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A weapon?
The thought sends a thrill down my spine. Oh, the games we could play with a little extra edge to our dance. But I dismiss the idea as quickly as it comes.
She's not ready for that. Not yet.
Right now, she's still clinging to the illusion of control, the belief that she can outsmart me with clever tricks and evasive maneuvers.
She has no idea just how out of her depth she truly is.
I tail her to a high-end hotel, watching from across the street as she disappears through the revolving doors. I can't help but chuckle, a low sound of amusement and approval.
Smart girl. She's learning.
A place like this, with its sleek marble floors and well-dressed staff, is far more likely to protect the privacy of its guests. The clerks here won't be so easily bought, the security not so lax as to let a predator slip through unnoticed.
Not that it will stop me, of course.
But I have to admire her ingenuity, her quick adaptation to the shifting rules of our game.
She's growing bolder, more confident in her ability to outfox me.
It's going to make breaking her all the sweeter.
I linger outside the hotel for a while, watching the comings and goings of the guests and staff.
I could go in now, flash a charming smile and a black credit card and get her room number in a matter of minutes. But where's the fun in that?
No, I'll let her have this small victory. Let her think she's safe and sound, tucked away in her ivory tower while the city bustles on below. Let her rest and recover, gathering her strength for the next round of our little game.
After all, I want her at her best when I finally claim my prize.
I want her quick and clever and full of fight, not worn down and broken by exhaustion and fear. That will come later, in the sweet aftermath of her surrender.
For now, I have other plans for my little fox. Plans that involve a candlelit dinner and a bottle of wine, a dance of words and wits across a white linen tablecloth.
I want to see her dressed up and dolled up, playing at being a sophisticated city girl instead of a frightened little fawn.
I want to watch the way the candlelight plays across her skin, the way her eyes sparkle with defiance and desire as we verbally spar. I want to feel the heat of her gaze, the brush of her leg against mine under the table, the electricity crackling between us like a live wire.
And then, when the night is over and the check is paid, I want—need—to follow her back to her room and press her up against the door, my body caging hers as I claim her mouth in a bruising kiss.
I need to feel her melt against me, all that stubborn pride and fierce independence giving way to the primal need that simmers just beneath the surface.
I need to peel away her layers, one by one, until she's bare and vulnerable and utterly at my mercy.
I need to map every inch of her with my hands and my mouth, learning her secrets and her sweet spots until she's writhing beneath me, begging for more.
It's a delicious thought. I can almost taste her on my tongue, feel the silk of her skin beneath my fingertips. It's enough to make me want to storm the hotel right now, to hell with the game and the Hunt and the carefully laid plans.
But I resist the urge, tamping down on the hunger that claws at my gut.
Patience, I remind myself.
Patience and control, the twin virtues that have served me so well in the past.
I will have her—in every way that matters.
But I will have her on my terms, in my own time.
