Free Detained by Ainslie Paton Page A

sitting. Are you going to let a little thing like me being untrustworthy stop me from making love to you?”
    “I should.”
    “You won’t.”
    “Are you always so sure of yourself, of what other people will do?”
    He didn’t answer, but a lopsided grin spread across his face.
    “I think I hate you.”
    “Not yet you don’t. Come here now.”
    “It’s too bright.”
    “I told you I wanted to see you.”
    “You gave me darkness last night.”
    “That was last night. I’m a liar and I’m inconsistent.”
    “I need my head read being here with you.”
    He sat forward, braced on his hand, the muscles in his forearms bunching. “Do you want me to go?”
    Darcy’s tongue was cement rendered to her palette. She forced a tight instruction out. “Stop.” She could do this if she knew he’d listen. If she had some control of her own.
    He sat back, stretched his arms out along the line of pillows with a lazy grin of triumph fixed on his face.
    She moved to the side of the bed. “Arms behind your head.”
    He laughed, voice thick and smooth like heavy satin, but complied, lacing both hands behind his head, and slumping down on the pillows.
    “Is it a problem I’m giving the orders?”
    “It’s an unexpected pleasure.”
    “I want to touch you. I don’t want you to move.”
    “And what do I get for being so co-operative?”
    “Me.”
    “Gorgeous, I’ve had you since the virgin chicken.”
    “You’re insufferable.”
    “That’s why you’re wet for me. Strip.”
    He was right. Darcy’s hands shook. She wasn’t sure she could undo the other buttons without needing help. She wasn’t sure of anything except being with him was inevitable, and delicious, and stupid. His look burned her skin, made it zing like the first rush of a too hot shower. She fumbled the remaining buttons undone, let the dress fall to her feet and stood there in her mismatched underwear.
    “I want you naked.”
    She couldn’t do it. She knew her body wasn’t fashionable. She had hips and a backside. And despite the yoga she wasn’t toned to magazine image perfection. The family joke was tables had better legs. And his body was incredible, even with the scars that marked him. And the room was too bright. She went to turn off the light nearest her.
    “Leave it.”
    Hand on the switch, their eyes met. He repeated, “Leave it.”
    She turned it off.
    “Fine then—but the bra goes.”
    “So you do know how to compromise.”
    “I know how to win. Do you want me to do it for you?”
    She did. She didn’t. She saw nothing in him to suggest he didn’t like what he saw. She unhooked her bra, let it slide down her arms and watched his eyes flare with satisfaction. Then she leant across and switched on the light. “You win.”
    His grin stood in place for the word ‘always’. “Come here.”
    She knelt on the bed, then crawled across to him, aware of his eyes eating her up. “I’m going to touch you now, but you’re not to move.”
    He made a growl sound, a rumble from his chest, but sat still. She pulled the sheet back, peeling it slowly away from him, till she could see all of him. The jut of his hipbones, the flat of his belly. He had another burn scar on his thigh, tightly muscled calves, high insteps and squared-off toes. He had an erection that made her gulp and every interior muscle clench.
    “I’m not feeling any touching,” he said.
    “Patience.” She knelt at his side. She was gathering herself before she lost herself.
    “I’m not known for it.”
    She swept her eyes back to his face. “I might’ve guessed that. But you do know about restraint. You were restrained last night. You wouldn’t let me touch you.”
    “If I remember rightly, you were restrained, and I wouldn’t let you argue with me. You’ve got ten seconds.”
    “And then what?”
    He laughed, his hands came down from behind his head to line the pillows again. Ready to pounce. “You want me to tell you or show you?”
    “I want you to sit