Page 43 of Spin Control

“You’re coming with me,” Wes says, interrupting as he takes my wrist again, all but dragging me around the corner with him. I try to pull away, but his grip is tight. “Stop fighting.”

“Wes, you don’t—”

“You cannot be trusted right now,” he says. “I swear I’m not going to make you talk. But I am going to make sure you eat.”

“Wes,” I say through gritted teeth, my temper flaring. “Let go of me.”

“No.”

I stop walking and jerk my arm back as hard as I can. Wes stumbles, but still doesn’t let go of my wrist. Once he’s straightened, he turns around and gives me a long, assessing look. “You need to eat.”

“I know,” I say. “And I will. I’m a grown woman. I don’t need you dragging me around Logan Circle. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

He arches an eyebrow, unconvinced. Based on what he’s just witnessed, it’s fair. But now that I’ve snapped out of my spiral, I don’t need to be told what to do. I don’t need to be coddled. What I need…

I bite the inside of my cheek. I know exactly what I need. I look at Wes’s hand, still wrapped around my wrist, and all my instincts buck like a wild horse when a cowboy tries to break it. But something low in my stomach tightens at the same time.

I’ve known since that afternoon in Bahrain that Wes and I have a certain compatibility. I thought he might ask for it that night in Monaco.

But even if he asked very, very nicely, I couldn’t say yes.

He’s a client.

But God, it’d be so much fun to be the person Wes Grant surrenders all his control to.

“Okay then,” Wes says, releasing my wrist. “What are you going to eat?”

I point to a Chinese place that’s still open. “Satisfied?”

“Not yet,” he says, grinning in that annoyingly smoldering way of his. “After you.”

I give him my most unimpressed glare, but walk into the restaurant and go to the counter. After I’ve ordered orange chicken and crab Rangoon, Wes jumps in, adding beef and broccoli to the order before handing his card to the cashier.

“I’m telling Camden about this.”

Wes gasps before clutching his chest. “I didn’t even order fried rice!”

Before I can stop it, I laugh.

“Wow,” Wes says, wonder filling his voice. “Yet another real laugh from Elizabeth Jacobs.”

I recall the conversation about how I’m the downfall of the polar ice caps, and wipe the smile from my face immediately. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re right. I must have imagined it.”

I don’t look at him again. But I also don’t hold back my smile.

It’s 1:18am, and I can’t sleep.

I keep tossing and turning. I can’t turn off my brain. I can’t ignore the craving that’s gnawing at my bones, the desire pulsing through my veins.

I need control.

And I know how I could get it.

It’s a terrible, irresponsible idea that I’ve been refusing to entertain for weeks. But I’m at the point where I no longer care. I’ll deal with the consequences later.

So I follow my instincts and arrive at a door down the hall.