Page 70 of Roped

Another sip but no words.

“Did you watch me leave the store then? Is that how you knew?”

He shakes his head no.

“So then how—”

“Always knew you were gonna make a run for it.”

“How?”

For this question, his pause is longer and his eyes are grave. He takes another sip of his whiskey before he answers, “You don’t trust me.”

“No,” I answer immediately. “That’s not why… I do. I trust you. I can explain. It’s just that—”

He stands up then, the stool screeching against the floor as he crowds me, my body. I try to take a step back, but he doesn’t let me go anywhere because he grabs my hand. And he drags me away from the bar. I’m so shocked at this turn of events, at the fact that he’s holding my hand, all I can do is stare down at where we’re joined. He’s not only holding my hand, but he’s rubbing his rough thumb over my skin as if trying to memorize the feel of it. Every couple of seconds, he also squeezes my hand, tightens his fingers around me like he never wants to let go. Whatever it is he’s doing, though, I like it so much that my heart is about to burst out of my rib cage.

God, Peyton, you need to find a way to get away from him.

We finally come to a stop at one of the tables, or rather a booth, with deep burgundy leather seats and a walnut-brown table. It’s slightly toward the back but has a direct view of the bar. I notice the bartender turned toward us, his cheeks still red but his eyes firmly averted. He looks focused on mixing a drink, even though there isn’t anyone else here but us and we didn’t place an order. Again, I think he’s deliberately avoiding looking at us.

My attention is diverted when I feel Radisson take a seat, our hands still joined. I notice he dwarfs the booth just as much as he did that stool. His shoulders cover half of it, and his thighs sprawled wide cover the entirety. But that’s all I get to notice because he tugs at my hand and before I know it, like his thighs on the seat, I’m sprawled across his lap. My back to his front. He goes ahead and adjusts me, grabbing me by the waist. As always, his large hands span the entire length of it as he maneuvers me so that my butt is firmly secured against his pelvis. And God, it feels so right, like I belong here, on his lap, that I can’t help but adjust myself until I’m firmly tucked against him.

Then I feel his face come down, his nose nuzzling the side of my neck, smelling my hair, my skin, and instead of focusing on the important things, I whisper, “You did that. Before too.”

He takes a whiff of my hair again, his hands on my waist, squeezing. “Did what?”

I arch my back against him, grabbing his heated forearms. “Smelled me. The night you took me. For the first time.” Then, “Actually, you’re always doing that. Smelling me.”

He hums, doing it again, his chest vibrating with satisfaction. “Scented your lotion, when I broke into your room that one time.”

“To plant the camera?”

He hums again, both smelling me and telling me yes. “Watched you night after night after night, rubbin’ it into your skin before you went to sleep.” He squeezes my waist again and my eyes almost flutter closed. “Wanted to see if you smelled like it. Like bergamot and hyacinth.”

“I—”

“You don’t,” he goes on.

“I don’t?”

He shakes his head, rubbing his nose into the crook of my neck. “You smell better. Your blue fuckin’ lotion’s got nothin’ on the scent of your skin.”

To demonstrate, he takes another whiff and this time, groans loudly. So much so that I know the bartender heard it. Because he goes even redder in the face and abruptly turns around. God, it makes me so wet. So shamelessly wet. It turns me on that someone can hear us, hear him being all unhinged and crazy. But that’s exactly why I ran away in the first place. It’s not that I don’t trust him; it’s that I don’t trust myself when I’m with him.

I dig my nails into his forearms, arching up against him again. Then, “I-I think we should talk about why I ran. I need to—”

He hums again, his fingers kneading the flesh of my waist, starting to create a burn that brings me this close to moaning just like him. Then, “You do that. While I try to check somethin’ else about my wife.”

I go still. “What?”

He keeps nuzzling the column of my throat as he replies, “That’s what I told him you were when I came in after you.”

I know he’s talking about the bartender, and I ask, in an almost hysterical voice, keeping my shocked eyes on the guy’s back, “You told him I was your wife?”

He nods, his stubble rubbing against my neck.

“But I don’t… Why?”