Strokes: A Dark Contemporary Reverse Harem Romance (Finding Their Muse Book 2)

by Bea Paige

  I so want to kiss her there, to feel the thrum of her blood as it rushes beneath her skin. I want to run my tongue along the underside of her forearm. I want to press my mouth against the crook of her elbow and suck gently. But I don’t do that. I simply work my hands upwards massaging in small circles. When I reach her shoulders, I smooth the palms of my hands over her collarbone working across to the other side, then work my fingers all the way back down her other arm, finishing off clasping her hand in mine. I look at her fingers peeking out from between my hands, and wonder how can this simple connection between us mean more to me than anything I’ve ever experienced before?

  I’ve slept with many women and have never felt anything more than a listless desire. Yet, here I am holding Rose’s hand and I’ve never wanted to fuck a woman more than in this moment. No wonder Ivan didn’t want to let her out of his sight.

  I look up from our clasped hands to Rose. She hasn’t once removed her gaze from me. Her face is blank, completely stripped of emotion.

  I can’t read her.

  She doesn’t tell me that this is okay, but she doesn’t tell me to stop either.

  Letting go of her hand I place my hands on her hip, rubbing my palm against the taught muscle and flesh, easing out the tenseness she holds there. A tiny sigh is the only sign that she might be enjoying this. I take my time massaging her, alternating between gentle strokes and firmness.

  When I begin to massage her thighs her breath comes quicker, her legs part, the lips of her beautiful sex opening up as she relaxes beneath my hands. It glistens in the low light of the room. My cock twitches at the thought of sliding into her wet warmth.

  But I refuse to make this about sex. It doesn’t matter that I want to fuck her. It doesn’t matter about me.

  Only her. Rose. My muse.

  Maybe I’m purging my guilt about Amber by giving to Rose what I couldn’t give her, actual real fucking tenderness. Maybe this is just a way to feel less guilty about what I could still do. I don’t know.

  An outsider looking in might view this as one person loving another, but I’m not in love with Rose. This isn’t about love.

  It’s about something far more visceral, something beyond love.

  I’m accepting her flaws. I’m accepting her broken pieces, her raw beauty, her strength. I’m accepting the anger and the self-destruction. I’m accepting her darkness and the demon within.

  And in some ways, allowing this kindness, she’s accepting me.

  “Turn over,” I command, my voice unrecognisable even to my own ears.

  She does as I ask, raising her beautiful round arse in the air. She’s trying to tempt me, and fuck knows I’m more than tempted. I’m rock hard, the pulse in my cock is agony. I admire her tenacity, but not fucking has become an internal battle I have to win.

  I must.

  Straddling her thighs, my cock resting against the crack of her arse, draws out a deep moan I know she hadn’t meant to release given the sudden tenseness of her shoulders. In that moment I realise she’s fighting her own desires as much as I am.

  Ignoring the urge to sink myself into her pussy, I begin to massage her lower back. I take my time, the little moans she makes turning me on so fucking much.

  But I block them out, concentrating on massaging the knots out of her tense muscles.

  I’m not sure how long I spend unravelling the tenseness, but eventually her moans become gentle puffs of breaths as Rose falls into a deep sleep.

  Laying down next to her, I lay my arm over her back, curling around her in a protective embrace the same way she curled around me, hoping to God I can keep my promise.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Rose

  The shrill ring of my phone wakes me up. I haul myself upright, and grab my mobile, accepting the call without taking in who’s ringing.

  “Hello?” I mumble, rubbing at my tired eyes.

  “Rose, thank fuck!” Ivan says, relief and anger in his voice. “I’ve had shit reception these past twenty-four hours and haven’t been able to call you. I’ve been going crazy. You alright?”

  “I’m fine, Ivan,” I sigh, standing.

  Somewhere in the back of my head a little voice is pointing out just how good I feel. Why am I not in agony like usual? Behind me I hear a quiet groan, and glancing over my shoulder I see a very naked Anton staring up at me. He gives me a disarming smile, then seeing me frown, dials it down a notch. Memories of last night come rushing back in.

  Anton had massaged every inch of me until I fell asleep. He’d been gentle, tender, kind, and I hadn’t tried to stop him.

  The thought of his hands on me has my cheeks blazing red and I turn away from him, not willing to let him see how much he’s disarmed me. He didn’t even try to fuck me; I think I would’ve been less suspicious if he had. But in the harsh light of day, I’m not sure I trust his motives. Nothing ever comes without a price. Nothing. I’ve learnt that the hard way.

  Hobbling over to the hook on the back of my door, I grab my dressing gown and pull it on, hiding the rush of heat that the thought of Anton’s hands on me elicits.

  “You don’t sound fine. What’s going on?”

  “It’s been a long few days, that’s all,” I respond, turning back to face Anton who’s watching me closely.

  “Is Anton okay?” he asks.

  “He’s better, if that’s what you mean?”

  Anton grimaces.

  “He’s kept to his word then,” Ivan asks.

  “For now.”

  Anton shifts onto his side and my gaze is drawn to his hands and forearms, the veins prominent beneath his skin, the muscles tensing as he flexes his fingers.

  God, those hands.

  Last night as he massaged me it had felt as though something had shifted between us, something fundamental. I want to trust in it, but trust doesn’t come easily to me. I glance at Anton, he’s watching me with interest and an open honesty I haven’t seen before now.

  Whatever passed between us, I hope it lasts long enough to stay his hand.

  “There’s something…” the line crackles and I miss what Ivan says under the poor reception.

  “Ivan, I didn’t catch that.”

  “Snowstorm… can’t… Ms Hadley…”

  I catch parts of the sentence, and the unmistakable agitation in his voice.

  “Ms Hadley… angry… be careful…”

  “Ivan, you’re breaking up. Can you repeat that?” I catch Anton’s eye, and he sits up in bed, sensing the concern in my voice.

  “Rose… shit! You need to keep him safe…”

  “Keep who safe, Ivan? Do you mean Erik? What’s going on?” I look at Anton helplessly as he gets up and starts pulling on his clothes.

  “…home…as soon as I can…”

  “You’re coming home early, but can’t because of a snowstorm? Shit! Ivan, are you there, can you hear me?”

  “Don’t let him near…” The line goes dead before he can finish.

  The second I hear the line go blank, I end the call and immediately try to call back. By now, Anton is fully dressed and clutching onto the drawing he did of me.

  “We need to get back to Browlace… it must be Erik,” Anton says, making the same assumptions as me from the bits of garbled information.

  “Yes,” I respond sharply, hitting redial.

  I can’t get through to Ivan. Firing off a quick text message telling him we’re heading back to Browlace, I toss the phone to Anton. “Check the weather conditions for Moscow. I think there’s a snowstorm and Ivan can’t get home. Something must be wrong with Erik. He mentioned Ms Hadley. Do you think he’s hurt himself again?”

  “Anything is possible with Erik,” Anton retorts, scrolling through my phone as I grab the same clothes as I was wearing yesterday and pull them on. “Looks like there’s a white out over the city. No flights in or out according to the news. Ivan is stuck in Moscow for another few days at least.”

  “Then if there’s an issue with Erik, it’s up
to us to sort it out. I’ll call a cab,” I say, holding my hand out for the phone.

  The cab arrived within ten minutes and we’re pulling into the drive of Browlace Manor twenty minutes after I received the call from Ivan. Getting out of the car we head up the front steps. Anton places his hand on my arm.

  “About last night…” he starts.

  A whole host of emotions ripple across his features, and if I weren’t so preoccupied with the fear that Erik might have hurt himself again, I would’ve made time to talk. Last night I’d stripped myself bare for him and he did the same for me. The entire time he drew me I’d been so turned on I would’ve reciprocated had he made a move, but he didn’t try to take advantage. I’d woken up this morning, the heat of his body warming my own. His silence, respect and self-control a bigger turn on than any other I’ve experienced so far. We have unfinished business he and I, but now isn’t the time.

  “We’ll talk later, okay? Let’s see what’s going on first,” I respond.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” he says, forcing his face to remain neutral and not give in to the dazzling smile I know is waiting to burst free. He’s worked out that it reminds me of Roman… and he’s already trying to protect me from the memory of that man. But I don’t need protecting, I can do that all on my own.

  Entering the main hall, we head directly towards the door leading to Erik’s wing, only to stop in our tracks when the door swings open and Ms Hadley walks out.

  “Is Erik okay?” Anton and I ask in unison.

  Ignoring me completely she addresses Anton. “Erik is perfectly well.”

  “Rose received a phone call from Ivan, he seemed agitated. The line cut out before he could tell us what was wrong. We thought it was Erik.”

  “Erik is fine,” Ms Hadley repeats. Somehow, I don’t believe her.

  “We’d like to see for ourselves,” I say, not willing to just take her word for it.

  “Anton may go, but later. He’s asleep now.”

  I breathe out slowly through my nose, trying hard not to hit the spiteful bitch. Anton squeezes my arm. “I’ll check on him, and let you know how he’s doing, okay?”

  “Fine. But if there’s anything wrong, anything at all, you won’t be able to stop me from seeing Erik. I don’t give a shit what you say.” I glare at Ms Hadley, who murders me with her gaze.

  “As I said, Erik is perfectly fine. You, on the other hand,” she says looking at Anton, “don’t look well at all. I wouldn’t have left you alone, but there was something I needed to do. Can you forgive me?” Her face softens, and I suddenly have the urge to scratch her eyes out.

  “He wasn’t alone. He had me looking after him!” I snap.

  Ms Hadley deigns to look at me, her sharp eyes narrow. My hackles rise.

  “You were the one who started this descent into hell again with your twisted games. Anton doesn’t need your kind of looking after.”

  My fists curl, and I step forward, wanting to grab the old witch and give her a good hiding. Anton takes my hand in his and pulls me closer to his side. Ms Hadley practically snarls.

  “Don’t, Rose. It isn’t worth it.” Turning his attention back to Ms Hadley, he defends me. “Rose stayed with me the whole time, Ms Hadley. I’m here now because of her. I’m better because of her. You’ve got this wrong. You should apologise. Now!” he adds firmly.

  Ms Hadley is about to retort, no doubt with another snide remark, when the door behind her opens and a sharply dressed man in his mid-sixties walks into the hall. He looks at me with narrowed eyes the colour of pewter, before turning to Anton.

  “Privet, syn,” the man says.

  “Father?!”

  Father?

  Anton stiffens, drawing in a surprised breath. In less than a second his whole demeanor changes. He drops my hand and the drawing of me he’s been holding since we left my house. I haven’t asked to see it, and he hasn’t offered to show it to me, but now it flutters to the ground not far from Anton’s father. I catch a glimpse.

  It’s beautiful. Raw. It’s me.

  Dragging my eyes away from the drawing and to Anton’s father who has snatched it up from the ground, I watch as his critical gaze moves between the drawing and me. Next to him Ms Hadley sneers. Is she to blame for his arrival? Is that what she meant? What is the bitch up to?

  “The likeness is poor, the shading incomplete. You draw the ugly parts as though they are beautiful. This is not art, it is a poor rendition,” he snaps, his accent clipped, brutal.

  “You’re not welcome here.” Anton’s voice is low, quiet, but beneath is a dark rage seeping through the cracks. Stepping forward, he holds his hand out for the drawing. His father smiles but doesn’t hand it over.

  “Glupyy mal'chishka, I come under invitation,” he retorts.

  “Not my fucking invitation, and mine is the only one that counts,” he spits.

  “That’s no way to speak to your father, show some respect. He came on my request,” Ms Hadley confirms.

  That bitch. So that was what Ivan was trying to tell me. His phone call wasn’t about Erik, it was to warn us that Ms Hadley had brought Anton’s father here and if that’s the case, who am I protecting? Erik or Anton? Both?

  “You invited him?” Anton’s face pales as he glances at me, coming to the same conclusion.

  “What was I supposed to do, watch you fall into the same trap? Ivan left you here with her,” she spits. “I had no other choice.”

  “I’m an adult, Ms Hadley. I don’t need you or anyone else to assume what’s good for me.”

  His father makes a noise that sets my teeth on edge. I already hate him, and not because of the little Anton has told me about him, but because he is looking at Ms Hadley with affection and at his son with disgust.

  “I see we’ve got off to a bad start. I’m not here to argue with you, Anton. I’m here because despite what you think, I care.”

  I snort, not bothering to hide my disbelief. Anton’s father holds out the drawing to him, eventually Anton takes it.

  “See, your father wishes to make amends. He has travelled a long way. The least you can do is have dinner with him, let him stay a few nights. Talk.” Ms Hadley says.

  No! She can’t be fucking serious? Doesn’t she see what having him here is already doing to Anton? I can. I can already see him withdrawing, hunkering down under the layers of protection he’s built up over the years. Last night I’d somehow stripped away another, and now he’s hiding beneath it again because of this man, his father.

  “Anton…” I warn, but he ignores me. His gaze is fixed firmly on his father and Ms Hadley.

  I look between the three of them. Does Anton really believe this bullshit? This man doesn’t care about him, he wants to rule him, and Ms Hadley is determined to drive a wedge between us. What better way to do that than to bring his father home? A man he clearly despises.

  “You can stay one night, then you go. I will not be dining with either of you. By the time morning arrives I expect you gone.” He looks at Ms Hadley, real hurt evident on his face.

  “What happened to you? This shit I can expect from my father, but you…?”

  “Anton, I do this out of love,” she wheedles, her sharp gaze softening slightly.

  “Love?” He laughs bitterly, before turning on his heel and striding towards his art studio, leaving me alone with the two of them.

  “Anton, please! She’s twisted you all against me. Can’t you see what she’s doing?” Ms Hadley calls after him, but the only response she gets is the door slamming on the other side of the hall.

  Anton’s father smiles slowly, the evil intent leaching from his eyes. He turns to me.

  “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. My name is Viktor Sachov. I am Anton’s father, and Erik’s and Luka’s godfather. I am the patriarch of this family, and you…”

  “Rose,” Ms Hadley fills in, not bothering to hide the sneer in her voice.

  “…Rose, you are nothing but a passing fancy. You are
not the first and I dare say, won’t be the last. But don’t, for one minute, believe you have a hold over my boys.” He looks me up and down with the aim to belittle me, but I pull my spine straight and meet his gaze with a steely determination of my own. There is a flicker of something… surprise perhaps, before it is locked beneath the cool exterior he presents.

  “I would offer to shake your hand, but I have no desire to catch a disease from a whore,” he mocks. Ms Hadley laughs as they both turn their backs on me and stride from the hall leaving me alone and fucking raging. God knows I want to scratch his eyes out, but that kind of reaction is what he wants. No, I need to play him at his own game. Viktor Sachov doesn’t scare me and neither does Ms Hadley, and if there’s one thing I know about myself it’s this; you threaten what’s mine, you’d better be prepared for a fight.

  Taking that thought with me, I step out into the grounds of the manor to walk off my anger and centre myself for the inevitable war that is rumbling with the oncoming storm.

  Black clouds spread above my head like ink in water, but instead of running for shelter, I tip my head backwards and let the rain wash away every last shred of fear I hold inside.

  Half an hour later I’m ready to go to war.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I hear his anger before I see it and steel myself for the fallout as I push open the door to Anton’s studio.

  It’s a fucking mess.

  If a tornado had torn through the room it would have been less catastrophic. There’s paper everywhere. His beautiful artwork is strewn across every surface, torn and ripped, his anger shredding the one thing he loves because his father despises it.

  That fucking man.

  His easel is pushed over, the half-finished canvas torn, great splashes of green paint thrown across it. The drawers to his cabinet that holds all his art equipment have been ripped free and chucked in fury across the room, scattering the contents like confetti.

  Canvases have been pulled out of their neatly stacked positions and chucked haphazardly across the room. Some are torn, others have more paint splashed across them. There isn’t a colour he hasn’t used to ruin his art. Years of work have been destroyed all because Anton has given his father the power to ruin him with words.