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"Q."
"Excuse me?"
"You need to practice calling me by my name."
I huff, "Your name’s Quentin."
His eyes flash. "Say my name again."
"I won’t."
"What if I say please?"
"Being polite won’t change anything."
He strokes his chin and looks at me with a contemplative expression. "Because you don’t want a polite man."
I make a rude noise. “Awfully presumptuous of you to arrive at that conclusion when you don’t even know me.”
He smiles slowly, an edge of cruelty in the curve of his lips that has the effect of making me lose my breath. “What I do know is”—he leans forward—"you need a man who’ll command you. A man who’ll make you submit to him."
An electric frisson of sensation pinches at my nerve-endings. When his gaze drops to my mouth, I realize I’ve parted my lips, and my nipples are tight, and the triangle of flesh between my legs is dripping. I lean in, unable to take my gaze off of his, caught in the promise inherent in his words.
"A man who’ll take care of your needs, so you can entrust him to do what’s right for you?—”
My toes curl. My breath hitches. A thousand little hummingbirds seem to flutter under my skin, but he doesn’t stop talking.
His gaze narrows, and his eyes gleam. “—A man who orders you to do his bidding, so you can give yourself up to him, confident that you will be pleasured."
Oh, my god. That sounds like the end of all my feminist ideals. But also, hot. So hot. I bite the inside of my cheek.
"A man who ensures you never want for anything. A man who treats you like the goddess you are. A man who pleasures your body, fulfills your soul, and feeds your mind. And your dirtiest, filthiest urges.” He drags his gaze down my flushed features. “A man who sees through your defenses, senses your deepest, darkest desires, and brings them to life without you having to ever give voice to them. A man who brings you to orgasm over and over again."
A million tiny sparks zing my blood stream. A bead of sweat runs down the valley between my breasts. Heat licks up my spine, and I feel like I’ve dived into a vat of lava.
"So, you see”—he drags his thumb under his lower lip—"I think we’ll do very well together."
His gaze, his voice, his presence… It’s too overwhelming. My skin feels too tight for my body, and my chest feels like it’s pushing down on my ribcage. I arrange my thoughts into some semblance of logic and clear my throat. "From the outside, it’s going to raise a lot of questions that I broke up with my ex, only to marry his father."
"First of all, you didn't break up with him. He jilted you at the altar."
My face must reflect some of my hurt because he winces.
"I'm sorry; I didn't mean for it to come out like that. What I’m trying to say is that he was a fool." He spears me with a look that almost makes me melt. "But it doesn't matter, Vivian, because I don’t care about anyone else’s opinions."
"Easy for you to say," I grumble. "You’re a man. Taking up with someone younger than you will enhance your reputation."
He smirks. "And being associated with the CEO of a Davenport Group division will enhance yours."
I chew on my lower lip. He’s right. It’s not only the money. His connections will open a lot of doors for me. I would definitely find a platform for my paintings. He probably knows all of the rich folks in town. The kind who’ll be interested in buying my paintings. Not to mention galleries who’ll be receptive to exhibiting my paintings.
And if I take him up on his offer, I’ll no longer be an artist who paints to interpret the human condition, but someone who entered a marriage of convenience to find a platform for her art. I’ll be another in a long line of materialistic women before me who married for money.
So what? I need the cash, for Lizzie’s tuition and to extend my father’s life. I curl my fingers into fists.
If only he weren’t so ridiculously sexy, and macho, and dominant, and every freaking thing which appeals to me. With his brooding good looks and the hint of 'tortured poet' in his eyes, he’s everything I’ve ever hoped to meet. He’s everything I was sure I could never have. The chemistry between us feels like too much. Too real. And that makes resisting him so very difficult. “What if your family guesses our arrangement is… uh… not real.
“They won’t, because of the attraction between us. You feel the connection between us, don’t you?”
