by Geneva Lee
“Why would that matter? She doesn’t belong here.” She doesn’t belong in the ugliness surrounding me. I can only imagine what she’d think. I’d made the mistake of showing her a glimpse of my darkness, and she’d run. “If she knew the truth about my family, she’d disappear forever.”
“Isn’t that what you want?” Norris says. “Show her. Lose her.”
He’s calling my bluff. I know because this has already occurred to me. All I have to do to lose Clara is allow her closer. She’ll see the truth. She’ll run.
Chapter Eleven
I’ve always favored control. That seems more important now than ever before. If only I’d employed such restraint last night. Jonathan hadn’t succeeded in sending me home with anyone, but he had managed to get me totally pissed. I have the headache to prove it.
Rolling over, I spot a glass of orange juice and a few pills. Apparently, my debauchery had not gone unnoticed. I ignore a flash of memory that involves me and a bottle of Scotch and one of the palace’s many reception rooms. Who knows who saw me? I take the medicine gratefully, ignoring how much I might pay for them later.
My cock is stiff, painfully hard, and heavy. I stroke it absently, even though I know nothing will come of it. I have no desire to jack off, but that doesn’t mean I’m not horny. I’ve never wanted to fuck so badly in my life.
The issue is there’s only one person I’m interested in fucking, and I’ve promised to stay away. I did it in her best interests. Now I’m wondering if I’ve thought enough about my own interests.
I’m interested in the freckles that dust her shoulders and flutter down to her breasts. Breasts I need in my mouth. I recall how her body writhed, how she’d fallen undone over and over.
“Fuck,” I groan as my climax covers my palm. But the pleasure is dulled like it’s been filtered through a sieve. All the good bits are absent, what’s left is weak and unwanted.
For one startling moment, my eyes still blurry from sleep, my head still pounding from my hangover, I wonder if I’ll ever get off again properly. I’d told myself before that I’d screw her out of my system. I hadn’t gotten the chance to do that.
But what if Clara Bishop is a woman you can never have enough of? That’s the trouble. I can’t risk more. I won’t put her through this. I’m not about to lead an innocent into hell just to get my rocks off.
Then again, it is our secret. We’d agreed to that. If no one knows I’m still seeing her, then I can ride this out—ride her—until I’m finally sated.
I sit up, determined to find her, and clutch my head immediately. I need breakfast first. That will give me time to come up with a plan. Clara fears me. I need her to see she shouldn’t. I can be different for her. I can need less if that’s what it takes to have her.
When I finally exit my apartment, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, I find the cleaning staff patiently waiting to access it. I shoot them an apologetic smile before heading towards the kitchens. I’d opted for a casual look, banking on my ability to blend in with the crowd more easily.
Edward catches me before I’m past our family wing.
“He’s on a rampage,” he warns me, shoving a stack of tabloids into my arms. “Hit the stands an hour ago.”
“What did I do now?” No doubt someone took a picture of me at the club, stumbling drunkenly out, and sold it to pay for a few pints of their own.
My body constricts when I spot the first headline, each muscle tightening as though if I stand still long enough, the rage seeping through me will evaporate.
It doesn’t.
Scanning the report, if one can even call this rubbish that, doesn’t help either. I have no idea how they did it. Or who is responsible. All I know is that every personal text message I sent to Clara—every filthy, wicked thought I’d used to tempt her to my bed—is there in black and white.
“Father will be here any moment,” Edward continues. “I expect”—
“I don’t give a fuck what he thinks,” I growl, ripping the papers in half. “I need to go.”
I stalk off before he can stop me. There’s only one person I owe an explanation—and I know exactly where to find her.
Norris isn’t speaking to me. I gathered he was upset when I gave him the address where I needed to go. He’s seen the report on her. He knows where she works. He knows she’s just started her job.
“Let it out,” I finally bark from the back seat of the Rolls. I can avoid my father’s wrath. Hell, I even revel in it a bit. But Norris doesn’t usually give me the cold shoulder. He’s more into the standard lecture.
“I don’t see the point.” His eyes stay on the road. His control makes me feel like a wild card. There’s no emotion betrayed in his voice. His body remains relaxed. I assume this is a holdover from years in military and private service. I don’t ask.
“But you don’t think I should go to her.” He’d made his feelings on this known. He didn’t approve of me checking up on Clara Bishop on paper. Why would he encourage me to seek her out in person, especially after this fiasco?
“Timing is an art form few humans master. None of them are male.” There’s an unexpected dryness in his tone. Norris is cracking a joke. There might be hope for us yet.
“I need to see that she’s okay. I got her into this mess.”
“By not staying away? Will going to her improve matters?”
He has a point. I refuse to admit it. “Just drive.”
This time I catch his lips twitching in the rearview mirror. Maybe he’s human after all.
Peters & Clarkwell takes up one floor of a nondescript office building not far from Westminster. The benefit of this is that everyone here is busy going about their days. Work and lunch and whatever else normal people did during the week.
I shove my hands into my jeans and stroll toward the lift, pleased that no one seems to notice my appearance. Apparently, the paparazzi hasn’t caught up to where she works. Yet.
There’s no use pretending that she’ll remain a secret now. They’ll follow her incessantly. My father will demand answers. I didn’t lead her into hell gently. I’d dropped her into the inferno. She needs me to protect her now.
I’m planning to tell her—planning to explain exactly how things are going to be when the lift slides open, revealing her. Her knuckles are white on her bag’s strap. Her cheeks are burning with a lovely shade of embarrassment. Every ounce of me wants to shove her against a wall, hike up her skirt, and show her that I’m capable of all the things I’d promised in those sodding text messages.
She stumbles when she spots me, but before I can respond, she straightens and heads straight for me. I hadn’t expected that.
Clara Bishop is strong.
Good.
She needs to be.
The buzzing behind her reminds me more of a beehive than an office. Heads pop over cubicles. There’s a woman whose tea is dripping on the floor as she holds the cup at an odd angle. Every person in the office is staring at me. I only care that she’s staring, even if her glare is murderous.
It’s a pity all these people are here because Clara Bishop is sexy when she’s angry. I can’t help thinking about the perfect body under her proper office clothes—of what I want to do to it.
“What are you doing here?” She crosses her arms over her chest, still fuming, but now that she’s closer, I realize the fury stops before it reaches her eyes. I recognize the hungry, wild look she can’t hide. It had been there when I took her to bed. I’d seen it as I pushed her to the edge and then over it. Her breath catches, and I can almost hear her say it. Yes, please. She’d been so polite with her desire. So eager. So pliant. I want her to say those words again.
“You’ve had long enough. I need to talk to you.” I don’t give her the chance to argue with me. I doubt she would in front of her co-workers. Instead, I take her by the arm gently—I’ll save the roughness for when I get her into bed—and lead her toward the lift.
But she’s not exactly following my lead. Her body i
s rigid, coiled tight, and I wonder if it’s her anger or how long it’s been since I fucked her that’s bothering her.
“Couldn’t you text me?” she asks dryly, sounding anything but amused.
I sigh and drop her arm as we step inside the lift. “I guess you saw that, too.”
But I don’t wait for her response. I can’t wait. I’m on her, pressing her body against the stainless steel wall of the lift. I need to feel her body against mine. My hands pin her wrists above her head as my hips lock against her. I know she can feel my cock pressing into the soft flesh of her abdomen. I might be going too far. She’d made her feelings clear the last time I saw her, but I hadn’t imagined the connection between us. It hangs between us now, an invisible thread pulled tight between her body and mine. Surely, she feels it. She has to.
“Alexander!” Her cry is half panic, half prayer.
“Why haven’t you answered my texts?” I demand.
“The whole world can read that you want to go down on me on a gossip site, and you’re worried about that?” she stammers, her eyes widening. Her body stays perfectly still, resisting the tug of that connection between us. It’s too controlled, but I sense something more lingering under the surface of her rebuke: concern.
Concern for me.
She has pushed me away. And she has come when I’ve called. She’s torn between my warnings and my temptations. The truth is that she’s too good for me—too kind, too normal—and we both know it. So why don’t I just let her go? I think of the texts and the lying tabloids. It’s been a long time since I gave a shit what any of them had to say. But I care now—I care what she thinks. I don’t want her to believe them.
“I don’t give a damn what they can read!” This realization explodes from me, and I back away, afraid I’ll scare her. “Why do you care what they think, Clara?”
“Me?” Her hand goes to her heart—to the one part of her I will never let myself have. “You were the one who wanted to meet me in secret at a fucking hotel!”
It takes me a moment to process this. She thinks I was hiding her because I was ashamed? As though any man wouldn’t want the world to know the things he’d done to a woman like her. “I did that to protect you. You were scared of the paparazzi.”
“They were reporting we were in a relationship,” she says, “and I didn’t know who you were at the time.”
“We are in a relationship,” I tell her even as my brain struggles with the concept. We are? Where did that come from? I’m surprised to discover that I do very much care about this fact—and it is a fact to me. Clara Bishop belongs to me. She did then, and she does now.
Her mouth opens, her perfect lips are wide but unmoving. She blinks as if clearing her thoughts. When she finally speaks, confusion coats her words. “We broke things off.”
“You were overwhelmed, and I gave you space, but did you think I would allow you to end things like that?” I ask. “I made it clear that I hadn’t had my fill of you.”
“But you didn’t want to be seen with me,” she babbles, her eyes darting between me and the floor. “You can’t pick and choose when to be in a relationship!”
“I wanted to protect you.” I brush my index finger along the curve of her cheekbone, marveling at the supple softness of her skin. “I didn’t want to scare you. I can do that all on my own.”
Her answering laugh has a hollow ring, nearly smothered by the ding of the lift doors. “You can at that.”
“So is that what’s going on?” I pull her from the open lift toward a deserted alcove where we won’t be seen. “A misunderstanding?”
It couldn’t be that simple. Her tears tell me as much. “I wish it was.”
“You’re scared of me.” It’s my fault. Why wouldn’t she be scared? After I’d warned her to run? After I’d pursued her anyway? I’ve been as dogged as the goddamn paparazzi and my motives are even less chivalrous. “I tried to warn you.”
“Maybe I don’t understand,” she says to my surprise.
I grip her hip tightly, the need to touch her driving me and making it harder to think. She needs reassurances. I have no idea how to do that. Physically, I can protect her—and I will. But how do I prove she’s safe with me in other ways? How do I guard her heart from the world—and from myself?
“When I told you that I was protecting you from the reporters, how did you feel?” I ask after a moment.
There’s hesitation as she considers. “I guess that—” she pauses for what feels like an eternity “—I felt safe.”
“Why?” If she felt that way, there’s hope. She needs to understand. I need her to understand.
“Because you care.” There’s revelation in her voice.
There’s something else, though—a hint of sadness. I wonder what she’s faced. Who has let her down? Betrayed her? I decide, at that moment, that I won’t allow myself to do the same.
“I do care, Clara.” I hover over her, our mouths inches apart. Not so I can kiss her, but so that there’s no chance she doesn’t hear me. “I didn’t want you to experience being trashed by the tabloids.”
“So it wasn’t that you didn’t want to be seen with me?” she asks.
How could I have been stupid enough to not see this coming?
“Have you looked in the mirror lately? I can only assume you haven’t, so let me describe what you look like right now. Clara Bishop has large, gray eyes with fluttering lashes and a button nose. That would be enough to make her pretty, but then she has these pouty lips that make me hard. Her hair is silky and soft, and no matter how much she tries to control it, there are always some locks that escape to drift down her neck or blow across her face. I can’t help imagining letting it all down, watching it fall over her shoulders as she comes on my cock.” I press into her as a reminder of what she does to me. “She drives me crazy, and I honestly don’t care who knows it.”
“But you don’t do relationships, Mr. X,” she says softly.
“I don’t do romance,” I remind her gently, “but if you’ll let me, I will do pleasure.”
“There’s no one else then, Mr. X?” She’s taunting me with the alias, calling my bluff.
“Too formal, poppet.” I don’t know how to assure her that we are on equal footing—that we want the same thing.
“Okay, then. There’s no one else then, X?”
“I’m true to my word, Clara.” And I mean it with every fiber of my being.
She trembles but this time, it’s with fear. “But you want to dominate me.”
Someday she won’t fear it. I’ll help her—guide her there. For now…
“I want to give you pleasure. When you found out I was protecting you, it made you feel safe. That’s what I want to do.” I brush my lips across her jaw, earning a shiver of pleasure this time. “I want to show you that I can protect you while showing you the heights of pleasure you’ve never known.”
“I don’t know.” Uncertainty colors her words. She truly doesn’t.
I drop my head to her shoulder and consider my options. I can’t force her to understand, but I can give her time—and what she needs. Lifting my eyes to meet hers, I mean it when I promise, “You win.”
“I do?” She sounds surprised.
“We’ll do it your way, Clara. I want you. I want you any way I can have you.”
“You agree that I’m not your submissive?” she asks slowly.
“I agree not to push you, Clara—unless you ask me to…” I leave it hanging. Clara Bishop will ask me to dominate her body—beg me to. It’s as inevitable as my arrival here today. Neither of us can walk away from this. Not anymore.
Her body, which has been still against mine, strains into me with unspoken need.
“Soon, poppet.” I tuck her hair behind her ear, meaning it. I can’t resist kissing her neck to seal my promise. “What are your plans this evening?”
“I’m flexible.” The answer is coy, and I know that I’ve won.
I smile at her answer, not at what I’m about
to ask her. “There’s a thing this evening. Would you go with me?”
“What kind of thing?”
“A ball.” I press my index finger to her lips before she can refuse me. “And before you say no, it is for an excellent cause. We’re raising money for endangered animals. And furthermore, I don’t want to go either.”
I know what I’m asking her, but I need her to understand where we stand. If she thought I was trying to hide her, I would prove her wrong—in the most public way possible. Still, she should know what she’s getting into. Not that there is any way to fully prepare her.
“There’s no going back after something like this,” I warn her. “If you want a chance at normalcy—at privacy—you should say no. But if you want a relationship, it seems as good a place as any to start.”
“What about you? Do you want normal?” she asks seriously.
I tell her the truth. “I don’t even know what those words mean. I never have.”
She strokes my cheek, trying to comfort me, even as I see the war in her eyes. Maybe she understands the stakes more than I think. Maybe she knows this is a mistake. I’m not even certain I’m doing the right thing.
“I can protect you from this. We can meet privately if you prefer,” I offer. “If you don’t want to come tonight, I understand, but please understand me when I say”—my eyes hood—“you will come tonight in other ways.”
This earns me a grin. “Is that so?”
I kiss her because I’m running out of ways to convince her to be by my side.
“But they know about us,” she says when we break apart. “They have the texts.”
“By Monday morning, MI5 will know who hacked my account, and they’ll be in jail.”
“And that will be another huge story. The kind that links back to this one,” she says. “An arrest won’t erase that.”
“No, but it will send a message, and don’t worry, I’ve devised other ways of contacting you.”
“Carrier pigeons? Smoke signals?” she teases. Clara, in a good mood, is like a rainbow on a cloudy day. It makes the storm worth it.