He didn’t say anything for a long moment, and she worried she’d have some sort of panic attack if he didn’t go away. Right. Now. But finally, he moved his hand from her. “Thanks. I’ll be right back.”
She swallowed past her parched throat. “No rush.”
Take all the time you need. Please.
Because she needed to be alone to get herself back together. And then she needed to get him the hell out of her house.
Chapter 3
Lane toweled off in the small, pristine bathroom and tried to get his head together. He’d started the day at school, facing yet another failing grade and having a spectacularly shitty meeting with his professor, and then had somehow ended the day in bed with Dr. Elle McCray. Not just in bed with her—but hate-fucking and playing kinky games and enjoying himself way too much. There was a twist he hadn’t anticipated.
Much to his shock, the normally frosty doctor had been into it, too. She’d tried to fight it, had tried to pretend like it wasn’t doing it for her, but she wasn’t that good of an actress. And man, when she came, she really didn’t hold back. He loved when a woman dropped all self-consciousness and just owned the pleasure of it all, not caring how wild she sounded or how unraveled she looked. He wouldn’t have guessed Elle would be the type to let go like that. The woman was sexy as fuck.
But mean as hell.
He hated to admit it, but her obvious aversion to kissing him had stung. Knowing her, she’d probably thought of all the potential places his mouth had been and deemed it unworthy of touching hers. Maybe she had a right to think that. His rap sheet in that department was long. But it had brought back the old days, when he was the hired help and women were happy to have their bodies kissed by him but not their lips.
He rubbed a hand over his face and tried to shake off the feeling. Get over yourself, Cannon. She had probably only been playing the game. She was supposed to hate him. She wouldn’t kiss someone she hates.
But now that the game was done, he’d find out.
Lane tugged on his jeans and draped his shirt over his shoulder. He didn’t want to leave Elle on her own too long. She’d seemed off at the end. She’d resisted his attempt at making sure she was okay, but that wasn’t going to fly. As a dominant, it was ingrained in him to check in with his partner, to provide that aftercare. He relished that phase himself—those quiet moments after the intensity of a scene when the world came back into focus.
But when he walked back into the bedroom, Elle wasn’t tucked under the covers waiting for him. The bed was neatly made, the sheets he’d stolen from the other room were gone, and only a lamp had been left on. It looked like a tidy hotel room instead of a personal space where he’d just had some of the best sex of his life.
He frowned and dragged his shirt over his head. Clearly, he wasn’t going to be invited to spend the night. He wasn’t surprised, but her absence made tension gather in his neck.
He headed out of the bedroom and toward the living room. The low sound of a late-night talk show drifted his way, and TV light flickered on the wall of the hallway. When he stepped inside, Elle was on the couch, drinking something from a mug and watching the screen. But it wasn’t a cozy picture. This wasn’t, Hey, we just had great sex. I made us some decaf. Let’s hang out and get to know each other a little.
Her back was as stiff as stone and her knuckles were white around the mug. Her expression revealed nothing. He cleared his throat.
“Hey,” he said, when she didn’t look his way.
She glanced over but didn’t meet his eyes. “Hey. Found the towels?”
“Yeah, and your shower gel. Now I smell like peach blossoms and girl.”
“Sorry. I should’ve grabbed you a bar from the guest bathroom.”
He’d meant for his comment to lighten the mood, but her deadpan response put a chill in the room. He took a breath, trying to find his patience. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay. You seem—”
“I’m good. Thanks for tonight,” she said, the words clipped. The doctor voice. “I trust you’ll be discreet about what happened. Your keys are on the table by the door.”
His fingers flexed at his sides. He was so used to being in charge that he had to fight the urge to walk over and put her on her knees for the disrespect. But she wasn’t his submissive. She wasn’t his anything. “So, I’m dismissed. That’s how it is?”
She glanced over at him, expression smooth as glass. A porcelain doll back on the shelf, flat blue eyes revealing nothing. “We both got what we wanted tonight. I have rounds early in the morning.”
He stared at her until she looked away. He wanted to call her out, to figure out what this bullshit was. The budding therapist in him wanted to untangle it all. But what could he say? She hadn’t promised anything more than what had happened. They’d had an attraction and acted on it. Fine. Done. She wasn’t acting any differently than how a lot of single dudes he knew acted. They may put on a better show, but this was one-night-stand protocol without the window dressing of, I’ll call you.
“Yeah. Well, see you around.”
When she didn’t respond, he headed to the door. He didn’t need this shit. Yeah, he’d had a great time with her and the sex had been top shelf, but he had no interest in hanging around where he wasn’t wanted.
For a little while, he’d thought maybe there was more to her than the ice queen she portrayed herself to be. But if there was, clearly she wasn’t interested in showing him that side. And he definitely had no interest in being involved with someone so damn cold. If this was how she wanted things, that made it easy for him. He was the king of walking away. That was part of his job.
But when he grabbed his keys, there was an envelope lying next to it with his name on it. Wary, he picked it up and peeked inside. There were three crisp one-hundred dollar bills inside.
“What the fuck is this?” The sharp edge in his voice cut through the laughter on the television.