by JC Harroway
Tension twisted his gut. ‘My apologies. Even affluent families have their...dramas.’
Perhaps he could have been a little more sensitive, but his mother had seemed determined to air their dirty laundry.
Libby touched his arm, her eyes softening. ‘She’s just trying to keep Jenny’s memory alive, you know.’ She stepped closer, her voice dropping. ‘In that way you’re very similar.’
Were they? He had his mother’s colouring, but that was where he considered the similarities ended. And, yes, in his private moments he catalogued his inadequacies as a brother, but he’d dealt with his grief long ago, channelled it into something positive. Giving back in a way to atone.
‘Maybe.’ Fuck, he was trying to lure this woman into a long-distance relationship—not scare her away. ‘I’ll apologise. I hope to encourage her to work for Able-Active. Perhaps a rewarding position will make things easier for her.’
Her shrewd stare pinned him. ‘Yes. And it will give you some common ground—something you can work on together.’
He shrugged, heat blooming in his chest. She cared—about him, about Able-Active, about his mother. No matter how hard she tried to deny it. Why else would she worry over his relationship with Marie?
She leaned closer, her warm fragrant skin buffeting him, softening the blow of her words. ‘It’s okay, Alex.’ Her voice dropped to a low murmur. ‘You both miss Jenny. But it wasn’t your fault.’
His mouth filled with ash; his muscles tensed. ‘I thought we were just fucking? How do you know what I feel?’
How could she see into him so clearly? Into his darkest places? How could she know him so well?
The jibe hit its intended mark and Libby winced. But she recovered quickly, rounded eyes as dark as night peering into his soul.
‘I know you feel somehow you let her down. But, Alex, you were a child. Not responsible for your parents’ marriage. Not responsible for your sister. I’m certain you were an awesome brother to her.’
Remembering all the times when as a teen he’d ignored his family, how he’d detested the staring of strangers, how he’d abandoned family outings to hang out with his friends, he swallowed acid.
‘How can you know that?’ He didn’t.
Her eyes glowed. ‘Because you’re an awesome man. Honourable, caring, fun. That came from somewhere.’ She placed her palm flat on his chest, its warmth branding him through his shirt. ‘In here. It wouldn’t be there now if it hadn’t been there then.’
She touched his neck, the tip of her index finger finding the hollow at the base of his throat.
‘I understand. Your mother is hurting. You’re hurting. Don’t you see? You both feel like you’ve let the other down. Stop. Embrace the time you had with Jenny. Remember her together.’
‘You might be right.’
He mashed his lips together. She claimed she didn’t want him as anything beyond a fuck buddy. Didn’t want to see him any more. But suddenly she was an expert on his pain?
‘And what are you hiding from, Olivia?’ He had eyes too.
Her hands fell from him, a flash of hurt in her eyes.
Libby looked down at her feet, gave a gentle shake of her head. ‘I’m sorry. I’m crossing the line.’
No. She was right about him. Spot-on. He’d charged around throwing time and money at Able-Active, trying to make a difference, to make something he could feel proud of. And he didn’t want a line where Libby was concerned.
He cupped her hip, drawing her close. ‘I think you see me pretty clearly.’ His lips brushed her earlobe, but the slug of triumph at the flurry of trembles that skittered down her spine was short-lived. ‘But I see you too.’
She didn’t move, her stare eating into him.
At last she nodded. ‘I know what it’s like to lose someone.’ Her huge dark eyes shone in the lights around the terrace. ‘I understand the guilt.’
His fingers curled until he forced them to relax in case he hurt her. ‘Want to tell me?’
The barest shrug.
He held in a curse, scanning the now deserted terrace. Their timing sucked. Everyone else had moved inside for dinner.
His hollow stomach lurched, his appetite long gone. ‘Are you hungry?’
She shook her head, folding her arms across her chest to grip the opposite bicep. Goosebumps decorated her arms. He reached for his blazer from the back of a chair and draped it across her shoulders.
‘Me neither.’ He gripped her elbows, drawing her close. His hand moved to brush back her hair, which lifted in the cool evening breeze. ‘Let’s continue this conversation inside.’
Was this the chink he’d hoped for? Was she letting him closer? Opening up that last guarded part of her? Would she retreat? Push him further away?
She nodded, taking his hand. He clasped her fingers, aware that the pressure bordered on being too tight, but unable to stop himself. They skirted the house, cutting across the rose garden, fragrant in the falling dusk, and entered the guest wing via the French doors that led directly into the living room.
The silence crushed him. Libby pulled her hand from his grasp and moved away to the sofa. He poured them both a glass of brandy, gulping back a mouthful before joining her. The spirit warmed his belly, calming him. She was still there, rolling his stomach with her too-big eyes.
She accepted the drink wordlessly, her face pale.
After several beats, during which they stared across the chasm, he leaned close and kissed her, tasting the liquor on her soft lips. He couldn’t not kiss her.
‘You don’t have to tell me.’
He could guess. Pain shored up the last part of her heart, holding it hostage. He pulled back a fraction, his finger twirling a thick coil of her glossy hair.
‘But I want to know everything about you. I ache to know. All about you—what makes you tick, what pisses you off, what brings out that dazzling smile of yours.’
She smiled, a dimmer smile than he knew she was capable of, and then sobered.
‘I had a fiancé. Callum.’
Boom. A blow to the chest.
Her eyes shone bright; her sad smile was apologetic. ‘He was a lot like you—driven, adventurous, fun.’
Saliva dried in his throat.
Her smile widened, as if she were remembering. ‘I embraced it. We had good years.’
The brandy turned to bile in his throat, and something dark and vicious twisted inside him. She was still in love with someone else. Some guy. Callum.
Libby filled her lungs. He braced himself for the blow. An end to his hopes for them.
‘A week before our wedding we...’
She took a gulp of brandy, winced, placed the glass on the table and shrugged off his blazer. Her stare clung to his, as if she were daring herself to speak without the emotion swimming in her eyes.
‘He died. A motorbike accident.’ The last words appeared in a rush. A verbal ripping off of the bandage.
Alex’s brain fought to tease her words from the rage of emotions tumbling inside him. He placed his brandy glass on the table. Alcohol wouldn’t help.
‘The one you were in?’
She nodded, her gaze fixed on her hands in her lap. ‘I escaped with scratches. He died almost instantly.’ Dry eyes lifted to his. ‘He slid under the wheels of an oncoming truck.’
He gripped her tight, needing to feel her in his arms as much as he wanted to offer comfort. ‘Olivia. I’m so sorry.’
She felt so right there. His chest ached as if the mouthful of brandy had burned through flesh and bone.
She was still for so long he wondered if she was shedding silent tears, but his shirt under her cheek remained dry and her voice when she spoke was low, but steady.
‘I understand how you feel about Jenny. Survivor guilt. Not a day goes by when I don’t feel its claws in me. Even three years later.’ S
he lifted her head, spearing him with a sincere, searching stare. ‘But it was an accident. One I didn’t cause and wasn’t responsible for. It could just as easily have been me who died.’
Words shrivelled in his mouth, their sharp edges pricking their way down his throat. How had she seen him so clearly when he’d failed to join all the dots? How could he let her go when for the first time in his life he felt truly connected?
He brushed undemanding lips over hers. ‘Tell me what you want. I’ll do anything—take you back to London, fly you home to New York. Tell me.’
She pressed her mouth to his, surprising him with the passion lurking just beneath the surface. Twisting her fingers in his hair, she angled his head until he yielded under her assault, welcoming the touch of her tongue to his with a desire that matched that simmering in him.
She broke away. ‘Don’t ask anything of me.’
Her breath gusted over him, the chips of amber in her eyes masking her vulnerability.
There it was. Her limit. Her ultimate demand.
He’d never wanted to deny her more.
She gave him no time to acquiesce. She straddled him where he sat, her fingers tunnelling into his hair as she tipped his head back, leaned over him and kissed him with a desperation that begged.
But he was done with games. He’d told her that in London. And he’d meant it. And now she’d shown him the raw, exposed part of her he wouldn’t let her retreat. This time he’d control as much as he conceded, show her what he couldn’t ask of her, feared telling her in case she skittered out of reach.
She writhed on his lap, pressing her moist heat to his already steely cock. Her whimpers notched up the urgency raging through him—the need to claim her, to convince her they had something worth exploring, something worth fighting for, something beyond a holiday fuck.
But he wouldn’t rush this. Wouldn’t allow her to rush it. Their chemistry, combustive enough to leave them both burnt alive, if harnessed could be ten times as rewarding. And he intended to show her that.
Libby tugged at his shirt, pulling it from his waistband with frantic fingers. He cupped her arse, grinding her onto his erection until she cried out, biting his lip so he tasted blood. Fuck, he loved her demanding side. She knew exactly what she wanted and made sure she got it. And he’d make sure he was there to give it to her.
Slipping one hand under her dress, he edged her lace panties aside, finding her soaked. He’d barely touched her. He located her clit, passing a few swipes over the bundle of nerves until she dragged her mouth from his and dropped her head back on a sigh of ecstasy.
He slid his mouth over her exposed neck, finding the sensitive spot beneath her ear and filling his nose with her unique scent as he pushed two fingers inside her and circled her clit with his thumb.
She was close. He could tell by the way her pants stuttered in her throat. Her hips jerked erratically and her eyes, when she opened them and gazed at him, were largely obscured by the dark crescents of her thick lashes. Beautiful. What she couldn’t give him in words, in declarations, her body gave him in the abandon she couldn’t conceal, in the depth of her stare and the way her fingers clung.
His chest ballooned. He was ten feet tall. A king.
He did this to her. Him.
Her internal muscles gripped his fingers. His other hand loosened its clutch on her hip and he lifted the swathe of dark silk from her nape, twisting her hair around his wrist and tangling the ends between his fingers. He held her captive, his hand cramping with the pressure of his working fingers between her legs and his fist entwined in her glorious, thick tresses.
His. She was his. Possession burned through him with the thrum of his racing blood.
She glowed. A beautiful woman on the brink of intense sexual pleasure. His balls tightened. His own lust was a dull kick in the gut, but he intended to prolong this night, to wring every ounce of rapture from her so that when she left him she’d be in no doubt as to the depth of his rapidly expanding feelings and hard pushed to deny her own.
She could run, but he’d make damn sure she couldn’t hide.
Her decadent lips parted on a strangled gasp. Her eyes widened, barely clinging to his, and her hips stilled.
His stare wide, so as not to miss one second of her orgasm, Alex gripped the back of her neck.
‘Olivia.’
Crushing her mouth with his, he captured her broken cries with deep kisses, swallowing each one.
Her pleasure became his pleasure. Her pain of moments ago his pain. Somehow, in a few short days, she’d come to mean more to him than any other woman.
She quietened in his arms, the last judders leaving her replete and languorous. He lifted her, scooping one arm under her legs and the other around her back, and carried her to the bedroom they shared.
He saw nothing but her. Didn’t give a fuck about his business, the charity or even his family enjoying a meal somewhere else in the château. All that mattered was Olivia, and his need to show her exactly what she meant to him.
Chapter Eleven
THE SHEETS WERE cool at her back as Alex laid her gently on the bed. She searched his stare, trying to deny what she saw there. After his honest declaration in the pool, meeting his mother and witnessing the pain mirrored in eyes so much like her son’s, all his pieces slotted together. And his instincts about her own demons? Alex peered far too closely into her soul for comfort.
She’d tried to stay impassive, to distance herself. But in the end she’d been helpless against opening herself up to him. She understood guilt, knew first-hand how it burned away at you, slowly, like acid. And she didn’t want that for Alex—couldn’t bear to see it destroy what was left of his relationship with his mother. He gave so much of himself. To people, to his charity, to her.
When she’d probed him about Jenny, told him about Callum, she’d feared she’d push him even further away than her attempt to do so in the pool. But he stood over her now, slowly peeling her from her clothes and then shucking his own until there was little between them except the unspoken.
Her mouth filled with all she longed to say. But it was pointless. She was leaving and she wouldn’t give him false hope. Wouldn’t hurt him even when staying silent left her shredded.
He pulled her up on still shaky legs, her intense climax having robbed her of all but the basic functions of breathing and pumping blood around her body. He caressed her. His eyes and large hands touching on every part of her until she trembled anew with adrenaline. Tenderness seeped from his touch, from his stare. She closed her eyes, struggling to witness the raw emotion spilling out of him. Emotion for her. Emotion she longed to accept. Longed to reciprocate.
He pummelled her resolve, pulling her so close that she struggled to breathe. He wrapped his arms around her, tangling one hand in her hair and tilting her head back so he could lavish her throat and upper chest with soft, indulgent kisses.
She swayed, the only thing keeping her upright his strong arms banded around her. She’d never survive this—was already perilously close to the final leap of faith.
‘Turn around.’
His words whispered over her neck, skittering down her spine. Helpless, she obeyed, her movements slowed by the easy slide of her hair around his wrist and hand. Not tugging. Never bringing pain, but with enough tension that every hair on her head transmitted pleasure to her strung-out nerve endings. She covered his hand, pressing his palm to her head, feeling what he felt.
He kissed her shoulders, lips gliding, his free hand sliding over her hip as he nudged her feet closer to the bed. Libby’s head swam. She scrunched her eyes tightly closed. It was enough to hear the husky command in his voice and to feel the reverence of his touch.
His erection lodged between the cheeks of her ass, the warm, hard length of him shooting tingles up her spine to join with the ones from her stimulated scalp.
‘Fuck,
you’re a beautiful woman.’ His words tickled her neck, and the brush of his lips at her earlobe buckled her knees.
One hand slid the length of her thigh, gripping behind her knee and encouraging her to climb onto the bed on all fours.
A thrill of excitement fluttered in her belly. She turned her head, her bold stare meeting his over her shoulder. But his eyes skittered away, tracing her back, her hips, and returning.
‘Your hair is beautiful.’ He twisted his wrist, the thick coil of hair sliding through his fingers only to be captured again. ‘I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I met you.’
His wrist was rolling. Again and again. Her hair tumbling away, then being recaptured. All the while his other hand traced a path of fire from her breast to her hip and returned via her arched back.
Moisture pooled between her legs. Anticipation coiled deep inside. Would he push inside her like this? She felt a bead of moisture in the small of her back, where his hard length rested. This position—the view of her perched on all fours, her hair wrapped in his fist, ready for him, brought the breath gusting from him as sure as her own shallow pants.
She closed her eyes, envisaging him behind her, taking her hard, her hair in his hand, while he grunted out the pleasure he was too far gone to contain. She wanted him wild. Wanted him too impassioned to maintain his gentleman’s persona. Wanted him possessive and selfish in his need for her.
‘Do you have any idea what you do to me, Libby?’
The path of his hand paused at her shoulder, one finger tracing a featherlike trail down the bumps of her spine while he ground the length of his erection into her wet sex. It wasn’t enough. She wanted him filling her. Pushing her to the edge again while he shouted her name.
‘Alex...’
‘I’ve never wanted anything more.’
His voice was a gruff whisper. He pulled his hips back and she groaned, missing the contact.
‘And I can’t have you.’
His finger slid between the cheeks of her ass, passing slowly, gliding south.
‘Not all of you.’
He found her entrance, fingers probing, a tug on her hair.