6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
D eclan
There’s a storm outside, a raging tsunami on a lake.
The oak trees whip one way and the other, a few spines snapping under the force. Some of them are ripped from the ground and tossed against the walls of an unidentified home, cracking loudly with the thunder.
I don't jerk. I'm indoors and, for now, relatively protected from the tempest.
I wonder where I am, and why it seems so familiar yet so foreign as well. The walls are made of wood and thick velvet curtains partially shield the window. A chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, a floor-length mirror and a vanity in front of me.
And behind me, is a large platform bed.
I glance around disoriented until a gust of wind tears open the door to my left.
I spin and see her.
The blonde woman. Emma.
She’s standing in the doorway, in a silk nightgown. I can catch the outline of her nipples through the sheer material as the near-transparent silk skims down her curvy body, hugging the soft flesh of her full figure.
She’s all woman.
I’ve never seen a woman quite as delectable as her, with curves that make my back teeth tingle.
Immediately hunger roars to the surface of my mind. I damn near feel my hands shake with the need to touch and caress and feel the softness that is hinted underneath her dress.
Emma glides to me, her blue eyes flashing in the relative darkness of the room. She brings a fresh scent with her, as though she just finished swimming in the lake in the middle of the storm. But her hair isn't wet, neither is her body. I also detect hints of lavender as she stands below me, her face upturned to me.
There’s a question in her eyes as the lids fall lower, in sultry invitation. Her lips part, and a breath passes through them before her tongue swipes once over the bottom lip.
And just like that, my hunger roars out of control.
I take a step, closing the distance between us, wrapping my hands around her waist, and hauling her onto my body. I groan as her body presses flush against mine, the sensation of indescribable bliss thrumming through me. Her hand lands on my chest, and I’m pretty sure she can feel my heart trying to beat out of it.
My eyes slide shut, savoring it all.
"Declan." Her whispers are in the air around me, and I open my eyes again. She’s staring up at me, her lips swollen begging to be kissed.
I bend and capture it in mine.
I taste her need in the way she responds to the kiss, wantonly sucking my lips into hers. She opens wide for me, and I dive right in, my tongue invading her mouth.
I groan.
She tastes like ambrosia, an addiction that possesses my body and forces me to capture her hair in my hands and press closer. I don’t even have any thoughts of moving but suddenly, my leg pushes in between her legs, and her heat is pressed against my thigh.
"Fuck." I rip my lips away for a second, before diving back for another, long, heated kiss, not bearing to be apart from her for a single breath. She moans into my mouth. Her sweetness magnifies with each second, and I lose a little bit of my mind. My hands travel down her back to her plump ass, squeezing it in my palms. She makes a choked sound, her finger clutching at my shoulders and trembling as I scrunch her dress up trying to get to the skin as fast as possible. I’m not as careful with it as I should be and I hear ripping.
It’s like the last snap to my sanity and I end up tearing the dress off her lower body, the thing giving away in my hands like a cobweb.
And then I palm her soft ass, unable to believe someone can truly feel that good.
This can’t be rea l, I think as desire throbs through me, my cock hardening to the point of pain. No one can be this perfect. No one can render me in such a starved state.
My breath builds up in my chest, and I finally tear back my mouth so I can breathe.
I stare down at her eyes for a second and then bend, to lick up the side of her neck like a crazed man.
Yep. She is sweet.
One of my hands moves from her ass to the front between her thighs. She’s naked there and I palm the tuft of curls over there, slowly rubbing up and down, unveiling the moist center. Fuck, she's wet. She has leaked down her thighs already. Her legs tremble and she wraps her hands around my neck, holding on for dear life.
"Declan," she whispers my name again.
I straighten and stare down into her eyes, softly kissing her as I part her pussy with my fingers, lightly strumming the engorged nub. She gasps and I do it again and again, varying each touch, savoring her trembling responses. And then when I add just a hint of pressure and speed, her mouth falls open and refuses to close.
I thrust my finger inside her and she gasps. I curl it, hitting the top of her g spot, and rub down and her body shakes. Her eyes roll over.
She’s close. I can feel it.
And fuck it I’m close too. Getting her off is driving me to the edge and at the rate it’s going we just might come at the same time.
"I’m going to come," she gasps as though I couldn't tell from her response. "I’m going to– "
Suddenly another door in the room flies open and I see him from the corner of my eye. A large, hooded figure with a bloodstained glove strides into the room. He has an old-fashioned pistol in his hands and then he lifts it, pointing it at us.
Instinctively, I jump in front of Emma, shielding her with my body, but it feels like I'm moving in slow motion.
I hear her scream and then a loud explosion before pain explodes in my side.
My eyes fly open and I jerk up in bed, running a palm down my body. It takes me a second to breathe. It takes me half a minute to calm down the flight or fight response induced by the dream, and I run my hand over my face as I wait for it to subside.
Reality comes to me in bits.
I’m not in a weird twentieth-century brothel with the blond waitress. I’m at the Marriot in the VIP suite.
But what the hell kind of dream was that?
The first part of the dream was unusual enough. I barely have wet dreams anymore and I never have them about random women I’ve only met twice.
I can typically get any woman I want, so not much thrills me in that regard.
The fact that I just had a passionate dream about Emma means...something. I don’t know precisely what it means but I don’t like it.
"Fuck." I run my hands through my hair.
It’s probably because of that fucking kiss.
The stupid insane kiss I gave her in the doorway, with her grandfather and my daughter just a few feet away. I can only imagine what would have happened if Amelia caught us kissing.
I’ve dated since her mother and I divorced, but I try not to bring those women around my daughter. And I pretty much keep my love life under wraps for that reason. I never want my daughter to have to see stuff like that because I'm not sure she’s old enough to handle it.
So, the fact that I kissed Emma, where Amelia could have seen us, could only have been due to my temporary insanity brought by worry and anger. That had to be it.
Luckily, Amelia missed the fact that I kissed her, if her lack of reaction when I got back to the car is any indication.
I glance out the window, noting that the day is just breaking. The large orange sun sits on the horizon, shooting rays into the bluish-pink sky. I don't take time to enjoy the sunrise.
I might as well get an early start to my day.
I get out of bed, and walk to the living room area, to make myself some coffee. Amelia's door is still closed, so she's probably asleep. She spent most of last night poring over that journal she got from Emma. Her night light was on till around midnight when I put my foot down and insisted she go to bed.
I shake my head. The second part of the dream is probably due to my daughter. She’d started reading the journal on the way back to the hotel, apparently determined to ignore my scolding. I saw her eyes move over the pages, voraciously devouring the text. And when I asked her what it was about, she told me a whole big story about a pearl and a woman who disappears after her lover dies at the Pink Hotel.
Heck, that was probably what caused the dream in the first place.
But for now, I need to forget about the dream and figure out how I’m going to keep my daughter out of trouble while I work today. Plus I need to figure out a suitable punishment for yesterday.
How about taking away her black card? Or reducing her allowance to a thousand a week?
My phone rings, interrupting my thoughts.
I stroll over to the master bedroom again and pick it up from my bedside table.
"Hello?"
"I should have known you would be awake by this time," Rachel croons in her smooth practiced dulcet. "I was hoping to leave a voice mail. Let me guess. You’re working?"
"Always." One of the reasons that our marriage fell apart was because I was constantly working. Rachel never let it go. "What’s up?"
"I was wondering if I can take Amelia off your hands on Thursday," she says. "I know it will be your week to have her, but my clothing brand is having a show at fashion week for the first time. I want her to be there."
"Congratulations," I say. "But you know she’s not a fan of that fashion stuff." My daughter lives in graphic t-shirts and ratty jeans no matter how many designer clothes her mother buys her.
"She’s not a fan because she won’t give it a chance," Rachel says. "She's still in her tomboy phase. Heck, I was a tomboy too, till I turned fifteen. Give it time. Her fashionista bone might kick in any day now, and she'll transform into America's newest it girl."
"Right," I snort. "Alright then. I’ll see if she’s okay with it and then I’ll send her over."
"Great."
There are a few beats of silence but Rachel hasn’t hung up yet.
"Anything else?" I ask.
"Really? You haven’t heard from me in weeks and that’s all you can say?"
Damn, I forgot how much she likes small talk. "How are you, Rachel?"
"Oh please. Don't pretend to care now, it only makes it more irritating." There's amusement in her voice but also a bite that tells me she's not entirely joking.
"I do care about you, Rachel. You know that."
"Yeah yeah. Just not enough."
Guilt crawls through me. I don't say anything and then she sighs. "Anyway. I'll let you get back to work."
"Ok, but if you need anything, you'll tell me right?"
"Sure. Bye."
"Congrats again on your fashion line."
The line beeps in my ears, dead before I even finish the sentence. I sigh.
My daughter's door opens, and a glance proves me wrong. She's not asleep, at least not anymore.
But she probably just woke up. Her curly hair sticks around all over her face, and she rubs her tired eyes, yawning. "Was that mom?"
"Yeah," I answer. "She wants you to go to Milan with her for fashion week." Or at least I think it's Milan. I never thought to ask.
Maybe that's why Rachel was irritated. You probably should have asked more questions and congratulated her more. Shown that you care.
"Fashion week?" Amelia wrinkles her nose in distaste.
I add, "Her fashion line is having a show. It will only be for a few days and I think she really wants your support."
"Ugh," she says. "I guess I can go since it's for mom."
I grin and ruffle her hair. "Good." Rachel will be happy about that at least.
After breakfast, I default on punishing Amelia by collecting a promise from her to be good for the rest of the day. She agrees and after Sandy arrives, I head to the hotel.
I had decided to set up shop in the little guest house of the hotel, which probably doubled as an office once upon a time. It seems to have survived largely unscathed by the fire. It also shockingly has electricity and a working bathroom.
Well, seeing as how the townspeople used to hold fairs at the hotel, it only follows that they would use this office as their place of operations. I didn't enjoy working out of the hotel coffeeshop, with all the gawking eyes and constant chatter, so I had the office cleaned and had some new furniture brought in.
Today I have several meetings to select a contractor for the renovations. I need a quote and a proper walk-through, detailing the damage and the changes that need to be made. Likely, it will be a full-on rebuild, but I'm not sure.
I could have a team sent in from New York but that would take too long and I'm trying to be out of here as soon as possible.
And then there's the fact that my team also has their hands full, handling much bigger projects back in New York, and there are emails related to that which I also need to deal with.
It takes me most of the day, and I have a throbbing headache by the end of it.
That evening, I go outside to clear my head, heading out to the lake. It's quiet, the only sound is a gentle breeze that rustles the trees. The lake itself is a still blue, the surface only infrequently interrupted by ripples. Another stronger wind has goosebumps breaking out over my skin, and the scent of pines tries to tease a sneeze out of my nostrils.
Why am I here?
I've asked myself that question every day since I came into town. Just a few days ago, representatives of the town came to request that I allow them to continue holding events at the hotel.
I marvelled at the heated passion in their eyes as they spoke of the hotel like it was a living breathing entity they loved, like they were scared I would hurt it. One of them even tried to scare me off by warning me about ghosts. Apparently, the Grand Pearl Hotel is haunted by ghosts and I need to leave it alone.
Why on earth is everyone so obsessed with this damn place?
A snap of a twig has me whipping my head to the side sharply.
"Who's there?" I call out sharply, wondering if it's a trespasser, or perhaps it's one of the townspeople coming to plead with me again.
No one calls back in answer and I walk slowly to the thickets leading into the forest, where the sound came from. It's too dark to make much out, but shadows of the trees.
But I could have sworn I heard something...or someone.
"Maybe this place is haunted by ghosts after all," I murmur.