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Lucy Gray stands before the window, staring out the rainstreaked glass at the city sprawling below.
She can feel his eyes.
He’s lying sprawled across the bed- her bed; no matter how often he occupies it she refuses to think of it as ‘theirs’- his curls mussed and a deceptively soft curve to his mouth as he watches her brood.
“You know you don’t have to say yes.” his voice is soft as feathers against her skin, and she stiffens her shoulders to hold back a shiver. “You could tell me no.” the silk sheets rustle lightly as he rises, and she watches his reflection in the glass, watery sunlight painting the pale planes of his body with gold.
She snorts and reaches up to run her hands through her own mussed tresses. She forces her gaze back to the street.
“Sure I could, darlin. Cause you’re that kinda man.” the kind who was used to hearing the word. The kind who took it oh so well.
His answering chuckle is self-deprecating, and she doesn’t believe it for a second. He’s become a better politician in the years they’ve been apart. There’s more rustling behind her, and she assumes he’s putting his trousers back on. It can’t be his shirt; she’s wearing that.
She doesn’t think too hard about why it was his shirt she reached for when she left the bed. Maybe it was just convenient.
The scent of roses was already clinging to her skin.
She starts a little when his hands land on her hips, sliding across her belly and around her waist to pull her back against him. His breath warms the space beneath her ear.
“I wouldn’t force you, Lucy Gray.”
She was wrong. He hasn’t redressed.
It takes every ounce of control she has not to melt back into him. His body is hot and solid and familiar, and for a moment she wants to forget that this is all a game they’re playing. A dance of power that she can’t afford to lose.
His teeth catch on her earlobe, his fingers splaying across her hips, and she gasps softly.
“I know.”
That she could tell him no should be laughable. As laughable as she was trying to pretend it is. But the truth is, she could. She is perhaps the one person in this damnable city who could.
That she could deny him is her power in this aspect of their dance.
That she hasn’t, is his.
That thought galvanizes her, and she pulls away from his hold, crossing the room to retrieve her gown from the edge of the bed. His shirt pools on the floor and she steps into the dress, honey gold and off-the-shoulder, and pulls it into place over her bust. When she glances over her shoulder, he’s leaning against the window, watching her with eyes two shades darker than her beloved lake.
The thought crosses her mind that if the windows in her apartment weren’t all one-way glass, he would have an embarrassing PR scandal to deal with, because he still hasn’t bothered with his pants.
She almost giggles.
“Lace me up, handsome?"
His mouth curves and he pushes away from the window, stalking across the room to do up her dress with long, clever fingers, and she bites her lip, letting herself wish for just this single second that this is something other than pretend.
But that’s all it can ever be.
She turns when he’s finished, reaches up to smooth a curl back into place along his brow.
“You better get dressed too, darlin. Ain’t gonna impress many backers in nothin but your skin.”
He smirks, leans around her, and scoops his shirt from the floor. It’s so expensive there isn’t a wrinkle in sight as he shrugs it on, leaving it open as he sits on the edge of the bed to pull on the equally expensive slacks. Her eyes follow the movement of the cloth against his skin, and she turns away; forces herself to leave the room.
He is so beautiful.
He stops to press a kiss to her mouth before he leaves, imperious and demanding, and she responds in kind, sinking her teeth into the soft flesh of his lip. He jerks back, but it isn’t rage that lights his eyes as he wipes the blood away.
And that’s power too.