He pulls on a pair of pants from the floor, leaving me alone to recover. When he returns, he has a glass of water in one hand and scotch in the other. He sets the rocks glass down on the bedside table and hands me the water.
“Drink up.” I gulp it down like a parched desert prisoner. He laughs at my zeal for refreshment, dropping his pants to the ground and climbs back into bed. Taking the empty water glass from my hand, he exchanges it for the rocks glass and sits up against the ornately scrolled headboard. “Who taught you to come like that?” I choke and splutter at his question. Is that something that can be taught? If it is, surely it is his doing. I just shake my head. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?” he teases, taking a slow sip of scotch before offering me the glass. I sit up and take a sip, hoping my voice will return.
My voice is small and distant. “That was intense. I thought I was going to black out.” I grin slightly from embarrassment. “I have never felt anything like it.”
“That was your G-spot.” He opens his arm and invites me to rest against his shoulder. “What a glorious reaction. You are so responsive,” he muses, his fingers caressing my shoulder. “It won’t be the last time I hit that button,” he says in into my hair, before taking the scotch from my hand. “What would you like to do this evening?” he asks.
“Stay here, just like this,” I say, looking up into his seductive eyes. He smiles down on me and winks.
“Me, too.” We lie in bed, sharing the scotch in relative silence. Comfortable, sated silence.
“Ask me something personal, Sophie.” I am floored and more than a little intrigued. Suddenly he wants to open up. Is it the setting, what we just did? I don’t care. There is so much I want to know. But, before I can contemplate and choose wisely my mouth takes over.
“What am I still doing here?”
“After one night with a woman it is evident what she expects, what she is hoping for. I know all I need to know. It is easier to keep the lines clear and concise after one night. If I were to see them again the lines would blur and I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.” Even as he says it, as if he is talking about someone else. I know he is talking to me. “But you, Sophie, I have no idea what you expect from me, I don’t yet have all the information.”
“Nor will you ever,” I tease.
“Ah, therein lies the rub. I have to figure you out, Sophie. I trust you. I have known you for a blink of an eye and I trust you more than some women I have known my entire life. You fascinate me.”
“Fascinate? That is a heavy word. There is nothing fascinating about me. I am just a simple girl, no worldly knowledge to speak of, and no high powered job to brag about. Just Sophie.”
“If that is truly how you see yourself then you need to take another hard look. Because that is not what I see.” Immediately I want to deflect, redirect the conversation. I don’t like it when people try and hold a mirror up. Insisting that you see what they see. I know what I am.
“Have you ever been with someone more than once?”
“I don’t make a habit of it.”
“Why is that?”
“I don’t like to be tied down,” he says with a smirk
“Ironic, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.”
“You are so cryptic.”
“I am a very private man, Sophie. So much of my life is dedicated to public things. The few parts I can keep private, I am fiercely protective over. You can understand that. When you let people overstay their welcome, they start to insert themselves into your life. I cannot have that.” His voice is distant, contemplative. “This is completely new to me.” He twirls my hair around his fingers, absent-mindedly.
“What is?”
“You. Wanting you to stay. You drive me to distraction. In two days I have become besotted. I have developed an obsessive need to be near you, to touch you.” He grins, tracing soft lines down my spine. “To be on you, to be in you. I just want to be all over you,” his hot whisper in my ear almost pushes me over the edge.
“Stop, be serious.” His confession is magical.
“OK, serious,” he says, backing away, taking his deft fingers from my needy flesh. He looks at me and his intention is clear, baptism by hot and heavy words. “I want to know what you are thinking, how you are feeling. I want to know every part of you.” Something in the way he looks at me makes me feel like I am about to fall. Or burst into flames. Or turn to liquid.
“This is supposed to be about you, remember?”
“Right. OK, ask me something else.”
“When was the last time you said ‘I love you’?”
“Wow, OK,” He pauses for a moment a shrugs, taking a sip of scotch. “I can’t remember. Not since I was a child, if I’m honest. When was the last time you said it?”
“This morning to Olivia,” I say matter of fact. “You should tell people when you love them. Tell them every day. Who would not want to hear that they are loved? I think it’s important to say it, if you feel it.” I watch his face change, in a way I do not recognize. I expect him to clam up and squirm. But his gaze is intense and open. There always seems to be more hiding behind his eyes than he ever lets on. If his eyes could talk I would know him so much better. “What about your mom, or your dad? Don’t you tell them you love them?”
“No. I do. Love them.” The words do not come easily. He pauses for a deep breath and a pull from our shared glass. I take the glass from his hand a swirl the amber liquid around and around, the distinct smell of peat wafting from the crystal rim.
“What about a woman? Have you never said ‘I love you’ to a woman?” A minute nod of his head tells me he doesn’t want to go there. But he asked for personal, and I seize the opportunity, before it’s lost. “Have you ever loved anyone?”
“Maybe, although I think it was worship, not love.” The planes of his face adopt a sharp edge as his jaw flexes and he grinds his teeth. “I don’t like to throw those words around. They come with a lot of weight, and expectation.” His pensive gaze roams my face before our eyes meet.
“Are you afraid of what people expect from you? Or are you afraid of not getting what you expect from them?” I pour the remaining drops of Dalwhinney over my tongue and let the burn slide down my throat. “Giving love is easy. Accepting love, that is different. But give and you shall receive, that is what I think.” I set the glass down and wait. He just shakes his head the way I have become so accustomed to and his lips curl into that crooked grin. I love the way his lips twist. That grin pulls at my hips.
He climbs over me slowly, pushing me down on the bed. He laces my fingers with his and pulls my hands above my head. Brushing his lips across my neck, he raises goose bumps all over my body. He affects me so easily, my body language, he knows it already. My body is like an open book to him. I feel free and open. With one hand solidly pinning my wrists, he winds his fingers in my hair and pulls it to his nose, taking a deep draught.
“You smell like heaven.” I smell like sex and scotch, and Rhys. Winding his fingers around my throat, he pushes my head back, grazing my chin with his thumb before pushing it into my mouth. My first instinct is to bite down, but I quickly pull his thumb into my mouth and wind my tongue around. He pulls it from my mouth, but not before I nip the pad. Running it along my bottom lip, he scorches me with those heavy eyes and whispers, “Give and you shall receive.”
Chapter 15
I lie wide awake next to a rare creature, a woman that does not make me regret my lust. Sophie is soft, sweet, smart and funny. And that mouth, I need to fuck that smart mouth. From the first time she said my name. Every moment with her has been so easy, so comfortable, and familiar. I want to wake her up, get lost in her again. I love the sound she makes when she comes, the way her skin flushes, a pale swath of pink rising just under that freckled skin. But I think better of it. I know I have exhausted her, pushed her farther than she has ever been. I let her sleep, with the thought of checking some emails, catchi
ng up on work for an hour or so while I let her recover. The house is quiet after all the wedding noise. All the houseguests are gone, only a skeleton staff remains. I pull on a pair of silk pajama bottoms and head down to my office, running into Marta, the full time maid, at the bottom of the stairs.
“Good morning, Mr. Slate. Can I bring you your coffee?”
“Yes, please, Marta. I will be in the study.”
I drop into the large leather chair behind the well-worn desk that my father passed down to me. It is marred with the frustrations of three generations of Slate men. Each a captain of industry, leader in business, pillar of their community. This desk reminds me of all I have to live up to, all I am expected to achieve, the mark I am expected to leave on this world. It is a tall order for a typical young man to face, but I have been groomed for this my entire life. I turn on the computer monitor and set straight to cleaning out my Inbox. Scanning down the page I look for the financials for Viktor Vladova. I want to get this deal done. I don’t want to be forced to deal with Nadja, and where her father is, she is never far behind. His company is on the verge of a hostile takeover and looks to Slate Holdings to bail him out. He and my father were partner’s way back when, but I knew when my father put me in charge of the deal that he wanted to distance himself from the possible fallout. I am knee deep in a development proposal for new building in China Town when the door swings open. I expect Marta, but get Nadja instead. She holds my coffee, Marta trailing behind her.
“I am sorry, Sir, she insisted.”
“It’s OK, Marta, thank you.” She turns and walks out, while Nadja slowly closes the door, intention written clearly all over her smug face. She is wrapped in a short navy blue trench coat, tightly sashed about her waist. I can guess what is underneath. Her body language screams for attention, so needy and high maintenance. She strolls casually to my desk, placing the coffee at the edge. Sliding around the desk, she steps before me, leaning back on the desk and our knees meet. I push back in my chair, unwilling to play, but aching to watch her try. I pull at my bottom lip, examine her and rock back in my chair.
“You are awfully casual for a Monday morning.” Raking me over with her eyes, they linger too long on the silk pajama pants I pulled on, like she is trying to make me hard just by looking at me.
“And you are as hard headed as ever. Twice now you have disobeyed me. I told you that I would see you on Thursday. You are not supposed to be here.”
“I had a shoot last night. Are all of your guests gone? I thought you may be lonely. I’m lonely.” She unties her coat, letting it fall casually open. I know her too well, she is so predictable. She pulls the coat open resting her hands on her hips. She is on display in a lacy black corset, her small breasts spilling out, and dark red nipples cresting the edge. She drops the coat across my desk to reveal her stockings and garters. Everything about this used to drive me wild, it never occurred to her that I would ever move on. But I have, wholly. Sitting here with her standing in front of me dressed like that, willing and able, practically begging. I feel nothing.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, knowing full well. She is predictable. Predictable and completely out of control most of the time. She drops to her knees in front of me and pushes my legs open, sliding between my thighs. The light in her eyes is dull, tired. Her bony hands are cold, slithering up my covered legs like a serpent. She tugs at the elastic waistband of the silk pajama pants I threw on, but I give her nothing. I will not grant her access to any part of me, no more. She tugs hard again, pulling them out, revealing the dark patch of hair above my still sleeping cock. It doesn’t rouse for her, not even a jump or twitch. It took me years to master my body. To control my urges, hold them down, bury them deep. But I no longer have to do that with her. It is a vacant spot. The place she once held is now empty and dark. Comfortably, easily empty. My mind drifts to Sophie. I bite down a smile at the thought of her draped across my bed like she was last night, a writhing ball of limbs and moans.
“I want to play. I miss you. I miss this,” she whines, rubbing her palm across my crotch, clearly thinking the secret smile was for her. She tries to elicit a response, to make me hard, to force her suit. I grab her bony wrists, pulling her to her feet. Kicking the chair out from behind me, I stand before her. I will dominate the situation, not her; I don’t want her thinking that we are playing. I shift on my feet and square my shoulders. Her eyes travel to my cock and a wicked, mean spirited grin lifts her face. “What’s wrong with you? You are not even hard.”
“I am busy, Nadja.” I walk around the desk and she follows.
“Don’t you think you’re taking this hard to get thing too far, Rhys? It’s very tiresome.” Her hands travel over my chest, skating over my scar, through my chest hair until they rest just at my collarbone. Her fingers twist the cross at my throat with humor and disdain. I always hated her mockery of my talisman. She drops the cross against my skin, placing a slight kiss at the base of my throat. My lips curl in disgust, my stomach lurches and I push her away. Holding her at arms-length, I pull the sash from her waist and cinch it back up, closing her coat, hiding away her wanton attempt at seduction. Normally a corset and some stockings would perk me right up, but the sight of her does nothing. Oh, she raises my blood pressure still, but only in the most horrible, insipid way.
“This cannot happen again, Nadja. I am done playing with you, for many reasons, all of which you are keenly aware of. I will help your father, but that is all I will do for you. I do not want this anymore. Do you understand?” I wait for an answer. I need an answer, to know that she hears me; hears what I am saying, not what she wants to hear. She is not the kind of woman who takes no for an answer. I suspect that she has never had to take no for an answer. But there’s a first time for everything. I wonder if I am her first no. I hope I am. I want her to remember it. Remember the sting, what it feels like to have the one person you thought you could count on, turn their back. The one person you thought you could trust with your heart, only to break it.
“You don’t mean that, Rhys.” She peeks up at me through her lashes, trying to be coy. The dark makeup around her eyes casting a long shadow down her sallow face. “Come on, Daddy, baby girl wants to play. Let me make it up to you.” Her raspy purr grates on my ears.
“I do mean it, and you have to go.”
“Do you have someone here?” She slows and looks me up and down, a spark igniting in her tired eyes. “Where is she, I want to meet her. Maybe we could use her.” She demands heading towards my office door. Oh no, she will not meet Sophie. She will eat her alive, and then where will I be? With my chest pressed to her back, I pin her to the door, stopping her from pulling it open. Her skin is clammy and cold, even though the air outside is warm and sticky. Her shoulders are sharp, everything about her is hard. Hard, cold and contrived, she writhes against me, a small squeak crossing her lips, trying so hard. I do not want her here.
What would Sophie think about a half dressed woman coming out of my office? Would it be evident to her that Nadja is in a wanton state of undress under her designer coat? It was all too obvious to me, but then I know the vixen well. How would Sophie react? I wince at the thought, knowing how most women would react. With a deep sense of suspicion and betrayal, I am sure. No, I am not prepared to explain Nadja to Sophie. Not now, not ever, if I have the choice. I don’t need the complication. “Are you afraid she may like me better?”
“That’s it! You will leave, now. I will let you know when I know something about the deal with your father. We are on track for the Gala and in the meantime, you will stay away from here.”
“How long has she been here, Rhys? This better not be the same gash from the wedding. You are breaking the rules for this girl. There must be a good reason. What is it?”
I open the door and lead her out of the office, my hand firmly at her back, pushing her towards the front door, giving her no alternative. We round the corner and come face to face with Sophie, standing as still as a statue at the bo
ttom of the stairs. Fuck!
***
It’s Monday, I think. Time has little meaning in Rhys’ bed. Fuck, sleep, fuck, eat, drink, fuck, repeat. I am awake long before I open my eyes. The sun is too bright, and inescapable. I take my time, roll onto Rhys pillow and pull it close to my chest. He lingers in the fibers, his musk and sweat. The smell of sex surrounds me and I bathe in it. Just the scent of him sends my mind wandering along a dark and lovely path. I rub my thighs together and I am already wet. He fucked me into a coma last night and the first and only thing I can think about when I wake is going back for more. Yikes. Maybe this is why he has to limit his interactions to one night encounters, lest he create a population of addicts. This is not good. I take a moment to collect my thoughts before I open my eyes. I roll over to see that it is much later than I could have imagined. He really did put me in a coma. I hurry out of bed and into the large master bathroom. I pull a pick through my hair and brush my teeth before throwing on a pair of shorts and a lacy tank from my luggage. I cannot think of anything but finding him, and slipping back into his blissful hands. He has created a monster.
Knowing he has been avoiding work, something Olivia said he never does, I head first towards his office. Hopping down the formal staircase, I slide around the corner, but stop when I hear Rhys’ voice, and then the voice of a woman.
“Come on, Daddy, baby girl wants to play.” The muted purr crawls across my skin and claws at my raw nerves. What the fuck? I know I shouldn’t listen but I’m locked in now. Who is he with? Blood is pounding in my ears and I know I should retreat. I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but my feet will not budge. I am glued to the bottom stair. My ears are perked and my stomach is doing flips as Rhys’ muffled voice gets louder, “You have to go.” My pulse is racing, frantic heartbeats drowning out a conversation that I want desperately to escape from, yet want desperately to hear. “I want to meet her. Maybe we could use her.” What the fuck does that mean? Oh god, is this how it all comes crashing down on me? I make one flippant choice, one misjudgment and the universe conspires to make a fool of me. What am I doing here? I want to run. I want to burst into his office and make my presence known. I want to disappear and pretend none of this ever happened.
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