine where you are. I don’t want any broken ankles,” he said as he reactivated the security.
She sighed and rested her cheek against his suit jacket. She was too tired to argue.
Or she just didn’t want to.
Before she knew it, he was sweeping her into his bedroom and kicking the door closed.
“Lock it, Alice,” he said.
She recalled him saying something similar that first night they had sex here together. Excitement rippled through her as she recalled what he’d said to her during their dance. She was suddenly wide-awake, her skin prickly with awareness.
He carried her over to the bed once she’d secured the lock. He set her on the edge and immediately whipped off her new pumps.
“We’ll get you flats from now on.”
“I’ll never get used to wearing heels then,” she protested.
“You want to get used to them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe,” she said. He urged her to stand in her bare feet. “Don’t men think high heels are sexy?”
“You’d learn to wear them for that?” he asked as he took her loosely into his arms. She’d grown used to wearing the heels for the past few hours and was struck anew at how tall he was, and how small she felt next to him.
“Maybe,” she hedged again, glancing up into his face. “Maybe … if you thought they were sexy.”
He cradled her chin, his thumb brushing against her jawline.
“I think that’s sexy.”
“What? Wearing heels?” she asked, confused.
“That you’d do it if you thought I liked it. But don’t worry. I’d think you were sexy in ratty old slippers.”
“Right.”
He laughed, low and rough, then sobered as he watched himself trace the line of her jaw and then her ear. “There is something I’d like to see you in.”
“What?” she asked, because she’d felt the increase in tension of his body as he asked the question.
“Cuffs, both on your ankles and wrists. And not a stitch else.”
She quickened in excitement. “You want to restrain me again?”
He met her stare. “I told you what I wanted at the Twelve Oaks. I don’t want you to hold anything back. I want your trust.”
“Sexually?”
“It’s a start.”
She studied him warily.
“I’ll tell you exactly what I’d like to do, and you can decide if you want to proceed,” he said, stepping out of her arms. She watched, puzzled, when he went over to the seating area of the suite and reached beneath a long console table behind the couch. He withdrew a stool of sorts. It was very low to the floor, thus the reason it fit beneath the table. She’d noticed it in passing, but never paid much attention to it in the past. She’d thought vaguely it must be some kind of artwork that could pass as furniture. It had a sleek, modern design. There were usually several leather and suede pillows on it.