Closer

by Aria Hawthorne

  He had placed Enzo’s portrait of Inez atop his La Brea black vertical dresser, and now he stood directly in front of it, studying the details of her expression with his unpatched eye. Her expression of her arousal. His bare skin glistened with water droplets, his hair was slick and dark, and everything else about him signaled that he was lost in his own private spiral of voyeuristic thoughts.

  Thoughts about her?

  She quickly turned away and crept back down the corridor. Out of sight, she pressed herself against the mosaic tiled wall and cradled her shoes, listening for a sign that he had sensed her exit. When there was only silence, she deliberately exhaled to calm her racing heart before calling out into the air.

  “Sven?” She touched her throat. The sound of her own voice, hoarse and meager, surprised her. It was supposed to be a warning shot, announcing her arrival, but it quivered with uncertainty. She paused to slip on her heels while counting to ten before rounding the corner into his bedroom. This time, a plush white bath towel was draped around his waist as he stared at her with his usual punishing glare.

  Her cheeks flushed and she perspired beneath her panties. She knew she was reading too much into his stern, callous gaze. Clearly, he was struggling to see her from the distance. She drew closer to him and watched his expression soften as he settled his unpatched eye upon her.

  Their eyes locked and she stopped a short distance from him. Beads of water dripped down his chest and his towel barely clung to his waist.

  “There’s good news and bad news…” She trailed off into uncomfortable silence, trying to ignore the fact that she had seen exactly what was under that towel.

  His gaze snaked down her chin and dropped down her neckline, tracing the glinting sequined trim of her bra cups peeking out beneath the gown’s plunging halter neck.

  “The good news is that you look stunning.” He said it like an uncontrollable confession. He pushed closer to her.

  Her mind went blank as his firm sleek pectoral muscles twitched involuntarily while his unwavering green gaze seized upon her lips.

  She was suddenly self-conscious. Too much “Fuck Me Now” red. Too damn much.

  “Yes, it’s definitely an amazing gown,” she stuttered, feeling her heart racing out of her chest. “So yes, that’s the good news.” She paused and held her ground, attempting to regain her confidence under the weight of his scrutinizing gaze. “But the bad news is that Ebony forgot to send over its back.”

  Pivoting her waist, she glanced over her shoulder and displayed the gown’s sensual opening to him—ruffled panties and all. It was a juvenile attempt to make a joke out of it. Really, ruffled panties? Was she a piñata? Har har har… Somehow, it felt better to openly mock it from the get-go rather than pretend it didn’t exist.

  But she lost her confidence when she only heard disapproving silence.

  “I think Ebony knows exactly what she’s doing,” he finally said flatly and reached out to outline her cherry blossom tattoo with the edge of his fingernail. “She loves tattoos, but she knows that I despise them.” His fingertip grazed over her hip with a sensuality that shivered down her spine. “She’s trying to prove a point because yours is quite… exceptional.”

  Inez shut her eyes with an inaudible sigh, savoring the way he said the word—exceptional. How long would she allow him to touch her before pulling away? She started to count…

  “And I’ve never seen one with pink and white ink, and certainly, never one inked with such delicacy.”

  “I got it the first time I visited Argentina with…” She stopped, completely uninterested in uttering Enzo’s name as Sven’s fingernail circled the full length of the cherry blossom.

  The answer was ten, she thought, exhaling her shallow breath. She would allow him to touch her for ten seconds. Ten panty-dampening seconds before she rotated away and forced herself to face him.

  The muscles along his jawline flinched, like a signal he wasn’t ready for her to break their physical connection. His smooth chest, glistening with water droplets, edged closer to her. He adjusted his eyepatch with one hand while his wandering gaze drifted down onto her mouth as if he intended to kiss her. Had he known she had seen him earlier? Had he, perhaps, even allowed it?

  She needed a distraction—or perhaps, an intervention.

  “Did Ebony send ruffled panties for you to wear tonight, too?” she deadpanned.

  It worked.

  He broke into an uncharacteristic smile and nodded at the open garment bag lying on the bed. “Fortunately, no. Just a shirt, suit, and tie. Nothing nearly as worthy of viewing as your…ruffles.”

  He gathered up the extra towel from the mattress and whipped it across his shoulders and hair. It cracked like a whip and she flinched as his muscles flexed. Steady and provocative, he kept his body squared towards her as he slipped on a pair of black briefs beneath his towel before tossing it away like it was a nuisance. She watched him staring at her, conspicuously bulging through his tight knit briefs without any hint of modesty.

  Whatever his intentions, getting dressed wasn’t one of them.

  “Aren’t we going to be late?” She deliberately asked, feeling less certain about her ability to avoid his advances than she had last night.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “But I’m the guest of honor. So I assume they’ll wait for us.”

  He watched her, as if he was waiting for a signal that would let him know what she wanted from him. What did she want from him? Five thousand dollars? Or for him to pull her into his embrace again and kiss her like he had kissed her at the museum?

  He edged closer, closing the gap between them. She had approximately five seconds to decide, or he was going to decide for her.

  “Is there an agenda for tonight?” She intended to remind them both of their obligations.

  He responded by reaching out and securing a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, as if for a moment they were a real couple.

  “I need you to help me find a way to navigate the night so I can maintain my career despite almost certainly going blind.” He sounded grim.

  She closed her eyes, taking in both his words and his tender touch. “I was hoping you’d say something more like… have a few cocktails and dance the night away to Journey cover tunes.”

  He smirked. “Unfortunately, no. There likely won’t be any opportunity for dancing tonight. And even less chance for fun.”

  She tried to contain her frown. “Really? Such a shame since we worked so hard at finding it today.”

  “Yes.” He nodded, his bare chest gleaming with perfection.

  “Not even some bad karaoke?”

  “Extremely unlikely.”

  “I thought you were the guest of honor. Can’t you request these things?”

  She turned away to catch her breath. The tension between them was oppressive, and she simply wasn’t strong enough to endure it. Weak, weak woman.

  “Apparently, I can’t even request a shirt from my tailor that I can button up myself.”

  He moved to the bed, taking the starched shale grey shirt from its hanger. Passing his long arms through each sleeve, he let each cuff dangle past his wrists before moving towards her again.

  She eyed the shirt, appreciative of the distraction. “It looks fairly normal to me. What’s the problem this time?”

  “The buttons,” he replied, deeply annoyed. “They don’t feel normal and I can’t get them through the buttonholes.”

  Inez investigated the problem. “That’s because they’re not ordinary buttons, Sven. They’re pearls.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Really? Tahitian South Sea or Golden South Sea?”

  “You ask that question like you seriously expect me to know the answer.”

  He straightened his posture, allowing her to slip each pearl button through the hole. “What color are they?” he asked.

  “Black. Shining. Freaking gorgeous.”

  Satisfied, he nodded. “Tahitian South Sea pearls. I suspect Ebony chose them to complement
the sheen of your gown.”

  His words floated off his lips and down her neck as she worked down towards his waistline. “Less rare and precious than white or golden South Sea pearls, but naturally more exotic.”

  Bent forward, she offered him an unobstructed view of her cleavage, and they both knew it. “Exotic is overrated,” she replied, concentrating on the final buttonhole. “Everyone prefers vanilla ice cream over peppermint swirl. Including you.”

  “I think today you convinced me to give chocolate a chance.”

  She rose and adjusted his straight point collar. “Is that why you were willing to fight my ex-boyfriend even though you’re basically blind?”

  He slowly lowered her hands from his collar and clasped them into his own. “I was reasonably sure that I would land the first punch.”

  “Reasonably sure?”

  “Yes.” He nodded with a sly smile. “After that, I assumed I’d have the advantage of a dirtier technique.”

  “Head lock?” she teased.

  “Vengeful ex-girlfriend with vampire fingernails.” He lifted up her hand to display her long, fake fingernails. “I’m fairly certain you would have found a way to come to my rescue.”

  He held her hands and gazed at her longer than necessary. Helpless little kitten. She needed an out.

  “I don’t think I would have rescued you if I knew a trophy was going to end up on display in your bedroom.” She nodded at the portrait on his dresser.

  He eyed her, as if he recognized the bitterness in her voice. “It’s intended as a compliment to you, not to him.”

  “It feels more like a punishment.”

  He cocked his head like he had heard something unexpected in her answer. “You’re genuinely upset that I refused your request to destroy it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” he probed.

  “Because I hate that portrait. It’s a total lie.” She had betrayed more than she had intended. And he knew it.

  She glanced at the photo propped up on his dresser and bit on her acrylic fingernail. She studied her image, the way her head dropped back in ecstasy. Her eyes were shut, her mouth forming a perfect “O”. She didn’t even recognize herself.

  “Inez?” he said, reading her uncharacteristic silence. “Is it because what he said is true?”

  He meant about Enzo, she thought. What Enzo had said about her never being able to come with him.

  “Really, does it even matter?” she tossed back.

  “No,” he offered, softening his voice, sensing the fragility within her own. “Except that it would be a shame, if it were true.”

  “Whatever, Sven,” she shrugged, feigning indifference. “Men believe whatever they want to believe about the women they’re sleeping with. It’s all just a game to them.” Bitterness and cynicism. It filled her like poison and it seeped out in her reply.

  “But it’s not a game for you, is it?” He pushed closer, his unpatched eye fixing on her, searching out the cure for her pain.

  “No,” she confessed, not understanding why she yearned to reveal herself to him—that she wasn’t as badass and unbreakable as she pretended to be.

  In a gesture of tenderness, he gently swiped his thumb across her trembling lips. She was struggling not to cry, not to release the swell of gut-wrenching heartache that she refused to feel. He tamed it with his perceptive silence and unyielding gaze.

  She closed her eyes, willingly submitting herself to whatever happened next. But he did not take advantage of her moment of weakness. When his fingertips deliberately pulled away from her chin, she sighed—not with relief but with disappointment.

  “Okay,” he conceded. “You win. I will get rid of it. But not until tomorrow. I did pay two thousand dollars for it and I’m entitled to enjoy it for at least one night.”

  She challenged him with a glare. “Define, ‘enjoy’?”

  Attractive and commanding in his silver hand-spun shirt and tight black boxer briefs, he flashed her a smile. “I’d rather not.”

  She rolled her eyes. Perv.

  “Okay, fine, whatever. One night. And then, after that, we’ll break out the permanent black markers, right?”

  He pulled up his suit pants and tucked the folds of his shirt neatly into the pleated beltless waistband as if he had done it a thousand times before. “And what? Deface it?” His voice rose in horror.

  “Yes, with a Groucho Marx moustache. And scissors. Definitely scissors.”

  He sighed, slipping on the silver-spun grey suit jacket. “Whatever you would like. You’re the one wearing the ruffled panties tonight. You’re in charge.”

  “I’m serious, Sven. You get one night with it. Then it’s gone.”

  He edged towards her. “I’m serious as well. One night. I promise you.”

  The sounds of his firm resolve disarmed her. It was hard to believe she had just negotiated him out of something that had cost two thousand dollars.

  “Okay, great. Deal.” She held out her hand to shake on it.

  “Deal,” he said, grasping her hand and unexpectedly drawing her into his body. Her eyes fixed on his lips, like the moment he had kissed her in the gallery, and she gasped as his mouth bypassed her own and whispered against her ear.

  “Now, I need a promise from you.”

  She closed her eyes, savoring the scent of his aftershave—crisp and cool like the Arctic. Her fingertips pressed against the strength of his chest underneath his sleek suit, perfectly tailored with its French seams and slim fit, as if she was relinquishing every last bit of herself to him. If he requested her to unclasp her gown’s halter neck and peel down its straps, she was certain now would be the moment she would give into him. If he lowered his chin against her neck and kissed the hollow of her throat, she would sigh and relax into his embrace. If he nestled his lips between her breasts and feathered his hot whispering breath across their arcs, she would drop back her head and allow him every inch of her. If he stripped down her bra cups with his fearless hand and exposed her nipples to his suckling mouth, she would moan and willingly submit herself completely to him.

  “I need you tonight, Inez,” he confessed, the lilt of his accent, smooth and soothing, against her ear. “More than you realize.”

  Her defenses melted away as his nose touched against the tender part of her lobe. “Promise me you’ll never leave my side.”

  “Of course,” she whispered, feeling his hard chest flexing under her fingertips. She expected him to release her, but her answer didn’t satisfy him.

  “Promise me.”

  Drawing her even tighter against his body, she molded into him like his lover, her breasts against his pecs, his pelvis square against her own tingling aching need.

  “Yes, Sven. I understand,” she replied, turning her chin upwards to meet his lips. “I promise.”

  “Good.” He nodded, peering past his eyepatch at her, like he had done so many times before. Stern. Rigid. Punishing.

  “It’s going to be a long, arduous night, Miss Sanchez. I am completely counting on it.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sven exhaled—deeply, deliberately—as the limousine coasted to the curb.

  He had been lost in thought the entire drive to Navy Pier, considering all the challenges he had yet to face that evening. Tonight’s gala was one of the most prestigious architectural events of the year and he was the guest of honor. He would be receiving an award for designing one of the most daring and controversial structures in Chicago—The Spire. He would be expected to flawlessly navigate the ballroom of guests with wit, charm, and confidence. There would be many powerful men and women who expected him to speak about his work on The Spire and why it was one of the most masterful architectural achievements of the twenty-first century. They would inquire about his future plans for accepting more commissions, and of course, about his involvement in the Li Long Towers.

  But no matter how many times Sven turned all the scenarios of glory and admiration about in his mind, it all seemed like
an impossible charade. He was going blind, and there was no indication that he was getting any better—only worse. And what would he be able to accomplish without his eyesight?

  Nothing.

  It was always the same bleak reply, haunting him like a ghost hovering over his anxious soul. What would he be capable of without his eyesight?

  Absolutely nothing.

  Blindness would render him incapacitated and useless in a world where he had once reigned like a prince, and that looming prospect filled him with resentment and dread. There had been many sleepless nights—more than he cared to admit—that he had lain awake, ceaselessly pondering his uncertain future. Without his eyesight, it would be impossible for him to maintain his status as a world-renowned architect. Once it was publicly known that he was completely blind, The Spire would be not only his most celebrated commission, but it would also be his final one.

  And to make matters worse, he was going to lose his equity ownership of it. As the majority share owner, Eliot Watercross planned to force The Spire’s sale to Harvey Zale in exchange for the Li Long construction contracts. Without his eyesight, it would be impossible for Sven to participate in the design of the Li Long Towers. His brother and Watercross would use his name, his reputation and his patented designs to develop the project without him. It would be a project stolen away from him by his ruthless business partner and his estranged brother, and Sven would be left with nothing except the bitter injustice that everything would have been different if he had never been injured.

  Never been injured.

  Sven touched his eyepatch and glanced up, feeling the limousine come to a complete stop. He waited in silence, barely casting his gaze to the opposite side of the seat where he could keenly sense her presence. She, too, had been silent the entire drive, as if she was intentionally avoiding conversation by diverting her attention out her own window.

  Was she regretting her decision to accept the role as his girlfriend?

  He certainly hadn’t made it easy on her and he had already complicated their relationship by trying to seduce her last night. His focus dropped to her shimmering stiletto heels and quickly traveled up the smooth reflection of her bare legs, crossed at her knee and slanting to the side, while the high slit in her mercury dress exposed her curvy thigh.