Chapter 8
An owl hoots outside the window, the sound haunting in the still of the otherwise silent night. Ominous and very fitting for my mood in this house, on this mountain, where I sleep—or don’t, more accurately.
I’d love to blame my inability to drift off on that noise from the unexpected visitor perched on the branch. It’s loud enough that it would keep most people awake. Not me, though. Typically, I can sleep through almost anything.
Not tonight, though.
The ache between my legs has been constant since my dip in the lake this afternoon, a reminder of the way that man can twist me up and leave me wanting in only a matter of a few moments, without ever touching me.
I toss and turn in the comfort of the big, king-sized bed on luxurious sheets fit for a king, trying to make it ease, unable to stop thinking about my conversation—or confrontation?—with Weston.
Shit.
I’m not even thinking of him as “The Beast” anymore.
When did that change?
Despite wracking my brain for the answer, I can’t put my finger on it. Likely because it wasn’t a single moment. Rather, as each day has passed in this house, it shifted slowly.
With the gifts and lavish meals. The kind gestures and the way he takes care of me. Coupled with his cryptic words and actions, he has started to seem less and less like the enemy and more and more like a captive here himself.
Though how that’s possible and why it is that way, I can’t quite reason out. Certainly not without information he isn’t willing to provide.
All I know is that tonight, I won’t be getting any sleep like this. Hours and hours of trying have gotten me nowhere but more frustrated than I ever remember being.
I toss back the comforter and sheet and slide out of bed, finally unable to lie here any longer. Wearing only the shorts and tank top I typically sleep in, I pad barefoot to the door on my finally healed sole.
Removing the stitches this morning felt like ripping out the memory of that night and throwing it away somewhere I can’t dwell on my idiocy anymore. Where I don’t have to second guess what I should have done differently.
So much has changed since then. It’s the last place I want my mind rooted.
Easing open the bedroom door, I listen for sounds of Weston moving around, but the entire house is just as still and silent as it is most nights. I slip into the hallway, which somehow seems longer tonight, like it goes on forever and forever.
Each step I take along the crimson runner toward the staircase makes my heart beat faster, until blood rushes in my ears by the time I reach them. I stand at a literal crossroads, looking down the steps that will lead me to the living room, the fireplace, the kitchen, where I might be able to get a snack and read in front of the glowing embers to try to ease my insomnia.
But my feet don’t lead me that way.
They draw me up toward the third floor, to the library, but not to find a new book. To find the mysterious man who has bent and twisted what I thought I knew about him and his world, to seek what only he can give me.
Simultaneously, two parts of me war—the one hoping I’ll find him and the other praying he won’t be there.
What are you doing, Callista?
I wish I knew.
Maybe if I did, I could stop myself from following through with something I might regret later, but my feet seem to move of their own accord. The ache in the sole of my right one is so dull now that it’s barely noticeable. If it were, it might serve as a warning I’m not entirely sure I’d heed anyway.
Not when I’ve made it this far.
I reach the top landing and pause at the cracked doors, faint light trickling out of them. Since I turned them all off before I left tonight after dinner, that means Weston was here, if he isn’t any longer.
Which do you really want, Callista?
Deep down, I know what I’m attempting is stupid and reckless. It’s the kind of thing I might have indulged in during my youth before I accepted that I was going to lead a relatively boring, normal life.
But that life seems so far away somehow.
Like it isn’t even mine anymore.
Everything under this roof, behind these walls. It all feels real. Feels like it’s mine.
That terrifying thought ripples through my head as I hold my breath and nudge the door open slowly. The hinges creak, giving me away before I can peek inside.
The sound reverberates throughout the vast room, and Weston slowly lifts his head from where it was buried in a book on the table in front of him.
Hard, steely gray eyes meet mine. A muscle in his clenched jaw tics as I slowly enter and approach. His gaze leaves mine to rake over me, his assessment so heated as he takes me in that it feels like I might burst into flames on the spot.
Somehow, I keep my feet moving forward.
The closer I get to him, the higher the tension builds between us, and by the time I reach the table, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation.
Slowly, he returns his gaze to meet mine again, one white brow rising in question.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Shit.
That sounded stupid, something a girl like he accused me of being earlier today would say to someone she felt she needed to explain herself to.
You don’t owe this man anything.
Absolutely nothing.
It’s true.
I don’t.
He may have cared for me the last two weeks and ensured I was as comfortable as possible in a very uncomfortable situation, but he did so without expecting anything in return.
Then why do I want to give him everything?
The question has plagued me, left me restless and sleepless all night. But now that I’m standing in front of him, with his hard, clenched, bearded jaw, his silver hair glinting in the lamplight from the desk, in this beautiful library he basically gifted to me, all I want to do is get closer and forget the why.
“Go back to bed, Callista.”
The waver in his normally steady voice makes my heart hammer wildly against my ribcage wildly as it recognizes that fluctuation for what it is—a chink in his armor.
I shake my head. “It won’t do any good.”
His fist clenches on top of the book in front of him. “Neither will you being in here.” He pushes back from the table, the chair legs scraping over the hand-hewn wood floors, and towers above me—all broad shoulders and muscled chest under a T-shirt stretched across them. “Go, Callista.”
The “please” flashes across his eyes, but it never leaves his lips. That would be one step too far tonight. He won’t say the word, but he’s still begging me to leave. He needs me to because he’s afraid of exactly the thing I came here seeking.
“I don’t want to…”
It’s as true an answer as I can give him without explicitly telling him why I’m here, and I move around the table slowly, my left hip pressed to it. When I make the turn and advance toward him down that side, he tenses.
I slip into the space between him and the table’s edge. Our bodies now mere inches from each other, the heat of his seeps into me, warming my exposed skin despite the frostiness he attempts to cast my way.
Gazing up into his eyes, I see through it and find need mixed with his reservation. “You can’t run away from this, Weston. I’m here. Maybe forever, right?”
I raise a brow at him.
It’s the only conclusion I’ve been able to come to—that someone, somewhere, wants to use me to manipulate Dad’s actions, and there’s a chance that may never end.
Weston scowls, but he doesn’t refute my assessment or back away when I’ve made my intentions abundantly clear.
A win—though tiny.
Testing my luck, I tentatively reach out and press my hand to his chest. He stiffens as a jolt of electricity surges down my arm and through my entire body.
My pussy throbs and clenches, craving that shared energy, that connection, the combustion of the slow sizzle of attraction that pulsates between us.
“We may not have freely chosen this initially, Weston, but it doesn’t make it any less of a conscious choice now, does it?”
He grinds his jaw, the sound harsh and almost desperate. Like if he does it hard enough, he might be able to break through whatever mental block is preventing him from acting.
His body begins to tremble like he’s fighting something building inside him the same way I have been. “You should go, Callista.”
Each word comes like they’re painful for him to say.
I share his pain, his longing, the pure agony.
Mine is only restrained by wondering what the hell I’m thinking, throwing myself at The Beast, while his desire is held back by whatever secrets he’s clinging to so tightly.
I raise my other hand and lay it over his heart. It beats wildly under my palm, his pecs rising and falling rapidly with his heavy breaths.
It’s there—the tiniest fissure.
The strong, hard man is about to reach his breaking point. All he needs is a gentle nudge in that direction instead of away from me. Something to pry open and shatter the mask he hides behind.
I shift forward slightly, until my breasts and hips brush against him, and a shudder rolls through his body, allowing me to feel his straining cock trying to break free from the front of his jeans and the barely restrained tension bottled up in his huge frame.
Clutching his shirt in my fingers, tugging on the fabric, I bring him even closer. “There’s no reason to fight this.”
He issues a frustrated growl, gripping my chin and tilting my head up sharply so his hard, almost-black eyes that swim with lust and trepidation lock with mine.
So, I can see how close his resolve is to faltering.
“There’s every reason to fight this, Beauty. You’re just in the dark about them.”
“Then tell me, Weston.”
His frustration boils, and he tightens his grip on my chin. “I fucking can’t.”
“Then those reasons can’t be that important.”
She has no idea how important they really are. How absolutely essential it is that I keep Barker business private and her insulated from it. That I prevent her from knowing what’s really going on or letting her get closer to it.
Beyond what might already happen to her father, it could mean life or death for her. But what’s even more important than keeping her in the dark is stopping where this is going because absolutely nothing good will come of it.
It might give her what she thinks she wants in this moment, but she’ll regret it in the light of a new day. When she remembers who and what I am. When the things I’ve done in the Barker name flash vividly in her head.
Yet my body’s response to her closeness, to her touch, makes it impossible to deny the fact that I want Callista Fox. That I want her under me and over me, surrounding me with her scent that always infuses this room after she’s been in here, filling every breath I take for as long as I take them. I long to hear her moans of pleasure, feel her move, and watch her face as she comes for me.
But the last thing I should do is touch this woman.
Easy to know.
Easy to say.
Following through on that knowledge is something else entirely.
I’ve always considered myself a physically strong man. Capable of chopping down a tree ten times my height. Lifting anything three times my weight. Going without sleep or food or physical affection for far longer than anyone else ever could. But that strength seemed to vanish the moment this woman arrived on my porch.
With her breasts and hips pressed to me, her hands clutching my shirt, my hard cock pinned between us, my entire body trembles with the restraint it takes not to bend her over this table and fuck her right here and right now.
To claim what I want, what The Beast already sees as his.
I tighten my grip on her chin until I see the slight flash of pain in her eyes. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Beauty.”
Not only has it been so long since I’ve touched any woman, but this particular one seems to push me beyond the confines of sanity to a place where I’m ready to do whatever it takes to possess her fully.
Her tongue darts out across her lips, making my cock twitch in response. “Yes, I do.”
I shake my head, despite the insistence in her voice, hoping to appeal to that part of her that was terrified of me that first night. “You’re just lonely. I’ve kept you locked up here for two weeks worrying about your father without anyone to talk to, without anything to occupy your time other than this place.” I wave my free hand around the library. “You don’t want me, Callista. You just want anyone, any connection right now, and this isn’t the one you should be seeking.”
The words seemed logical before I said them, but almost immediately, I can see the scowl of denial form on her beautiful lips. And I know I’ve failed to convince her.
“Stop acting like I’m some stupid teenager who can’t make her own decisions. I am a woman, Weston. One who’s telling you right now that I want this, that I want you.”
Fuck.
The growl of need rumbles in my chest, but still, I fight every fiber of my being that wants to take her. “Don’t do this, Beauty. You don’t want to see what’ll be unleashed if you push me.”
She leans up on her tiptoes, inching closer despite my fingers still digging into her chin, and feathers her lips over mine. “What if I do?”
Sweet bloody hell.
Any thought of putting her off, of pushing her away, of keeping this from going down the road so dangerous, so dark, that it absolutely should not be attempted, flies out the window the moment her lips touch mine.
Red-hot need surges through me, an explosion of uncontrollable yearning that I can’t fight or ignore any longer.
I wrap my arms around her and tug her up against me fully, crushing my mouth to hers, inhaling her scent, and finally tasting the beautiful woman in my arms.
She moans and grinds against me, rubbing her stomach along my cock. Her hands release my shirt, and they graze across my neck and bury themselves in the hair at my nape.
Nails bite into my skin, signaling her rising desperation that I can’t deny matches my own.
I can’t remember it ever being like this—a bone-deep desire so all-consuming that it’s equally thrilling and terrifying. Fear rushes through my veins as thick as the need does. That I’ll hurt her. That I’ll fail at giving her what she frantically searches for. That even if I manage to, I’ll fail at protecting her from what’s coming.
Still, my cock aches to be buried inside her, and that fear gets pushed aside in favor of forcing her back two steps, until her ass hits the table and she gasps in surprise. I capture the sound with another deep kiss and glide my tongue along the seam of her mouth, demanding entry.
She parts for me, welcoming me in, spreading her legs so I can settle between them and align my length along the heat radiating from between her thighs.
I grind against her, my cock aligned with that perfect spot to amp her up, and she moans, low and sultry, filling the vast space and echoing off all the wood and metal in the library.
What the hell are you doing?
Sealing her fate.
Sealing my own.
Going down in flames that will burn both of us.
Because Callista has unleashed something in me, something I thought I’d never feel again.
Longing.
The desire to please someone else—to please a woman, to seek and be her comfort, to experience and be the source of her joy, to feel her vibrating need and the squeeze of her hot cunt along my cock as I finally bring her ecstasy.
I want it all.
Want to give it all to her.
I slide one hand to her inner thigh and graze my fingertips up the soft skin there. She bucks at the gentle caress, then settles as I slip it up and under her tiny shorts and the thong she wears beneath them.
Slick heat greets me, and I groan against her lips, toying with her wet core lightly. “Fuck, Beauty…”
Callista pants, tugging her mouth from mine for a moment to gaze up at me with hooded eyes, long, thick, dark lashes batting at me. Keeping our gazes locked, she slides a hand down my arm, across my stomach, to cup my cock where it strains for freedom.
A muffled groan slips from my mouth, and she squeezes my cock in response. An almost loving caress I haven’t experienced in decades. My eyes roll up in the back of my head, my body trembling under her soft ministrations.
The simple touch is almost enough to send me soaring.
She rolls her hips, seeking more contact with my fingers, and despite every reason not to, to end this now, before things go too far, I oblige her, gliding her wetness up around her clit and making her buck violently against my hand.
“Fuck…”
The word tumbles from her lips—a plea for me to stop, a prayer for me to keep going.
Maybe both.
I know I should be doing one and not the other, but at this point, I can’t stop myself. We can’t stop this. It was inevitable the moment she drove up my mountain. We were on a collision course from day one. We just never realized it or pretended we didn’t see it coming.
It was stupid to believe I could ignore her siren song.
She called to me from the second her emerald eyes met mine as she tried to flee from me on that porch. And now she mewls in my hold, wanting more, needing it. I slip a finger inside her heat, and she clenches around me, tugging me even closer with one hand at my neck, rubbing her other along my length and making my balls tighten up and threaten to explode.
After thirty fucking years of not feeling a woman’s touch, my body is so primed that I’m liable to go off at any second in an incredibly embarrassing fashion.
Those lingering fears rush back, and somehow, I use them to tear my mouth from hers when all I want to do is kiss her endlessly. I take a step back, pulling my hand from between her legs, trying to catch my breath.
Her eyes fly open and meet mine, her mouth falling open on a gasped plea. “Where are you—What are you—”
Herfear that I might be ending this now consumes her gaze, but before she can give in to her growing panic, I grip the hem of her shorts, signaling my true intention.
She cants her hips, allowing me to slide the material down along with her thong and toss them over my shoulder, exposing her to me.
Sweet Christ.
Her pussy glistens with arousal in the soft light provided by the lamp on the table.
So wet.
So ready for me.
My mouth waters to taste her, to know if she’s as sweet there as she smells all the time. I want to drink it, drink her in until I’m drowning in the thing that brings her bliss.
Despite my cock screaming in agony against the zipper of my jeans, if I don’t slow things down, if I don’t take my time with her, I am going to look like an even bigger fucking idiot than I’m sure I will when I finally claim this woman fully.