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“No, just trying to picture you with a guy that you tell all of your deepest, darkest secrets to.”
“Charlee, would you like to know some of my deepest, darkest secrets too?”
She could say no, but the answer was clearly yes. If I licked my lips, it was deliberate.
“Lucas. . .” She swallowed.
“Yes?”
Say it, Charlee. Go ahead.
“Tell me,” I prompted.
Her lips parted.
Say it. Fucking say it, Charlee. Say yes.
“I. . .”
I took a step closer to her, so close, in fact, I could smell her. “You what? Go ahead,” I prompted. “Say it.”
She breathed in. Steeled herself. And then finally answered.
“Yes.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
charlee
It was the hardest little word to say. I’d been trained to play coy. Admitting I wanted to know his deepest, darkest secrets went against the grain. But Lucas wasn’t the kind of guy to play games with. Cat and mouse with him would serve very little, even if every scrap of dating advice out there said otherwise.
I knew him or, at least, the old him. Which was the only reason I said the word yes. That and it had the added benefit of being true.
“That’s a good girl. Come here.”
As he led me into the vineyards, I thought about what he’d just said. Of course, I was familiar with praise kink, but I had never thought it was something I’d be into. On the other hand, that was an incredible turn on just then.
But Lucas wasn’t done surprising me. As we entered the vines, walking deep into the swaths of pinot noir grapes—something I only knew because of the signs—he looked predatory.
“I have a lot of them, Charlee. Deep, dark secrets. And most will stay a secret today because I don’t think you’re ready to hear them.”
“I’m ready,” I managed to respond, not entirely certain if that were true.
“No, you’re not. But let’s start with something simple,” he said, taking a step toward her. “How did you feel about what I just said?”
“‘That’s a good girl’?” I repeated. “Part of me doesn’t want to be anyone’s good girl. I am a woman, first of all. And not yours, for sure. Yet, if I’m being honest, it kind of turns me on.”
“Good.”
He reached out, wine glass in one hand, his finger lifting my chin with the other. His fingers wandered downward, each one running along the sensitive skin of my throat. But then, he opened his hand wider so that it was now around my neck, ever so gently, barely even touching my skin.
“And this?”
“Your. . . your hand is around my neck,” I said.
“It is.”
“Are you saying, is it. . . you want to choke me?”
