Could she do that? It’d been one thing to let him bind her wrists in a silk necktie yesterday. He’d been in control then—because she’d wanted him to be. She’d wanted him to make the decisions. She’d wanted to be consumed.
But today was different. She didn’t want to be consumed. She wanted to do the consuming.
She pushed him back and grabbed his tie, then hauled his face down to hers. “I won’t stand for you disparaging llamas.”
“We could sit.” He nodded toward a huge dining-room table, complete with twelve very available chairs surrounding it. The chairs had high backs and latticed slats. But he didn’t pull his tie away from her hand, didn’t try to touch her. “If you want to.”
“Oh, I want to, mister. No one gets away with trash-talking Larry the Llama.” She jerked on his tie and led him toward the closest chair.
“Larry was ridiculous,” Matthew said as she pushed him down.
“You’re going to regret saying that.” She yanked his tie off. It still had the knot in it, but she didn’t want to stop to undo it. She didn’t want to stop and think about what she was doing.
“Will I?” He held his hands behind his back.
“Oh, you will.” She had no idea how to tie a man up in the best of times. So she looped the tie around his wrists and tried to tie it to the slat that was at the correct height. “There. That’ll teach you.”
“Will it?” Matthew replied. “Llamas look like they borrowed their necks from gira—”
She kissed him, hard. He shifted, as if he wanted to touch her, but she’d tied him to a chair.
She could do whatever she wanted, and he couldn’t stop her.
Sexy. Beautiful. Desirable. That was what she wanted.
She stepped away from him and began to strip. Not like yesterday, when she’d been trying to get out of her clothes so fast she’d kicked him. No, this time—at a safe distance—she began to remove her clothing slowly.
First she peeled her sweater over her head, then she started undoing the buttons on her denim shirt—slowly. One at a time.
Matthew didn’t say anything, not even to disparage llamas.
Instead, Matthew’s gaze was fastened to Whitney’s fingertips as one button after another gave.
A look of disappointment blotted out the desire when he saw the plain white tank top underneath.
“It’s cold here,” she told him. “You’re supposed to dress in layers when it’s cold.”
“Did the llamas tell you that? They lie. You should be naked. Right now.”
She was halfway through removing her tank top when he said that. She went ahead and pulled it the rest of the way off, but said, “Just for that, I’m not going to get naked.”
His eyes widened in shock. “What?”
She stuck her hands on her hips, which had the handy effect of thrusting her breasts forward. “And you can’t touch me, because you’re tied up.” Just saying it out loud gave her a little thrill of power.
For too damn long, she’d felt powerless. The only way she’d been able to control her own life was to become a hermit, basically—just her and the animals and crazy Donald up the valley. People took what they wanted from her— including deciding who she was—and they never gave her any say in the matter.
Not Matthew. He’d let her do whatever she wanted—be whoever she wanted.
She could be herself—klutzy and concerned about her animals—and he still looked at her with that hunger in his eyes.
She kicked off her boots and undid her jeans. Miracle of miracles, she managed to slide them off without tipping over and falling onto the floor.
Matthew’s eyes lit up with want. With need. She could see him breathing faster now, leaning forward as if he could touch her. Heat flooded her body—almost enough to make up for the near-nudity. She felt sexy. Except for the socks.
Well, she’d already told him she wasn’t going to get naked. Although she was having a little trouble remembering why, exactly.
Plus, he was sitting there fully clothed. And she didn’t know where any condoms were. “Condoms?” They were required. She’d been accused of being falsely pregnant far too many times to actually risk a real pregnancy. The last thing she needed in her life were more headlines asking, Wildz Baby Daddy?
“Wallet.” The tension in his voice set her pulse racing. “Left side.”
“You just want me to touch you, don’t you?”
He grinned. “That is the general idea. Since you won’t let me touch you.”
“I stand for llama solidarity,” she replied as she walked toward him. “And until you can see reason...”
“Oh, I can’t. No reason at all. Llamas are nature’s mistake.”
“Then you’ll just have to stay tied up.” She straddled him, but she didn’t rest her weight on his obvious erection. Instead, she slid her hands over his waist and down around to his backside until she felt his wallet. She fished it out, dropped it onto the table and then ran her hands over him again. “I didn’t really get to feel all of this last time,” she told him.
“You were a little tied up.”
She ran her hands over his shoulders, down his pecs, feeling the muscles that were barely contained by the button-down shirt and cashmere sweater. Then she leaned back so she could slide her hands down and feel what was behind those tweed slacks.
Matthew sucked in a breath so hot she felt it scorch her cheek as she touched the length of his erection. He leaned forward and tried to kiss her, but she pulled away, keeping just out of his reach. “Llama hater,” she hissed at him.
“You’re killing me,” he ground out as he tried to thrust against her hand.
“Ah-ah-ah,” she scolded. This was...amazing. She knew that, if he wanted to, he could probably get out of the tie and wrap her in his arms and take what she was teasing him with. And she’d let him because, all silliness aside, she wanted him so much.
But he wasn’t. He wouldn’t, because she was in control. She had all the power here.
Tension coiled around the base of her spine, tightening her muscles beyond a level that was comfortable. She let her body fall against his, let the contact between them grow.
“Woman,” Matthew groaned.
She tsked him as she slid off. “You act like you’ve never been tied up before.”
“I haven’t.” His gaze was fastened to her body again. She felt bold enough to strike a pose, which drew another low groan from him.
“You...haven’t?”
“No. Never tied anyone up before, either.” He managed to drag his gaze up to her face. “Have you?”
“No.” She looked at him, trying to keep her cool. He hadn’t done this before? But he’d seemed so sure of himself last night. It wasn’t as though she expected a man as hot and skilled as he was to be virginal, but there was something about being the first woman he’d wrapped his necktie around—something about her being the first woman he’d let tie him to a chair—that changed things.
No. No! This was just a little fling! Just her dipping her sexual toes back in the sexy waters! This was not about developing new, deeper feelings for Matthew Beaumont!
She snagged the condom off the table. “I demand an apology on behalf of Larry the Llama and llamas everywhere.” Then—just because she could—she dropped the condom and bent over to pick it up.
He sucked in another breath at the sight she was giving him. “I beg of your forgiveness, Ms. Maddox.” She shifted. “Please,” he added, sounding desperate. “Please forgive me. I’ll never impugn the honor of llamas again.”
Ms. Maddox.
She needed him. Now.
She slid her panties off but kept the bra on. She undid his trousers and got them down far enough that she could roll the condom on. Then, unable to wait any longer, she let her body
fall onto his.
She grabbed his face and held it so she could look into his eyes. “Matthew...”
But he was driving up into her and she was grinding down onto him and there wasn’t time for more words. They had so very little time to begin with.
“Want to...kiss you,” Matthew got out, each word punctuated with another thrust.
His clothing was rubbing against her, warming her bare skin. Warming everything. “Kiss me back?” she asked, knowing what the answer would be.
“Always,” he replied as she lowered her lips to his. “Always.”
Always. Not just right now but always.
She came apart when their lips met, and he came with her.
She lay on top of him, feeling the climax ebb from her body. It was then that she wished she hadn’t tied him up, because she wanted him to hold her.
“I had no idea that llamas got you so worked up,” he told her as his lips trailed over her bare shoulder. “I’ll make a mental note of it.”
She leaned back and grinned at him. “Was that okay? I didn’t hurt you or anything—? Oh! I should untie you!”
“Uh—wait—” he said, but she was already at the back of the chair.
The tie lay in a heap on the ground. Not around his wrists. Not tied to the chair. She blinked at the puddle of bright fabric. Confusion swamped her. “When— Wait—if you weren’t tied up, why didn’t you touch me?”
He stood and adjusted his pants before turning around. He was, for all intents and purposes, the same as he’d been before, minus one necktie. And she was standing here in her socks and a bra. She couldn’t even tie a man up.
“Why didn’t you touch me?” she asked again.
He came to her then, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight to him. “Because,” he said, his lips pressing against her forehead, “you tied me up. It was kind of like...making a promise, that you were in charge. I keep my promises.”
“Oh,” she breathed. People didn’t often keep promises, not to her. Her mother hadn’t protected her, hadn’t managed her money. Her former fiancé hadn’t kept a single promise to her.
She had crazy Donald, who didn’t know who she was, and...Jo, who’d promised that she wouldn’t tell anyone about the months she’d spent with Whitney, wouldn’t tell a living soul where Whitney lived.
And now Matthew was promising to follow her wishes.
She didn’t know what to make of this.
From somewhere far away, his phone chimed. “Our lunch is probably ice-cold,” he said without letting her go or answering his phone.
At the mention of the word cold, she shivered. She was mostly naked, after all. “We haven’t had a successful meal yet.”
The phone chimed again. It seemed louder—more insistent. “I need to deal with some things. But if you want to hang out for a bit, I can take you home and we can try to have dinner out at the farm?”
“I’d like that.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, brushing his lips over hers as his phone chimed again and again. “So would I.”
Twelve
It was a hell of a mess. And what made it worse was that it was self-inflicted. He’d made this bed. Now he had to lie in it.
Matthew tried to focus on defusing the situation—which wasn’t easy, given that Whitney was exploring his apartment. Normally, he didn’t mind showing off his place. It was opulent by any normal standard—truly befitting a Beaumont.
But now? What would she see when she looked at his custom decorating scheme? Would she see the very best that money could buy or...would she see something else?
None of the other women he’d brought back here had ever focused on his parents’ wedding picture. They might have made a passing comment about how cute he was as a kid, but the other women always wanted to know what it was like being Phillip’s brother or meeting this actor or that singer. They wanted to know how awesome it was to be one of the famous Beaumont men.
Not Whitney. She already knew what fame felt like. And she’d walked away from it. She didn’t need it. She didn’t need other people’s approval.
What must she think of him, that he did need it? That he had to have the trappings of wealth and power—that he had to prove he was not just a Beaumont but the best one?
Focus. He had a job to do—a job that paid for the apartment and the cars and, yes, the ties. Matthew didn’t know why Byron had gone after that chef. His gut told him there was a history there, but he didn’t know what it was and Byron wasn’t talking.
So Matthew did what he always did. He massaged the truth.
He lied.
The other guy had swung first. All Byron had done was complain about an underdone salmon steak, and the chef took it personally. Byron was merely defending himself. So what if that wasn’t what the police report said? As long as Matthew kept repeating his version of events—and questioning the motives of anyone who disagreed with him—sooner or later, his reality would replace the true events.
“What’s in here?” Whitney called out. Normally, he didn’t like people in general and women in particular to explore his space on their own. He kept his apartment spotless, so it wasn’t that. He liked to explain how he’d decided on the decorating scheme, why the Italian marble was really the only choice, how a television that large was really worth it. He liked to manage the message of his apartment.
He liked to manage the people in his apartment.
However, Whitney was being so damned adorable he couldn’t help but smile.
“Where?” he shouted back.
“Here— Oh! That’s a really big TV!”
He chuckled. “You’re in the theater room!”
“Wow...” Her voice trailed off.
He knew that in another five minutes they’d have almost the exact same conversation all over again.
Matthew realized he was humming as he gave his official Beaumont response to the “unfortunate” situation again and again. Byron was merely noting his displeasure with an undercooked dish. The Beaumonts were glad the cops were called so they could get this mess straightened out. They would have their day in court.
Then a new email popped up—this one wasn’t from a journalist but from Harper, his father’s nemesis.
“Thank you for inviting us to the reception of Phillip Beaumont and bride at the last second, but sadly, no one in the Harper family has the least interest in celebrating such an occasion.”
The old goat hadn’t even bothered to sign the kiss-off. Nice.
Normally, it would have bothered Matthew. Maybe it did, a little. But then Whitney called out, “You have your own gym? Really?”
And just like that, Matthew didn’t care about Harper.
“Really!” he called back. He sent off a short reply stating how very much Harper would be missed—Hardwick Beaumont had always counted him as a friend. Which was another bold-faced lie—the two men had hated each other from the moment Hardwick had seduced Harper’s first wife less than a month after Harper had married her. But Harper wasn’t the only one who could write a kiss-off.
Speaking of kissing...Matthew checked the weather, closed his computer and went looking for Whitney. She was standing in his bathroom, of all places, staring at the wide-open shower and the in-set tub. “It’s just you, right? Even the bathroom is monster huge!”
“Just me. You need to make a decision.”
Her eyes grew wide. “About what?”
He brushed his fingers through her hair. It’d gotten mussed up when she’d stripped for him. He liked it better that way. “The weather might turn later tonight. If you want to go back to the farm, we’ll need to leave soon.”
One corner of her mouth curved up. “If? What’s the other option?”
“You are more than welcome to stay here with me.”
He looked around his bathroom. “I have plenty of room. And then I could show you how the shower works. And the bath.” He’d like to see that—her body wet as he soaped her up.
She gave him a look that was part innocence, part sheer seduction. A look that said she might like to be soaped up—but the thought scared her, as well. “I don’t have any of my things...”
He nodded in agreement. Besides, he tried to reason with himself, just because there hadn’t been paparazzi waiting for them when they got to the building didn’t mean that there wouldn’t be people out there in the morning. And the last thing he needed right now was someone to see him and the former Whitney Wildz doing the walk of shame.
“Besides,” she went on, looking surprisingly stern, “it’s Christmas—almost, anyway—and you don’t even have a tree. Why don’t you have a tree? I mean, this place is amazing—but no tree? Not a single decoration? Really?”
He brushed his fingertips over her cheeks again. He didn’t normally celebrate Christmas here. “I spend Christmas night with my mom. If they’re in town, Frances and Byron come by. She always has stockings filled with cheesy gifts like yo-yos and mixes for party dips. She has a small tree and a roasted turkey breast and boxed mashed potatoes—not high cuisine by any stretch.” He wouldn’t dare admit that to anyone else.
Christmas night was the one night of the year when he didn’t feel like Matthew Beaumont. Back in Mom’s small apartment, cluttered with photos of him and her and Frances and Byron—but never Hardwick Beaumont—Matthew felt almost as if he were still Matthew Billings.
It was a glimpse into the past—one that he occasionally let himself get nostalgic about, but it never lasted very long. Then, after he gave his mother the present he’d picked out for her—something that she could use but a nicer version than she could afford herself—he’d kiss her goodbye and come back to this world. His world. The world where he would never admit to being Matthew Billings. Not even for an afternoon.
Except he’d just admitted it to Whitney. And instead of the clawing defensiveness he usually felt whenever anyone brought up the Billings name, he felt...lighter.
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