Summer Heat: A Steamy Romance Boxed Set

by Carly Phillips

  To sacrifice myself at the perfect turn.

  “The city is beautiful like this, held down by the sky,” he murmurs.

  But when I glance at his reflection, it’s not the city he’s looking at. It’s me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Any hope of escaping the spotlight fades when he leads me up the stairs, away from the mezzanine seating and toward the boxes. Our seats give us a perfectly clear view of the stage, a drama lover’s dream. Unfortunately they also give everyone in the theater a perfect view of us. I pretend not to see people craning their necks to look at us.

  Gabriel is every inch the gentleman as he waits for me to sit in the plush velvet chair before taking his seat beside me. The lights dim, but that doesn’t mean the whispering stops. I can feel their curious gazes crawling over my skin.

  That’s kind of the point.

  I may as well have my wrists in metal chains rather than a golden bangle. He might as well grab my hair and drag me around rather than lead gently with a hand at the small of my back. That’s how clearly he’s subjugating me in front of everyone. That’s how strong the message is. He owns me.

  He made it clear that he’s my enemy, if I still had any doubt. I’m the pawn, and he’s my triumphant captor. And yet there are those moments of tenderness that I can’t quite turn away from. Drops of water that I’m thirsty enough to drink.

  Like the pictures he hadn’t given to Damon Scott to share.

  The play captures my attention from the first song, and I’m soon lost in the aching distance between Eliza and Henry. She’s brash and beautiful, her accent both foreign and endearing. Of course he strips her of it, attempting to turn her into a more desirable woman. And so comes to desire her. Except what remains of the woman that she had been? If you have to change to be loved, then how much is that love worth?

  I don’t know who would be my Professor Higgins—Justin, who wanted the perfect society wife? Or Gabriel Miller, who wants a sexual slave?

  In the end neither one of them fit the bill, because neither of them love me. They can want me, they can fuck me. But they don’t love me.

  The curtain falls for intermission.

  Gabriel stands and holds out his hand. “Come. I did have something to show you earlier.”

  I bite back a hundred sarcastic comments—that I would just as soon not be strutted around like a trophy he’s won, that I have no interest in seeing what he’s packing. Instead I place my hand in his.

  This time when he leads me into the atrium, he ignores the hands that rise in his direction as people try to speak to him. This time he doesn’t let me turn away to the window.

  I gasp when I see it, only the top right corner of oil on canvas.

  As we get closer I read the placard standing at the velvet rope. A painting by Jean-Leon Gerome of Pygmalion and Galatea, on loan from the Met for opening night only. I forget for a moment that I despise Gabriel Miller and his public ownership of me.

  “Can we go in?”

  Amusement dances in his eyes. “I thought you might refuse to come with me for intermission.”

  Because I thought he wanted to do something dirty. Not this. “Please.”

  He nods at the attendant, who unhooks the chain on the velvet rope. As we enter, the crowd clears out almost immediately. I’m not sure why we’re allowed to look at the painting almost exclusively, even for a moment, but I’m not going to question it.

  There’s security on either side of the painting, no doubt required by the museum. But they’re standing at a distance, outside the ropes. Right beside the painting is a woman in chino slacks and a white button-down shirt. It’s a somewhat casual dress for the opening night, but it’s clear from her stance, her hands in her pockets, that she isn’t a guest. She’s here to speak about the painting, but she isn’t a docent.

  “Hello,” she says kindly. “Please let me know if you have any questions.”

  I want her to tell me everything. “Can you tell me about the provenance?”

  Her eyes light up as she describes the creation of the painting by Gerome—a series of paintings, actually, each viewing Pygmalion and his statue embracing from a different angle. It was purchased from the artist in 1892 by a dealer who then sold it to a private entity in the United States, where it remained until 1905.

  “Why did he make so many paintings?” I hadn’t known about the paintings, actually. I only knew about his sculptures.

  “He believed it was a hackneyed subject, Pygmalion and Galatea. He wanted to revive them, to find something new about them. All of the paintings focus on the moment when she comes to life.”

  “So he was painting his sculpture?”

  She smiles. “You know he sculpted her too?”

  I flush, because a year ago I would have mentioned that I’m majoring in ancient mythology. Now I’m just a girl who used to read a lot of books. “Mythology’s an interest of mine.”

  From her pants pocket she produces a business card. “Mine as well. If you’d like to chat about it, you can always shoot me an e-mail.”

  My eyes widen as I read the card. Professor of Classics at the state university. “Wow.”

  Her shrug is somehow not modest at all, which is endearing. “My focus is more on the ancient history represented in the painting, rather than nineteenth century European art.”

  I feel unbearably hungry for any knowledge she can give me. I went from a waterfall of intellectual stimulation in college to a veritable desert in a large empty house. “What are you working on now?”

  “I just got back from Cyprus actually. Studying the moss in Nicosia for clues about diet and disease in ancient times. We’re still working through the samples in the lab.”

  “You’re my new favorite person,” I say, clutching the card like it’s a lifeline. “I’m going to write you. And look you up and read every paper you’ve ever written.”

  She laughs. “I have a few stacks of journals in my office I could give you if you’re interested.”

  “I’d sell my soul for them,” I say, fairly seriously. I try not to think about the fact that I’ve already sold my soul—or at least, my body—for one million dollars. Or the fact that the buyer is standing two feet behind me, watching the entire exchange.

  Is he silently laughing at me, like the men at the auction? As if all my curiosity, my accomplishments are a big joke for the men around me?

  And I can’t even argue the point, because I’m the one on the platform. I’m the one for sale.

  The professor launches into a story about her coworker’s unfortunate encounter with a wild goat during their last trip, and I’m distracted from my own disgrace.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  As we’re heading up the stairs, I realize he’s taking a different path to the box. Except we’re not heading toward the box anymore.

  “Gabriel?”

  He pushes open a door to a dark room and turns to face me. “After you?”

  My eyes are wide as I take in the strange shapes of shadows inside. Props. This is some kind of storage room for theater equipment. We aren’t supposed to be in here. And there’s only one reason Gabriel Miller would want to take me somewhere private.

  There’s a tremble reserved only for him, only for sex. I know it’s going to happen between us. A thousand different positions, a million different ways. And all of that before he even takes my virginity, strictly speaking. Knowing it’s inevitable doesn’t take away the fear. How much will it hurt? How much will he make it hurt, on purpose, to humiliate me?

  “Inside, little virgin.”

  He has infinite patience even though intermission only lasts for fifteen minutes. How many did we spend at the painting? Five minutes? Ten? He doesn’t look rushed, though. He looks like a man assured of his power, a king standing at the back of the board while his subjugates fight the war.

  I step inside, breathing in the scent of cedar and linen. And something else, something metallic. Maybe rust. There’s a collection of strange
things in this room. I can make out the shape of an oak tree in the corner, its limbs spreading wide. On the other side there’s a row of bleachers, like a high school football game would have. A Native American tepee and a lemonade stand.

  Gabriel closes the door, draining even that faint bit of light.

  He stands behind me, a solid presence. Unyielding.

  “No stairs this time,” I whisper.

  He moves me as if he can see in the dark. I’m blind, blinking into the blackness, dust stinging my eyes. God, what if we run into something? What if we trip and fall? But his hands guiding my arms are firm and sure, his movements focused on a single goal.

  When I finally feel something plush and unmoving hit the front of my thighs, he stops. A large hand covers my back. Then he pushes me forward. I’m bent over something rounded. My hands feel smooth leather and tufted buttons. A sofa. The sloping kind that a psychiatrist would use.

  My ass is in the air, completely vulnerable to him, something that becomes painfully clear when he flips up my dress. Large hands smooth over my panties before tugging them down.

  This is happening so quickly, too quickly. My breathing comes faster and faster. The dust fills my lungs. I’m going to suffocate like this. Oh God.

  “Breathe,” he says, his hands stroking my sides.

  I’m a horse and this is my flank. It’s embarrassing how well it works, how easily I calm under his touch. Some people have that effect, I’ve heard. Some instinct that tells us we can trust them. My very own virgin whisperer.

  Except that instinct is a lie. This man bought me at auction for one purpose only: to break me.

  My breathing has calmed, and I lay my cheek against the cool leather.

  “That’s right,” he murmurs. “This isn’t going to hurt. So afraid of pain, aren’t you? Why do you always expect the worst, little virgin?”

  Because you’re a monster!

  Is he, though? The time on the spiral staircase didn’t hurt. Maybe every time will be like that—intimate and filthy. And pleasurable, yes. He made me climax so hard I felt it for hours. All night long.

  He’s saving my virginity for last, though. And like he said, I play chess. I know how to move the pieces around the board, plotting and planning for the final strike. How to lull your opponent into a false sense of security. Or like he so eloquently put it: how to use a pawn. It will hurt in the end. That’s the only way he wins. And a man like Gabriel Miller never loses.

  He runs his hand over my bare ass, gentle and sure. “The chili juice. That one really did a number on you, associating sex with pain.” He gives a rough laugh. “And I thought I was kinky.”

  I flinch in the dark, because what Daddy did wasn’t kinky. It couldn’t have been kinky, because it involved his daughter. He did it to me. “He was trying to protect me.”

  Two fingers slip between my legs, seeking the wetness between my folds. “And how did that work out?”

  Horribly, since he’s now pinching my clit. I press my lips together, fighting back a moan. But his fingers are relentless and skillful, playing me until I’m panting, whimpering. “Oh my God!”

  “That’s right,” he whispers. “It doesn’t have to hurt. All you have to do is give in.”

  I can’t give in. Giving in means living in the Labyrinth, losing, dying here. It means letting go of the string that’s my only way out. Maybe the chili juice did mess me up. The masturbation. Waiting until marriage. But since the auction it’s been Gabriel Miller messing with my mind, making me want things I shouldn’t. “Please.”

  “I ought to spank you for this, for fighting me.”

  “I’m not fighting,” I say, my jaw tight. Of course he’s right. I’m fighting him, but not with punches or kicks. I’m fighting to maintain hold of my sanity.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? A spanking? I could bruise you for days. Then you could paint me as the big bad wolf.” I hear a zipper from behind, but his hand on my clit doesn’t pause. “I’ll just have to make you come instead.”

  A chime sounds from far away, signaling that intermission is almost over.

  “We have to go,” I gasp out, pushing to get up.

  He doesn’t even have to hold me down. It’s only his fingers on my clit that keep me pinned to that sofa. It’s merciless, the way he circles them. Not too hard, not painful. He knows that wouldn’t work. Instead he’s patient, endlessly patient, while my body winds tighter and tighter. All my muscles clench, bearing down on the arm of the sofa, rocking against his hand. I want this despite myself, and his low baritone laugh tells me that’s the point.

  I feel something else, a rocking motion in time with my own. His hand, I realize. He’s jerking himself off. At the same time that he circles my clit, the same tempo. It will be like this when he’s inside me.

  Even then I can’t come, my body tearing itself apart. It hurts like this, and I’d rather come just to finish it. My muscles are spasming, mouth open on a helpless, silent scream.

  “Come, little virgin,” he says, his voice choked.

  There’s a splash of something hot on the backs of my thighs. His come.

  The orgasm overtakes me like a tidal wave, turning me upside down, filling my nose with saltwater, making everything dark blue and blurred. I tumble with no idea which way the surface is, my lungs burning with the need to breathe.

  When I break the surface, Gabriel has collapsed on top of me. He pants into my hair, muttering, “Jesus. Jesus.”

  My hands are fists against the leather, which is slick with our sweat. The smell of sex scents the air, like ocean water and dark spice. We remain molded together like clay, breathing together, coming back to life together.

  He pushes up and uses something—a handkerchief?—to wipe his come from my legs. Even when I stand, I can feel the hardening residue of him there. I’m marked.

  There’s only a few frantic seconds to pull up my panties and push down my skirt.

  Then he’s opening the door.

  I emerge like some newborn deer, unsteady on my legs, blinking at the blinding sun after being in the womb. I would have collapsed on that thin magenta carpet except for his hand around my waist, his other under my elbow.

  We pass a man, and I duck my head, trying not to meet his eyes.

  Until I hear his voice sounding strangely familiar. “Well, Gabriel. Look at you making good use of your purchase.”

  I look up to see the gray-haired man who’d had a beautiful blonde on his arm at the auction. Today it’s a different woman, this one with glossy auburn hair. How many different women does he buy? He smiles at me, knowing and cruel. Shame curdles my stomach.

  “Evening,” Gabriel says, guiding me past him up the stairs.

  The show has already started. They shouldn’t even let us into the theater now. It’s against the rules. But of course this is Gabriel Miller. He owns a box. An usher opens the door and gives a polite smile, as if we aren’t disheveled and panting, smelling of sex as we stumble into the space.

  I take my seat as quickly as possible, but there’s no avoiding the stares and whispers. They interrupt the lovely ballroom dance that’s happening onstage. I stare at the whirling people, the oversize decorum as if I have no idea that everyone’s talking about us.

  Finally I chance a glance at Gabriel. He’s leaning back in his seat, slouched like a king surveying his subjects. He looks satisfied but still dangerous. A lion in the jungle. Anyone who looks at him like this would know that he just had sex. Maybe not literal sex, but close enough.

  But then they’d know that from just looking at me. A little bird in a gilded cage.

  Why keep one except to hear her sing?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  My hair is still wet.

  I’ve only been in bed a few hours. Of course I showered as soon as we got home from the theater, the water scalding, scrubbing the place on my thighs where his come had been. There’s no trace of him, but I can still feel the warm spurts, the throb of intense pleasure that h
e triggered with his come.

  Maybe I wouldn’t feel so dirty if he’d just taken my virginity the first night. Regular sex, right away. Even coming on me, as sharp and intimate as it is, I could have withstood.

  It’s the orgasms he forces from my body that feel like a violation.

  That’s how I find myself getting out of bed at two a.m., twisting the knob all the way to HOT. I stand under the spray for seconds, minute, hours. There’s no need for soap, not the physical kind. I just need to forget his fingers around my clit, his breath at the back of my neck.

  The hot water heater in this massive house lasts a long time, but it eventually gives up on me. Or maybe it just doesn’t want to watch it go down the drain. This isn’t going to help, the cold water says, stinging my skin. I stand there for as long as I can take, until my teeth are chattering and every part of my skin has pebbled.

  Eventually I step out of the shower onto the warm tile. God, even the bathroom tile has warmers. Everything in this place is perfectly modulated for the comfort of the master. For the comfort of Gabriel Miller.

  I turn off the shower and dry myself off. A strange sound comes from the room. My hair prickles not from cold but from warning. Animal instinct, the opposite of Gabriel’s hands on my sides.

  Wrapping the towel tight around me, I peek out the bathroom door.

  Nothing.

  Maybe I imagined it, just like I imagined the feel of Gabriel’s come on my thighs when it had already been washed off, just like I can still hear the whispers and feel the stares of the entire theater.

  Then I hear it again, a knocking sound. Not from the door. From the other side of the room. The window. Pale face. Dark eyes. Someone looking inside my window.

  I let out a shriek before recognition can slow my heartbeat. God.

  Then I’m across the room, shoving open the window, whispering desperately, “Justin! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m getting you out of here,” he says, his voice grim. He looks different than the last time I saw him. He was never fat, but he’d had the rounded cheeks of a boy who had never had to work very hard. Even sailing hadn’t made him lean.