Page 75 of Filthy Promises

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

For a long moment, he says nothing. Just watches me with those ice-blue eyes that see too much.

“You’re not wrong,” he finally admits. “Not entirely.”

The confirmation stings more than it should. I’d known it was true, but hearing him say it…

“Then let’s be clear about the rules of this game,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “Because I’m tired of being the only one who doesn’t know how to play.”

“The rules are simple. I pursue what I want. When I want it.”

“And what is it you want, exactly?”

The car slows to a stop at a red light. In the momentary stillness, I feel the air between us charge with electricity.

“You know what I want, Rowan.” His voice drops to a growl that makes every nerve in my body stand at attention. “I’ve made that very clear.”

“And what about whatIwant?” I challenge.

“Tell me.” His eyes pin me in place. “What do you want?”

For a moment, I consider telling him. I have all the words right there on the tip of my tongue, lined up just like they have been for five years.

I wantYOU,Vince. I want you to shred me to pieces and build me back up just so you can shred me again. I want to know how it feels to melt on you, with you, for you. I want to crumble in your arms and on your tongue, because I just know, with a deep and unshakeable certainty, that there isn’t another man alive capable of ruining me the way you would.

I want you to ruin me, Vince.

I want it now.

Then the light changes. The car moves forward. The moment shifts.

“I’m not sure anymore,” I whisper, honesty slipping through the cracks in my bravado.

Vince sits back. “When you decide, feel free to let me know.”

We ride in loaded silence for several minutes. I need to time this perfectly. If I’m going to slip the Polaroid into his pocket, it has to be now, before we reach the restaurant.

I set my tablet aside and reach for my clutch. “I should check my makeup before we arrive.”

Opening my purse, I palm the small envelope, then pretend to drop my lipstick. It rolls across the floor of the car toward Vince’s polished shoes.

“Allow me,” he says, bending to retrieve it, just like I hoped he would.

As he leans forward, I reach out as if to help, letting my hand brush against his jacket pocket. With a sleight of hand that would make a pickpocket proud, I slip the envelope inside.

He straightens up, hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” I say as he passes me the lipstick.

Our fingers touching briefly. Just barely. Chaste. Unremarkable.

But something in is obscene and fucking violent.

A flare blooms in his eyes—suspicion, perhaps—but then it’s gone, replaced by that maddening mask of control.

“We’re here,” he announces as the car pulls up to Per Se once again in an eerie déjà vu re-creation of our previous disaster here.

I take a deep breath, suddenly nervous about what I’ve done.

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