She took her hands off his body with a moment of regret for the loss of contact and lifted her arms in the air, clasping the handcuffs teasingly with the tips of her fingers. “Then show me how you’d make me talk.”
He inhaled sharply, his features, for a moment, looking more primal— animal—than human. A predator scenting his prey. “Don’t move.”
She kept her arms above her head as he disappeared from her line of sight. She could hear the scrape of metal against metal when he lifted the low bench from the far wall and carried it over, setting it down behind her. She’d have to stand on it, she realized, to fit into the cuffs hanging from the ceiling. She started to turn, but his words froze her in place.
“This is my interrogation, Aziza, and I told you not to move.”
“Yes, sir.” She shivered again. Visibly shaking and he hadn’t even touched her yet. Brandon moved to stand in front of her once more and lowered her arms down to her sides.
“You should think about this, you know,” he informed her. “I should think about this. Hell. The fact that I’m even considering…”
His words slowed to a halt when she shook her head of hair, still wild from her adventures, and her trembling fingers started working on the corset that now seemed too tightly laced for her to catch her breath. “You should take my advice and stop thinking. It ruins everything.”
“Keep it on.”
She froze and smiled in question. “Because you like the corset? Or because you’re not interested anymore?”
“I like it,” he groaned, gripping her hips and lifting her onto the bench.
From this position she was still barely a head taller than he was, and the chains would still make her body stretch to keep her feet on the bench. Perfection.
She watched as Brandon reached behind him and tugged his shirt over his head, realizing she might have used that word too soon. He was perfection. A mountain of a man carved from rock, just for her. A body etched in hard, jagged edges, awe inspiring to gaze upon, and something she wanted desperately to climb.
His tattoos were just as impressive. More than the usual tribal designs, the dark ink that covered his skin from his chest, over his shoulder and down to his elbow seemed to emanate power, its stylized symbols swirling around his flexing muscles like artistic armor.
She licked her lips, pouting when he didn’t take off his jeans.
Brandon noticed and gave her his first genuine smile. “You don’t have a lot of patience, do you?”
Aziza tilted her head, as if in consideration. She kicked off her shoes and— pulling him closer to use his bare shoulder for balance—slipped her leggings down and off her legs. “I suppose that’s true. I think I got out of the habit.”
She’d spent the last two years living in the moment, knowing she was going to die. There wasn’t time for patience. “Please don’t tell me you’ll make me wait. I’m not in to delayed gratification…and no one likes a tease.”
He took a breath and began to walk around the bench, taking her in. She saw him shake his head in wonder. “Where have you been hiding?”