“Because I’m still savoring the hunt.”
Chapter Thirty-Five Sloane
When he first rebuked my declaration by implying he didn’t want me, I’m ashamed to admit how hurt I was. It wasn’t even the sting of rejection—it was the sting of rejection from him.
And then came the twist.
Well played, Magnus Reinhardt.
Now my heart is pumping hard, and I can’t deny other parts of my anatomy are fairly active as well.
The idea that my sex appeal might have anything to do with the reason I was sent here is…absurd. And strangely arousing.
Femme Fatale.
I’m the last person on earth suited for such a role, which is why the idea gives me such a kick. I’m here in a city that I’d never have thought of visiting if left to my own volition. The museums of Paris. The ruins of Athens. The architecture of Rome. That’s more my speed—if I had ever given myself the time off to indulge. The only reason I even had a passport was that Douglas & Foster demanded it should I ever have to fly to the foreign offices of one of the banks we represent—something that has yet to even happen.
But here in what might as well be the Sin City of Europe? Why not give in to certain vices?
“The bedroom is yours for what’s left of the night. I’ll have them bring down your suitcase, so you have something more…” Magnus’s eyes linger over the sheets surrounding me. “Suitable to wear in the morning. Goodnight, Sloane.”
His smile is no less dangerous as he puts on his shirt, then collects his jacket and tie. He passes by me to head toward the door.
I rise up, feeling a wicked smile touch my lips. Before Magnus reaches the exit, I stop him. Might as well leave him with something to keep him coming back.
“One moment. I think you forgot something of yours.”
Magnus turns to face me.
That’s when I release the sheets surrounding me, leaving me in nothing but my heels and the earrings dangling from my lobes.
Even he isn’t immune to the primal reaction I was hoping for. I devour it, thrilled that I’ve once again managed to throw him off. Something about it sates my womanly pride.
There’s also something to be said for admiring eyes. And the state I’m in? The old Sloane would be appalled. But really, she was nothing more than a guppy. Guppies don’t make an impression.
But sharks do.
I reach up to remove one of the earrings and then the other. “I believe these belong to you?”
The slow smile that creeps to his face is more satisfying than even the most decadent dessert. He moves like a shark, slow and predatory. I can almost hear the theme music to Jaws in my head, and it has the potentially ruinous effect of making me laugh.
When he’s only inches away from me, I allow the moment to linger, all the better to build up an immunity to the man, even though my body reacts violently. That intoxicatingly masculine scent, with the lingering smell of sex. The way his body completely fills my vision, the thought of what those hands—never mind the rest of him—could do to me all over again. I absorb it all, letting it infiltrate my system.
“You’re right, you do have something of mine,” he says, looking straight into my eyes. They make a slow voyage across my face, down my neck, then wander with wanton indulgence over my naked body—blatantly ignoring the earrings held out in the palm of my hand.
Suddenly, I feel as helpless and vulnerable as that guppy. What the hell was I thinking trying to pull this off? I’m no shark, certainly no femme fatale. I’m just—
Magnus slowly sinks to his knees, setting aside his jacket and tie, and I forget everything I was thinking. I can feel his breath over every inch of me, sizzling heat hardening my nipples, warm sighs caressing my stomach. One hot and heavy exhale disappearing in the triangle between my thighs, which he’s right at eye-level with. After staring at it long enough to make me wet all over again, he slowly rolls his eyes back up to mine. The wicked grin on his face might as well be that of a predator bearing its teeth.
Instead of fear, I feel a rush of power hit me. Why does this sense of dominance, or at the very least, worthiness overcome me only when provoked? Magnus has taken this power move and accepted the challenge.
When his hand comes out to settle on my hip, I don’t so much as flinch.
But my body zaps with electricity, sizzling and crackling to life.
In one sensual stroke, he rounds to my ass. I expect at least a quick squeeze or lingering pause, but the slow, easy movement right down to the back of my thigh is ten times more pleasurable than those amateur moves. With his eyes still locked on mine, he continues across every curve of my leg, caressing my thigh, tickling the back of my knee, stroking my calf. It’s only when he gets to the ankle that he stops.
When he breaks eye-contact, lowering them to unbuckle the strap to my shoe, I feel dizzy, like I’ve just come out of a deep hypnosis. It’s only when I feel him firmly grip the back of my ankle, encouraging me to lift my foot out of the shoe, that I realize what he’s doing.
“The shoes?” I ask, slightly incredulous.
“You were the one to point out that they were mine,” he says, gently lowering my foot and moving to the next shoe.
“I meant the—”
“I know what you meant,” he says, still not lifting his eyes.
I go silent, back to feeling slightly bewildered and out of my depth again. I’m definitely not the only one full of surprises.
Another point for Magnus.
When that shoe is off, I feel my empowerment come back. As much as it unsettles me to think of my mother’s
