Chapter 9 #2
My face heats and my heart thumps in annoyance. How dare he command me to dine with him? How dare he be so goddamn good-looking and so hard to read, and how dare he be so goddamn tall when he has no scent whatsoever?
Most of all, how dare he make me feel so humiliated?
And how fucking dare my dick like it.
Minutes tick by in complete silence. I’m so positive that he’s decided not to stoop to providing me with an answer that I almost fall off my chair when he speaks.
“I find that I enjoy your presence, Mr. Lawlor.” His voice is softer than it was before. Raspy, with something that sounds weirdly like hesitation lanced through it.
No, maybe not hesitation. Confusion.
His eyes widen and he looks mightily surprised by the admission. Even so, he’s nowhere near as surprised as I am to hear him say it.
The second my auditory cortex receives the signal, several things happen in my body at once.
My heart, which is already beating furiously, beats faster.
Thoughts rush toward me—good thoughts, bad thoughts, thoughts I don’t have time to analyze or bring into order.
I feel my resolve to say less crumble as though it’s a visceral thing.
A tall, solid wall gives way all around me.
Bricks tumble.
Morter disintegrates.
Firm, clear boundaries I’ve worked hard to erect shatter and throw up clouds of dust in the dining room.
There’s a gust of wind in my face, though I can’t tell if it’s real or if the sensation is caused by supreme stress.
The chair beneath me is unsteady. Shaky.
It feels like things around me are standing still and I’m moving fast. I imagine this is what it would be like to ride a bolting horse.
It’s very unpleasant. There’s terror and panic galore.
My heart slams against my rib cage, as a quick, instinctive urge to pull back the reins takes hold.
My fists clench in my lap and my lips press firmly together, holding in every thought I’ve held in since the day I arrived here. Then they fall open, and words begin tumbling out of them.
“And that,” I hear myself say a long, long while later, “is how I learned that my ex-lover and my older brother were mated for life.”
Lord Augustus looks like he’s aged several years since the start of the meal, and that’s a worry. He’s still handsome, just older and more drained by the rigors of life.
“A telephone call?” he says numbly.
“Oh, yes.” I wave my hand, flicking my wrist in an elaborate gesture. “A voice call. Not even a video call, can you believe that?”
Lord Augustus’s Adam’s apple rides up in his throat as he swallows tentatively. “I, er, one would think news like that warrants a video call at least.”
It’s hard to recall the details of all the topics I’ve touched on, but as I pause to take a breath, I become painfully aware that I’ve covered some serious ground this morning.
Vivid flashes and sounds assault me: my voice describing Branson’s cabin in minute and unnecessary detail, the splintering, unpleasant pitch of my laughter as innumerable, irrelevant, and highly damning peccadillos from my childhood were spilled all over the dining table.
Oh God.
I’m pretty sure I’ve provided him with at least sixty-seven examples of Lucien being forgetful, but not as forgetful as one would need to be to pack for a trip to a cabin in the woods and leave your suppressant at home.
Why would I do that?
Ugh.
I can’t stand it when I get like this.
My head spins in part from the horror of what I’ve done, and in part from the shock of taking a full breath after chattering ceaselessly for God knows how long.
“Would you look at the time!” I exclaim, looking down at a watch I’m not wearing. “I’d better get cracking. Those books won’t organize themselves.”
“No,” the lord agrees vaguely. “They won’t.”
I jump to my feet, head spinning from the sudden change in altitude, and bow deeply—from the waist, not the neck. So deeply that I almost bump my forehead on the table.
The whites of Lord Augustus’s eyes flash with something that looks a lot like fear. So much so that, for once, they hardly look dull.
I see myself to the library as fast as I can, closing the door behind me and locking it.
I turn, leaning back heavily, and let myself sink into a heap on the floor.
I don’t stop when I get to a seated position.
No, what I’ve done is so heinous that it warrants nothing less than complete horizontalness.
I lie on my back, eyes fluttering open and closed as my cheeks burn.
I was doing so well.
I was being professional. I was rising above rudeness, and tallness, and black eyes that could be so beautiful if he smiled more.
I was minding my own business admirably—especially if you take my morning visits to the stables out of the equation.
Most of all, I wasn’t burdening my boring boss with a single fucking word that could be misconstrued as oversharing.
“I had myself in hand. I was in control,” I trill, borderline hysterical as I hold my phone near my face. Lucien doesn’t speak, but he nods his head solemnly. “I was behaving my ass off. I’ve been here for weeks, and I’ve, I’ve kept it together this whole time.”
“You’ve been doing so, so well,” Lucien agrees, adopting a hushed tone usually reserved for hospital rooms.
“I think that’s the problem.” I sniff. “I kept too much in for too long, and now look. I think maybe I should have talked a little more from the beginning. Let the poison out slowly, you know? Given him time to acclimatize.”
“I know, I know.”
“Now I’ve traumatized him, poor thing.”
“He needs to toughen up if he can’t handle a slight overshare,” bellows Branson from another room. “What’s wrong with him?”
“It wasn’t a slight overshare, baby,” Lucien clarifies gently.
“Jensen told him he’s a hundred and seven percent sure Hutton-le-Hole was named by a horny omega, and he said he was disappointed when he arrived and didn’t see glory holes dotted all around town.
He said it seemed terribly off-brand. Said that if he named a town Hutton-le-Hole, it would be the kind of place that boasted bruised holes left, right, and center. ”
“Oh God!” I wail as the horror of my behavior hits me afresh. “How do I fix this? What do I do? Tell me!”
“Resign and come home,” Branson says firmly. He must enter the room Lucien is in when he speaks because I see Lucien’s gaze drift and a smile pull at his lips.
“I think you should resign and come home, Jens,” Lucien says kindly.
He has the audacity to say it as though he’s the one who came up with the idea.
Fuck. I can’t stand being around newly mated couples.
“Yeah,” Branson doubles down. “Get the hell away from that man if he makes you act like this.”
On the screen, Lucien catches my eye, and neither of us utters a sound. His eyes bulge from the effort it takes to stifle his laugh. Lucien knows me well. Better than most people do, and as a result, he knows that Lord Augustus didn’t make me do a damn thing.
I’m perfectly capable of acting like this all on my own.
It’s a fucking long day, and by the time I finally crawl into my nest, I’m exhausted. I’m so tired I can’t muster the energy required to take on my late-night wandering around Beaumont Craven House.
I suppose that’s for the best.
If Lord Augustus caught me at it tonight, there’s no telling what I would do. Or what I’d say.
I can barely move a muscle, and the worst of it is that I’m so bone tired that when I slide my hands into my pants, I don’t have the energy required to give my prostate the rough fingering it needs for me to get off.
I’m so tired that I can’t even conjure a masked man. Or an overgrown maze. Or the night sky.
All I’m able to invoke is the same thing I’ve seen all day. A difficult man with a handsome face. Dark features and heavy brows. Surprisingly sensual lips moving, curling around words I can still feel at the base of my throat.
Under my sternum.
Low down in my belly.
I find that I enjoy your presence, Mr. Lawlor.