The look on his face tells me he’s eating this up.
“Fine,” I concede, “I know what it was. I just shouldn’t have done it.”
Colson studies me for a moment and then his face softens. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to kiss him again, but that would be horrible and wrong on so many levels. He’s horrible and wrong on so many levels. I feel terrible. I stumbled upon Bowen, who encompasses all the things I liked about Colson, but doesn’t have a track record of attempted murder. What the hell am I doing?
Colson looks at the floor with a smile, “You know this is one of my favorite things about you?” He raises his eyes to meet mine, “Your unwavering attempts at honor and rationality.”
His voice is sweet, but his words are laced with condescension. If I could think quicker on my feet, I’d lob my own backhanded compliment at him, or if I was more impulsive, maybe just backhand him in general.
“Alright,” Colson nods to his belt on the floor, “pick it up.”
“What?” I ask, taken aback.
Colson’s not smiling anymore, a shadow cast over his pale blue eyes as he waits for me to comply.
When I don’t respond, he nods at the floor again, “You took it off, you can put it back on,” he says with a sinister tone.
I tighten my jaw, “No.”
Colson’s expression doesn’t change, “OK,” but there’s a hitch in his voice, “then finish what you started.”
I stare at him for a few moments, trying to decide if he’s serious or not. He sounds like he means business, but I’m not in his house or his car or somewhere else where he can do whatever he pleases. Picking up his arsenal from the floor is the lesser of two evils, by far, so I’d rather just take the hit to my pride and get it over with—if I can even lift it, that is. It’s so heavy and awkward, he’ll probably get a good laugh watching me try to do anything with it.
With a roll of my eyes, I start to reach down, but he grabs my shoulder and pulls me upright, giving me a start, “Uh-uh,” he flashes his eyes with a malevolent smile, “on your knees.”
My stomach drops, “You fucking wish,” I growl with indignance.
I’ve said these words to him before, and the look in his eyes tells me he remembers them all too well.
“That’s right,” Colson murmurs insidiously, “my wishes tend to come true whenever you come around.”
I tip my chin up, “What are you going to do?” I seethe, looking him up and down.
“Baby,” he smirks, “you know firsthand the things I can do. You think I give a fuck who’s on the other side of that door? Because I’ll gladly remind you that you stopped being so well-behaved the moment you laid eyes on me.”
“You’re not seriously asking—”
“I’m not asking you shit,” his jaw tightens, “so do as you’re told. Now.”
When I look down, I see Colson’s arms bent at the elbow and his palms face up, ready to help me kneel down in front of him.
Such a fucking gentleman.
I shoot him a loathsome glare and ignore his twisted attempt at courtesy, my stomach turning inside out as I sink to the floor. He could just be fucking with me, but the odds of that are getting slimmer by the second. His black leather boot looks huge next to my knee and the thin Berber carpet offers next to no comfort. Inches away, his black belt loaded down with equipment lays in a pile—mace, handcuffs, flashlight, multitool, and no less than four extra magazines.
My eyes move up his leg to his thigh, where his black standard issued Glock sits snapped into its holster, right at my chest height. It’s nothing I don’t see every day, but none of my other coworkers have ever put their weapons to my head. His gun doesn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, probably because I see Bowen’s all the time, tucked into the back of his pants, and that’s where it stays.
Colson breaks my concentration, “Your sneakers look really cute.”
Did he just compliment my shoes?
“So’s your shirt,” he adds, “it looks really nice from up here.”
I glance down at my black and white Vans, crisp and barely scuffed, then at the rest of my outfit; black skinny pants and a fitted, hunter green t-shirt with a wide neck. If I tuck my chin and look down, the edge of my beige bra is visible.
“Brett, look at me,” I feel Colson’s fingers under my chin, tilting my head to meet his eyes, “you’re nothing if not honorable and rational. That’s why it’s going to be so fun for me to ruin you—again,” he drags his thumb across my lower lip, “and make you my slut—again.”
A chill skitters over me and even though he’s saying the most god-awful things, he almost looks angelic, stroking my jawline with his thumb and gazing down at me with a depraved sense of admiration.
“You’re my drug,” Colson murmurs, “created just for me, that wrecks me but can’t kill me. And I’m your addiction you’ll never be able to shake because I’ll never let you go. You’ll keep trying to be good and deny yourself everything you really want, but it won’t work,” he pauses and runs his tongue along the inside of his mouth, “because you’re still my good girl…” then he leans down and rotates his wrist, squeezing my throat between his thumb and forefinger, “Honeybee,” he hums against my lips.
The last word flips a switch somewhere deep in the primal caverns of my brain. My thighs tense and I reach up with one hand and hook my fingers over the waist of his black pants. With the other, I tear the top button loose and yank the hem of his shirt up and out of the way.
“You still love fighting me, don’t you?” Colson mutters, stroking my cheek and dragging his thumb back and forth over my mouth, “Makes it that much better when I tear you up.”
“Shut the fuck up, Colson,” I hiss, smacking his hand away from my face.
As much as I want to call him a liar, Colson is right. I refuse to be a cowering waif threatened into submission. Instead, I want to be consumed by whatever sinful and treacherous entity is possessing me, not have a conversation about it with the devil himself. I don’t want to acknowledge what’s going through my mind or what’s making me ache in a way I shouldn’t be. I just want to shove it deep down into a ball of cancer in my soul.
“Yes, ma’am,” he groans, leaning back against the cabinet.
My palm brushes over his muscles, tense with anticipation as I hit the edge of his vest and tug his pants lower on his hips. I didn’t want to look before when I was eyeing his weaponry and wishing I’d slammed the door in his face, but now I’m eye-level with the outline of his cock, straining against the black fabric, and all I want to do is take it out and make him say more filthy things to me in his tantalizing voice.
But, hell, if I’ll make it that easy for him.
Slowly, I run one hand up the front of his pants, feeling his length, tight and constricted. When I do, his abs tense and his fingertips turn white on the edge of the cabinet. I hope it’s painful. I should just get up and leave him like that, but I probably wouldn’t make it halfway to the door. So, with one final tug, I free him with my other hand.
God. Damn.
