And then, suddenly, his fingers release me. A sound of protest escapes me before I can stop it, and Calder chuckles into my hair.
“We're not done yet,” he says.
He moves to the other breast, pulling it halfway out of the shirt so that he can reach the nipple. He repeats his rolling and pulling until that one, too, is hard and sensitive against his rougher skin.
“It builds slowly,” he murmurs into my hair. “But little by the little the ache grows stronger, more insistent.”
He moves his hand from my hip and across my upper thigh, stopping at the place where my legs meet. He pushes down softly, just enough to press the fabric of the skirt against my most sensitive spot.
“What, then, is the cause of this frustration?” he breathes. “What's the cure?” His hand slides further between my legs. I push back against him involuntarily, and he tightens his grip on me, keeping me hard against him. I can feel his arousal through his clothes.
His hand continues to move against me, back and forth across the fabric between my legs.
“You can't ignore it now,” he says. “You can't think of anything else. It's more than an ache, now. It's a hunger. A need.”
He stops touching me, but only to tug up the edge of my skirt and slide his hand beneath it. His fingers dance over the skin of my inner thigh, tracing the same path my own fingers followed last night. He touches the fabric of my panties, and then he shifts them aside, slipping his fingers beneath. I shiver when his touch meets my bare flesh.
I need to stop him. I need to pull away. I need to control this situation. But I can't make myself move. I can no longer pretend I don't feel an intense attraction for him, and I can't ignore the sensations coursing through my body, across my skin. I'm reckless, wild, free—just as I was in the passageway last night.
“So wet already,” he whispers in my ear. His hand moves slowly—too slowly. I squirm against him, trying to shift against his touch, looking for the friction I so desperately crave.
“Not so fast,” he says, pulling his hand away. “We're doing this at my pace.”
I still, and he resumes his agonizing touches, his fingers sliding along my folds. This is exciting him, too, I can tell. His breath is short and shallow and hot against my ear, and I can feel his heartbeat galloping away against my back. He gives me another yank back, drawing me harder against his arousal.
“The ache is growing more desperate now. You don't know how much longer you can stand it. All you can think about is relieving that tension, finding release.”
He slips the end of his finger inside of me, and I whimper.
“You're so close,” he says, his voice ragged, his finger moving slowly in and out of me. “But that just makes it worse. You're hot with need, aching for release, and the more the frustration builds and builds, the farther away it seems.”
It's all I can do not to grind against his hand, but I won't beg for it. Not from him, no matter how much I want it. My legs tremble beneath me, and if it weren't for his arms around me, I wouldn't be able to stand. My entire body is on fire, alive with need and frustration just as he claims.
“Tell me what you want, Lily,” he whispers. “Tell me.” He slips a second finger inside of me, and I moan.
I want to touch him. I want him to feel this desperation, too. I start to reach around behind me, but he tightens his hold and closes any last sliver of space between us.
“No,” he says gently. “This is about you. What you want.”
I want to touch him, to make him melt beneath my hands. I want to see the wickedness I know I'll find in his eyes. But I can't find the words to say that out loud. Instead, I close my hand over his hand between my legs and press against it. I want him to stop the slow, cruel movements of his fingers and instead ram them inside of me.
This is a bad idea, a tiny voice in my head reminds me. Stop him. Push him away. You're supposed to be the one in control. You're supposed to get him to…
But for the life of me I can't seem to think of anything but the feel of his flesh on mine, the hardness of him at my back, the ache of pleasure building between my legs. I want him to touch me. To tug and push and pinch at my flesh. To take me to the brink and back.
Fuck all the rest.
I press harder against his hand. He obeys my silent order, moving his fingers more quickly. The heel of his hand finally slides against my clit, and I shudder.
“You're close,” he observes. “The tension has swelled and swelled and there's only one way out. You'll do anything for release. Anything to ease this frustration. Your body is ready for it, tense for that one touch that will take you over the edge.”
Yes! my mind screams. Yes! Take me over the edge!
“Tell me what you want, Lily,” he asks again, his voice deep and throaty.
“Do it,” I rasp. “Please…”
I'm shaking. Just one more touch, one more ounce of pressure. I'm so close, so close…
But instead he releases me, so suddenly that I nearly fall over. I reach out and catch myself against the wall before my trembling legs collapse beneath me. I still ache, terribly, between my legs. I was there, right on the cusp of letting go. Why did he stop?
I turn, still leaning against the wall for support. Calder stands behind me, his shirt rumpled and his hair disheveled. He looks so fucking sexy I want to throw myself at him. His eyes are half closed, darker than usual, but I don't miss the devilish gleam in their depths.
“What—what was that?” I ask, my voice hardly more than a squeak.
He steps closer. For a brief, fluttering moment I think he means to finish the job, but instead he only brings his lips to my ear once more.
“That,” he says huskily, “is the frustration I see in the painting.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
What the fuck just happened?
I lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath, while Calder holds his hand out to me as if we were just having a perfectly normal conversation.
“Ready for the rest of the tour?”
Like fuck I am. I can hardly stand upright. He just had his fingers inside me and now he wants to pretend like none of it ever happened? My breasts are still hanging out, for fuck's sake.
I straighten and quickly yank my dress back up.
“What the hell was that?” I say.
He withdraws his hand. “A lesson.”
“A lesson?”
“You asked me why this painting was my favorite. I was only answering you.” He rubs his jaw. “You seemed to be enjoying it well enough.”
“You too,” I counter, but honestly he doesn't look half as flustered as I feel. How the fuck did he manage that? I know he wants me too, that he was aroused by the way I let him touch me.
“Is this some sort of sick game?”
“Not at all,” he says, leaning toward me again and dropping his voice. “I only wanted you to realize how much you want me.”
I open my mouth to deny it, but I know it's a lost cause. I can't bluff my way out of this, and Calder knows it. He's watching me with an infuriating mixture of smugness and amusement. I can't decide which I want more: to slap him or to grab him and kiss him.
His dark eyes are scanning my face, waiting for acknowledgment of my attraction. Despite the fact that I basically begged him to make me come only about a minute ago—not to mention my other behavior of the last twenty-four hours—I can't bring myself to say the words. Not now. Instead, I push myself away from the wall and extend my hand to him.
“I'm ready to continue our tour,” I say. “I imagine there's a lot left to see.”
I'm rewarded, briefly, by the look of surprise that flashes on his face. He recovers quickly, but it makes me feel better to know I've knocked him off balance, if only for a moment.
He takes my hand.
“There's lots more to see,” he says cheerfully. “Where would you like to go next? The stables? The kitchen?” He flashes a flirtatious smile at me. “Maybe you'd like to visit one of th
ose secret passages? I think you'd find it quite stimulating.”
I feel like someone's dumped a bucket of cold water on my head. He’s toying with me. He has to be.
My eyes leap to his, and he's still wearing that self-satisfied smile. He has me in his power, and he knows it. He's enjoying it.
There's only one way to fight that.
“The secret passageway sounds amazing,” I say. “Let's start there.”
If my quick agreement surprises him, he doesn’t show it.
“Of course,” he says, holding out his arm to me. “This way.”
I hook my hand around his elbow, praying that he doesn't notice how shaky I still am. His skin is fire-hot beneath my touch, but he appears perfectly calm and collected. The bastard. He must get off on making me squirm.
He leads me from the gallery, and as we pass a long window I crane my neck to peer outside. The sky is still dark, the rain still pouring down. Thunder rumbles in the distance, suggesting that the storm won't be ending anytime soon.
How much longer I can survive in this place with Calder, I don't know, but one thing's for sure: I'm in way over my head.
* * *
I spend the afternoon in my room, thankful for the time to myself. Calder's gone off to take care of some “business,” though what that could possibly mean from him—a guy who's never had to work a day in his life—beats me. Maybe he hopes to break more of his father's promises.
There’s a knock on my door about an hour after I’ve retired, and for a moment I think he’s come to tease me some more. I consider pretending to be asleep, but I refuse to play the coward. Instead I run a hand through my hair, smooth the wrinkles out of my skirt, and pull open the door with a smile.
It’s not Calder. Instead, I find a tray of food waiting for me. I stick my head out and glance down the hallway, but whoever left this here has already gone. It’s funny—all this time I’ve been here I’ve only seen Calder and Chef Martin. In a house this size, I expect it would take a small army to keep things running smoothly, but instead the place feels deserted.
In the end, I decide not to eat the food. I don’t have much of an appetite, anyway. I’m too distracted.
I sink down on the bed and throw my arm across my eyes. I don't know what I'm doing here. I've only made our mess worse, and now I've played right into Calder's hands. This is not how things were supposed to go.
I can still feel his touch on my skin, feel the heat of his breath along my neck. I found Garrett attractive, but I never responded to him like this. This thing—this crazy, twisted thing—is way more intense. I feel like I'm dangling over the edge of some bottomless chasm, and that terrifies me.
The worst part is, I can’t seem to fully convince myself that Calder is a bad idea. I mean, of course he's not a good idea, but when it comes down to it, the whole situation is more complicated than that. Yes, he's not exactly boyfriend material, but I never claimed to be into him for his personality. And what do I gain from staying away from him? He's not going to change his mind about the Center because I refuse to sleep with him. And if pride played any part in my resistance before, it doesn't anymore. There's no denying my attraction, not now. He knows I want him. A part of me wants to march down to him right this minute and grab him and kiss him. And why not? A girl deserves the chance to do something crazy every once in a while.
But I'm still hoping I might find a way to wear him down on the issue of the Center. If I could get under his skin, as he's gotten under mine…
He seems to enjoy our little power games. I just need to figure out how beat him.
My cell goes off, interrupting my plotting. It's Garrett.
I debate just letting it go to voicemail, but I'm in a reckless mood.
“Hello?” I answer as neutrally as I can.
“Lils.” Garrett's voice is thick with relief. “Listen, about earlier… I was being an ass. I'm sorry.”
I don't respond.
“Look,” he rushes on. “I shouldn't have said those things. I didn't mean them. You know I didn't mean them. And you know how much you and the Center mean to me.”
It's a typical apology for Garrett—meant, no doubt, to soften my heart a little and play on my sympathy. A year ago, I would have eaten it up, but I know better now.
“You're allowed to turn me down,” I say carefully. “I know it wasn't exactly fair to ask you for anything. You don't owe me any favors.”
“Actually, I think I do. And it wasn't fair of me to go off on you when you're already under so much pressure. I'm sorry, Lils. I know how much this means to you. I'll help you. Of course I'll help you.”
This kind, groveling Garrett scares me more than the bitter, angry one from this morning, but beggars can't be choosers.
“All right,” I say. “Maybe the Center has a shot after all.” I pick at the corner of the fluffy white comforter. “Will you call the Center and let Dad know? He might have a game plan for you.”
“You're not at the Center?”
“No, I'm—I'm in Barberville. Pursuing a lead.”
“All the way in Barberville?”
“We're desperate,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “And on that note, I should go. I have something I need to take care of. Call Dad, okay?”
“Of course.” He pauses. “I miss you, Li—”
“Bye,” I say quickly. I hang up before he can respond and throw the phone back down on the pillow.
That could have been worse, I tell myself. He's agreed to help you. The Center might have a fighting chance now. You should be thrilled.
But if that were true, then why do I feel so uneasy?
* * *
After much deliberation, I decide to dress up for dinner. Maybe it makes me look desperate to sport a snug little black dress and strappy heels after what happened this morning, but I feel sexy and powerful when I walk into the dining room, and one look at Calder's expression tells me I've made the right decision. He can toy with me if he wants, but I'm going to toy right back. If this is a game of cat-and-mouse, then he needs to prepare himself for a mouse with a few weapons of her own.
I sit down next to him, pretending to be oblivious to the way his eyes skim over my body.
“Would you like some wine?” he asks me. “Or would you prefer whiskey again?”
“Whiskey sounds good,” I reply. I need some liquid courage.
He rises to go to the liquor cabinet, and I allow myself a peek at his backside as he walks away. After everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours, I can't help but admire the way he fills out his pants. He, too, seems to have chosen nicer clothes for this particular meal. In his dark slacks and pressed sapphire shirt, this is the first time he actually looks the part of the billionaire playboy. He turns back around, and I quickly look down at my empty plate. I won't let him catch me checking him out.
“You look very nice this evening,” he says when he returns to the table.
“Nice?”
He presses the glass of whiskey into my hand, and his fingers linger against my wrist.
“Breathtaking,” he says, his voice low.
It's the reaction I was hoping for, but I'm not sure how to respond. Instead I raise the glass to my lips, effectively extricating myself from his touch in the same motion.
“I hope you had a pleasant afternoon,” he says when I lower the whiskey again.
“Very relaxing.” I don't want him to think I agonized over what happened in the gallery. “I hope yours was productive as well.”
“Productive, yes, I suppose. But not particularly enjoyable.”
I refuse to take the bait and ask him why he didn't enjoy himself.
“That's good.” I unfold my napkin and spread it across my lap. When I'm done, I reach out for my whiskey again, but instead of raising it to my lips, I slide my middle finger along the rim of the glass. His eyes follow the motion.
“You know,” he says, his gaze still locked on the lazy, circular motions of my finger, “you never deliv
ered on our bet.”
My finger freezes. “Excuse me?”
“You owe me a kiss,” he says.
“I paid more than my share.”
“Perhaps. But you never kissed me, and that was our bargain.”
I roll my eyes, but I'm saved from having to respond immediately by the door flying open at the far end of the room. Martin leads a cart of food into the room and wheels it over to us.
“Mr. Cunningham!” he booms down the length of the room. “Ms. Frazer! You're going to love what I've cooked up for you tonight.”
Neither of us says a word as Martin unveils tonight's feast. I keep my eyes carefully on my glass, and Calder keeps his eyes on me.
The chef is too cunning to miss the tension between us.
“Delicious food always softens the heart,” he says casually as he serves the salad. “Things always look better when there's a good meal in your belly.” He turns to Calder. “I'll leave the rest on the cart for you, sir. Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Thank you, Martin,” Calder says, but his eyes never move from me.
The chef turns and walks back down the room. Happy for the chance to change the subject, I dive right into the question I’ve been pondering all afternoon.
“Where is everyone else?”
“Who?”
“There weren’t any security guards at your gate,” I say. “And I haven’t seen anyone but you and Martin since I set foot in this house.”
“Who else did you expect?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But you certainly can’t take care of this place all by yourself.”
“Ah, so you think I should have a few maids, then? A couple butlers? Some gardeners? I hate to break it to you, but this isn’t a period drama.”
“It just seems so… empty. Don’t you get lonely living in this big house by yourself?”
“Fortunately,” he says, leaning toward me, “every once in a while some tenacious young woman decides to sneak through my gates and shake things up a little.”
Before I can respond, he gets up and goes to the cart of food.
“Change the subject all you want, but I'll have my kiss,” he tells me as he dishes me my salad. “It's only fair. Don't worry, though—I won't force it on you now. I'll let you pick the time and place.”
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