Edward

She walks into the room we're sharing tonight, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder. Her pants glisten in the light, reflecting the built-in lighting in the ceiling. Her ass sways with each and every one of her steps. And those boots. Fuck, those boots. I can just imagine fucking her while she's wearing them—only them. I can picture her, tied up while I pound into her, and she's lying knees to chest, ankles tied.

I walk after she does, closing the door behind myself. I have a plan, and it's time for it. When the door's closed, I turn the lock, gazing around and appreciating the spacious room. Jasper's got money, that much I know.

"Havoc, please… let's talk?" I look for her, cursing this suite for being so big, and find her looking out the window in the main room. She's surrounded with beige, such a stark contrast with the black she's wearing, with her overall look and the air that's hanging around her. Somehow, she looks even more powerful here, and fuck, how badly I want to break that part of her, have her on her knees, her pretty head bowed in submission. That might take a while, though.

"Talk?" She turns around, arms crossed in front of her chest. It does nothing to soothe my desire; her tits press together, cleavage tempting and inviting. "You wanna fucking talk, after you practically assaulted me?" She sneers.

"You kissed me back…" I say, immediately regretting it.

"I did not! You're a pompous ass, nothing else. How the fuck can you call yourself a Dom?" Her eyes spit fire, a snarl on her face that makes my cock throb inside my pants.

It's now or never.

"I'm not a Dom…" I lie. "I'm a switch, Mistress."

Isabella Swan's laughter echoes off the walls and windows of the hotel suite, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "He's a switch…" she muses. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" Cocking her head to the side, she walks closer to me. Her heels thud against the plush, white carpet until she's right in front of me.

I want to kiss her again, pull her against me using her leather jacket, and squeeze her ass in those vinyl pants.

"I'm not, actually. That's what I wanted to talk to you about," I continue lying as if it's gonna save my fucking life, but she still doesn't believe me. "Please, let us have that drink?"

"And then what?" She barks.

"Then I might kiss your boots and let you do what you do best, Mistress. Dominate me." I try to channel my inner submissive—using the desperation I heard in the voices of people I let go in the past when I already had a submissive under contract.

The way she purses her lips, and frowns, tell me she's actually considering it. She feels this too, this pull between us. I'm sure she does.

"We can drink and talk. Nothing else. I don't drink and Domme," she jokes and turns around, walking toward the desk in front of the window. She leans down, elbows on the top of the mahogany table, ass up when she calls room service.

"Bring us scotch. A bottle. Two glasses."

She shrugs off her jacket and drapes it over the desk chair and sits down in the armchair facing a big couch, throwing one leg over the other, heeled foot dangling before she speaks again.

"Sit, Ginger. Let's talk."