A light touch brushes across my forehead. I blink my eyes open; diffused light haloes Robert. He runs his hand down my jaw to my neck, his thumb following the column of my throat, his gaze intense on its path. His thumb reaches the notch between my collarbones. It stops there. My heartbeat thrums where we touch.
The bed is firm, the sheets fine. Decorated in dove gray and crisp white, Robert’s bedroom is modern, a gorgeous contrast to the house’s antebellum architecture. It elevates the space, brings it forward in time rather than trying to recreate an era long past…but still haunting us today.
“Good morning,” I say, my voice rough.
“Good morning,” he replies, one side of his mouth tipping up.
His thumb moves again, tracing across my collarbone, his fingers trailing above it, eyes following the movement with rapt attention. “You look like you’re concentrating really hard,” I tease.
“I am,” he answers.
His hand reaches my left shoulder and he cups it, then starts down my arm. He pushes the covers away when he reaches my elbow. His fingers shift to the back of my forearm so that when he reaches my wrist, he can lift my hand up. “You will wear my ring again.” He says it as a statement and I let out a short laugh. His gaze rises to meet mine. “It’s my only request.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you think you get a request?”
“Because you want something from me and I want to grant it—I’m letting you know what I want in return.” His gaze locks with mine, hand still cradling my fingers as if to gently lead me onto a dance floor.
Careful, Sydney, be very careful. This is what I love about being with Robert—this uncertainty I feel with him—along with the confidence I gain every time we clash and I don’t crumble from the exertion of his power.
“Why does it mean so much to you?” I ask.
His gaze drops back to my hand, to my bare ring finger. “Because it does.”
“It’s hard for me to wear jewelry. Rings can be dangerous if I hurt my hand—if my finger swells, the ring has to be cut off, and I don’t have a ring cutter on me most of the time.”
“You wore a ring.” His tone is nonchalant, but I can see the muscle in his jaw clenching under his beard. His beard, fuck. I stare at it, the brush of it against the skin of my inner thigh coming back to me in vivid full-body flashes. Echoes of pleasure raise goose bumps on my skin.
“The ring I wore when I was Mrs. Johnson wasn’t real, it was a cover.” I say, my voice warped by the sight of his fucking beard.
His fingers weave through mine, his focus on our joined hands. “How real the commitment is doesn’t affect the dangers of swelling.”
I swallow, tearing my eyes off his beard, off that suddenly dangerously erotic thing covering his face. I look at my bare finger. “There were good reasons to wear it then. But honestly, I don’t want to wear your wedding ring. It feels...” He waits, watching me, “like a lock, a symbol of your ownership.”
“I think it is a symbol of our partnership.”
I meet his gaze. “Is that what it was for your parents? Was your mother an equal partner to your father?”
“As much as was possible in their time.” He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses my ring finger. It sends tingles of awareness up my arm. “You are my equal, Sydney, we both know that.”
“So why do you need the ring?”
“It will remind you of me.”
“I don’t need reminding.”
His gaze lifts back to mine. “You think of me often?”
“That’s a dumb question.” I try to pull my hand back, but he doesn’t let me.
“Is it?”
“You’re not really so desperate for validation you need me to say it.”
“You’d be surprised what I’m desperate for.” His smile is teasing.
“Fine, I think about you.” I tug on my hand again, but he doesn’t let it go.
“You will think about me more now.”
“Now that I’ve fucked you.” I say it to be crass, hoping to make him flinch, to deny the emotional connection between us last night. To deny the emotional connection we’ve shared for a long time. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, amusement glints in his oceanic eyes.
“Yes, I know that you will think of me more often. Maybe even when you are with your other lovers.” His voice drops to a deep rumble, something prurient and dangerous.
“How would you feel if I thought about them with you?” I ask, annoyance climbing up my spine. I try to pull my hand away again and again he doesn’t let me. My jaw clenches.
“You can think about whatever you want when you’re with me as long as you enjoy yourself. As long as you make the sounds you made last night. I will never judge you for how you find your pleasure.” He leans forward, his breath brushing my lips. My eyes slide shut, and he closes the space between us, kissing me slowly, gently, lovingly. Robert releases my hand and threads his into my hair.
It’s a lazy kiss—a Sunday morning with nothing to do but lie in bed and kiss. I place my other hand on his chest, running my fingers over the scars left from Simon’s bullet. It ignites shivers of fear and lust—those two emotions twine like strands of DNA in me.
“What can I give you?” Robert asks, his lips brushing mine. “What will convince you to wear my ring again?”
“Richard Chiles.” Robert leans back to meet my gaze. “I want to kill him.”
His lips twitch. “I warned him going after Joyful Justice would be a mistake—politically and physically.”
“You’ll help me end him.” I don’t phrase it as a question.
He cocks his head. “Richard is very useful to me. And as president he will be even more so. I won’t let you murder him, but perhaps we can find a middle ground. A way for you to get your vengeance, and for me to keep my knight.”
“Chess analogies in the bedchamber, Mr. Maxim. You are quite the romantic.”
“Says the woman offering to wear my ring in exchange for ending a man’s life—you are a mercenary, my love.” I don’t correct the endearment. Robert kisses me again—this isn’t a lazy brush of lips but a crush of need. A hunt to sate his hunger. “What do you want me to do?”
“Drug him for me.” Robert runs his thumb across my lower lip. “I want him incapacitated.”
“That’s not very sporting of you,” he says, his eyes staying on my mouth.
“This isn’t sport, Robert.”
His lips tilt to one side. “What will you do once you have him at your mercy?”
“Kill him.”
Robert’s eyes come to mine. “I told you I can’t help you kill him; it’s against my best interests.”
“I want you to think about someone besides yourself.” His smile is subtle, but there’s a hint of condescension at the edges. “Do you want another Kurt Jessup?” I ask, reminding him of his last political minion going so off script Robert had him assassinated. “You think Richard isn’t on the same track?”
“No, he’s not the same at all.”
“Oh?”
“Kurt was greedy, egotistical.”
“I’m not hearing a difference.”
“Kurt was moved by emotion, Richard is not. He’s calculating in a way I respect.”
I swallow my revulsion. “Help me kill him.”
“Wear my ring, and I’ll provide an opportunity.”
“You’d trade his life—your knight—for me wearing your ring.”
“For the opportunity for you to confront him. He may be able to negotiate a mutually agreeable solution with you.”
“You’re crazy.” I try to sit up but he presses me back, his lips finding mine.
“Say yes,” he demands. His teeth nip at my bottom lip. “You want a life, I just want a ring.”
“You want ownership.”
“No.” His grin is wicked and close. “I want you. And no one, Sydney Rye, could own you.” Robert’s eyes hold mine. The diffused light of the bedroom caresses his face, catching on the sheen of his lips—slick from kissing me. He waits. That steady pursuit of me still there even now that I’m caught.
“If I have to cut it off, I don’t want to hear any moaning about it.”
“Oh, Ms. Rye, there will be plenty of moaning.”
I laugh.