Chapter 3

3

Zara

His words are filthy and explicit, obscene and so damn hot. I shouldn’t find them so hot. I shouldn’t find his lack of filter in outlining exactly what he wants to do to me such a turn on. But it is. I enjoy sex. I enjoy men. I enjoy how it feels when my body is treated like it was made for another’s pleasure. I want to find out how it feels to be dominated. But I’ll never let anyone close enough for that.

It’s why my persona is that of a confident woman who’s aware of her sexuality and of the effect she has on men, most of whom are threatened by how I come across. A powerful career woman. It’s why the kind of men I attract are more than happy for me to set the agenda in bed. It’s something I both hate and relish, for then, I’m in control. And if I’m in control, I can’t be threatened. It’s what I’m comfortable with, and perhaps, it’s why I prefer to bed the kind of men I can hold sway over.

This man, though, is nothing like anyone I’ve faced before. Not in my work life, and not in my personal life. He’s not threatened by me, and each time I challenge him, it seems to make him determined to confront me right back. And it’s invigorating, to say the least. It’s also annoying. Because I don’t want to like anything about this man. But the very fact that he can look me in the eye and lay out what he wants to do to me is exhilarating, but also makes me want to defy him. The hair on my forearms rises. My guts clench, and that’s only because I’m angry with him. That’s all it is.

"Submit to you, huh? If you think I’m going to give in to you, you can think again."

He holds my gaze for a few seconds, then smirks. The jerkface curls his lips. "Is that a challenge?"

Oh, I’m so not walking into that one. "I don’t care how you take it. This conversation is over." I jump to my feet and snatch my handbag.

I turn to leave when— "So this is what happens when you come up against your match? You pivot and run?" he drawls.

I draw in a breath. I will not lose my temper. Will not lose my temper. I take another step forward, when he speaks again.

"I guess I was right. You’re too chicken to find out how good things could be between us. Bet you’re worried you’ll be spoiled for anyone else, you?—"

I spin around and stab a finger in his direction. "Please, don’t make this about me. I’m leaving before I say or do something that will blow up into something neither of us will be able to handle."

His grin widens. "Oh, please. By all means, speak your mind. It’s why I brought you here, so we could clear the air."

"By you propositioning me?"

"That’s one route we could take. The most enjoyable route, too." He smirks.

"Are you listening to yourself?" I fume.

"Are you listening to yourself?" He leans back in his chair. "You’re angry at me."

"Thanks for noticing, Captain Obvious."

"When was the last time you got angry at anyone?"

I scowl at him. "Is that a trick question?"

"Think about it, Zara. When was the last time someone pissed you off so much, you decided to leave a meal without even tasting the food?"

I glance at the dish sitting at my abandoned place. It has fish and chips, my favorite dish. And he ordered it for me.

"It’s spicy and the fish is halibut." He refers to the lean white fish that’s not easily available.The side dish is a salad with baby lettuce, rocket leaves, and pomegranate seeds. It’s a combination I love, and one which is not available on most menus. I know because I made up the salad recipe myself.

I glower at him. "How did you know?—"

"That you like this specific type of fish, and you prefer your fish and chips extra spicy? That the only time you eat your greens is when it’s spiked with pomegranate seeds?" His lips curve up in a smile that’s half-wicked, half-satisfied. "Did I surprise you?"

I sniff. "Probably just something else that came up in the reports you had ordered on me."

"Why don’t you sit down and finish it, hmm?"

"I think not." I eye the fish and my stomach growls.

He must hear it because he laughs. "Come on, Zara. You have to admit, the interaction over the past half hour is the most stimulation you’ve had in conversation with another person in a while."

"Don’t flatter yourself," I mutter. He’s right, though. I’ve never felt more alive than in the time I’ve spent with him. It’s a combination of nervousness and excitement, with breathless anticipation thrown in. A feeling I only get when I’m faced with a new challenge. Which intrigues me. Which is the only reason I am still here and haven’t walked out on him. That, and this chemistry between us, which I can’t understand. A problem I need to resolve. I’m a fixer, after all. Nothing engages me more than a puzzle that needs to be put together.

"Sit. Eat.” He leans back in his seat. “I promise, I won’t even point out that you still haven’t answered my earlier question."

I shake my head. "Seriously, and I thought I had a big ego, but yours just might be more colossal."

"Not the only thing that’s colossal." He smirks.

I make a gagging sound in my throat. "How very unoriginal of you."

"Have dinner with me, and I promise, I’ll reveal more creative ripostes."

I take my seat and plant my bag on the adjacent chair, then reach for my knife and fork. I cut into the fish and place a small portion in my mouth. The delicate, almost flowery notes of its flesh melt on my tongue. That, combined with the sizzle of the spices in which it’s been marinated, makes it seem like the two different parts of my heritage have coalesced on my palate. "Wow." I chew and swallow. "That’s amazing."

"Right?" He digs into his own food. He’s ordered a burger and fries—another surprise. I hadn’t thought this man was capable of eating anything so ordinary. But then, I don’t really know him at all, so guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so hasty in judging him. And maybe that’s the reason he’s brought me here—so he can soften my opinion of him. Well, it’s going to take more than a plate of fish and chips, even if it’s possibly the best fish and chips I’ve ever had, to alter my viewpoint. So what, if he took the time to find out what my tastes run to and ordered accordingly? He still decided to do it without consulting me, thinking I’d fall in with his plans. It shows just how egotistical he is. How much he’s taking me for granted. And I can’t wait to show him that I know my own mind. I’m not one of those easily maneuverable bimbos he, no doubt, likes to hang out with.

He forks up a piece of the burger and holds it out to me. "Here, taste this."

"Umm" —I glance from the food on his fork to him— "you want to feed me?"

"Humor me." He half smiles, and it’s a smile devoid of any agenda. Well, in as much as that’s possible for a twathole like him. When I hesitate, he brings it closer to my mouth so the food brushes my lips. "Go on, you know you want to."

The scent of the burger is so aromatic, my mouth waters. Oh, fuck this. It’s only food. Letting him feed me doesn’t mean I’m submitting to him. I’m only pretending to play along with his agenda. I’m trying to lull him into a false sense of comfort, so he’ll let down his walls and share a little more of himself with me.

And he’s trying to entice you to do the same. Sure, he is, but I’m too smart to fall for his moves, no matter how smooth they are.

I open my mouth, and he feeds me the morsel. I close my lips and wipe the tines clean as he slides the fork back. The whole time, he holds my gaze. His blue-green eyes deepen until they are almost azure. My belly clenches, the pulse between my legs speeds up, and somehow, the simple task of feeding me has turned into a seduction. Damn, but he’s good. Then the flavors overcome my senses. The meat is so tender, it seems to dissolve on my tongue, and the herbs woven through are so fresh, I can feel the wind in the trees and the slither of grass between my toes as I walk barefoot through a field somewhere far away from this city.

I flutter my eyelids open—when did I close them? —and stare at him in amazement.

"I know," he laughs. "James Hamilton is the most talented chef in the country."

I gape at him. "You called James Hamilton and had him shut down his restaurant for us?"

He arches his eyebrows. "Have I finally managed to impress you?"

"You got the most sought-after chef in, perhaps, the world to cook for us, so yeah, I’d say, yes."

"So, food is the way to get through your defenses, eh?"

"I never said that."

"You don’t need to. The very fact that you’re more relaxed after eating speaks for itself."

"Good food, good drink—" I raise my glass. "Despite present company, I admit, I’m not as wound up as I was. Let’s just say I was hangry."

He chuckles. "Go on, you can complement me for my efforts. It’s allowed."

"Fine, it wasn’t a bad effort." I admit.

He smirks. "It’s going to be interesting to up my ante with you."

"You don’t have to up your anything with me, Hunter.”

His grin widens, “I could up a lot of things, but in specific, one thing, when it comes to you, Zara.”

I blink. The flesh between my legs clenches. I did not find that hot. I did not. I did. OMG. That was a cringe-worthy remark from him—not particularly original but damn, it seems to be working on me. How am I going to live this down? I raise my hand, palm facing him. “Don’t try to distract me from what I’m going to say."

“Which is?”

“That we’re different. We have nothing in common. And it’s madness to even think we could sleep together and get away with it. But I got to taste James Hamilton’s food, so it’s not a completely wasted evening."

"Say that again." He studies me with a strange look in his eyes. Like he’s realized something but is trying his best not to acknowledge it.

"Umm, that it’s not a completely wasted evening?"

"No, before that."

"That we have nothing in common?”

"Prior to that."

"Huh?" I try to think back. "Prior to that I said.. That we’re so different, and before that I said... Your name?"

"Say it again," he murmurs.

"This is madness." I place my fork back on my embarrassingly empty plate. "I really should leave."

"Zara," he lowers his voice to a hush, and a frisson of anticipation sizzles up my spine. My nerve endings seem to spark. My pulse rate shoots up. And all because he said my name in that tone… That very dominant tone of his.

I rise to my feet. He narrows his gaze. "Sit down, Zara."

My backside hits the chair, and I blink. What the—? Did I just follow his order? Did I obey him, without intending to? When was the last time that happened? When has that ever happened as an adult? No man has ever dared to command me to do his bidding. I’ve never followed someone else’s orders. Not like this. Not in my personal life. Even worse, I don’t feel guilty about it.

I feel queasy, like I’ve stepped off a cliff, and instead of falling, I’m being pulled higher in the air, and I’m waiting for my stomach to catch up with the rest of my body. My blood begins to pump harder through my veins. The pulse between my legs becomes thicker, harder, stronger. And all because he directed my actions. This…is...insane. I feel so out of my depth. Like someone has cut off the cords that ground me and now I’m floating…floating.

I draw in a deep breath, then another. Draw on an ember of anger low in my belly. I fan it until it spreads through my stomach, my blood, my arms. I reach for the glass of champagne and toss it in his face.