12. Dane
12
DANE
A bigail is still wearing her basic black t-shirt and jeans from her barista shift, but I can’t stop staring at her as though she’s the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen. Her apron is gone, and I almost miss the sight of her silly badges—the grinning iced coffee had accompanied her unicorn and lavender cupcake today.
But her sunny smile is bright enough to eclipse the cheery expressions on her shiny pins.
I blink and try to ease the hungry set of my jaw, arranging my features into a genial smile that won’t scare her. During our date at The Magnolia, she seemed to enjoy dancing on the edge of my savage energy, so I didn’t bother to fully harness it. With Abigail, I’m able to let the mask slip ever so slightly, and she doesn’t cringe in horror.
Something spooked her when we kissed for the first time, but I know that she revels in dark sensuality. I just have to tread carefully until she’s ready to trust me enough to accept the deviant games that we both want to play.
She offers a breezy goodbye to her coworkers and then rounds the coffee bar to approach me. As she closes the distance between us, she tugs loose the tie that gathers her thick hair into a messy bun for work. Sable, wavy locks cascade down her back, and that perfect amethyst curl falls in front of her shoulder. She winds it around her slender finger, smoothing a few errant strands.
My own finger tingles with the memory of the silken texture of that curl. I want to wrap it around my fist and anchor her in place while I claim a ruthless kiss from those perfect, rosebud lips. They’re soft and tinged with a subtle pink shade from her customary strawberry Chapstick that she always keeps tucked in her pocket. Even her lip balm has a sweet flavor.
My own mouth waters in anticipation of tasting the sweetness on her lips and sampling their soft, pliant shape. I’ll memorize every caress that makes her sigh and submit. Abigail will melt for me by the end of our date tonight.
Once my little bird flies willingly into her cage, I’ll gently clip her wings so that I can keep her safely locked away. She’ll never want to be free because I’ll keep her so drunk on pleasure that she’ll be utterly devoted to me. I’ll keep and protect her, and she’ll have no reason to think of leaving me.
I blink again to clear the dark, ruthless glint from my eyes. She seems uncannily capable of reading me, and I’m determined to appear nonthreatening today: a perfect gentleman.
“Thanks for waiting,” she says, her voice taking on the slightly softer tone she uses when she’s feeling shy around me. “We had a rush in the last twenty minutes, so I needed to stay for a while longer before clocking out.” Her gaze is hesitant when her azure eyes meet mine. “Do you still have time for dessert?”
“Of course.”
I offer her my most charming smile, and satisfaction warms my chest when her lovely face brightens in an answering grin.
Abigail is attuned to my moods. She often mirrors the people around her—I’ve witnessed her empathic nature many times when she’s dealt with customers at the café. She smiles when they smile; her eyes tighten with anxiety when they complain; and one time, I noted a slight quiver in her lower lip when her coworker burst into tears during a particularly stressful morning.
A strange, sour feeling turns my stomach. Jealousy again.
Even the thought of anyone else holding sway over her emotions is enough to make my cruelest, most possessive instincts sharpen.
I keep my smile in place and remind myself that I’m in control of this seduction, not her. My will is strong enough to regulate my responses to her, even if these feelings she brings out in me are almost as unnerving as they are addicting.
“Ready to go?” I prompt her before my mask slips again.
She nods and falls into step beside me. I barely suppress the urge to rest my hand on her lower back while we walk out of the café. At the very least, she allows me to open the door for her and even thanks me for the gesture.
So, Abigail isn’t completely averse to being taken care of. It’s not entirely feminist sensibilities that made her prickly when I tried to buy her paintings and her drinks during our date.
Abigail will surrender eventually—she will eagerly accompany me on lavish dates where I provide her with everything she could possibly want—but for now, I’m irritated that I have to be cautious.
On our date, it became clear that she’s been subject to financial control. Is that why she was skittish after our kiss too?
Some bastard hurt her in the past, and that’s getting in my way of winning her trust.
Her abuser will face my retribution. It’s only a matter of time before I get his name.
Then I can work out some of these unpleasant feelings of frustration and resentment. I’ll extract my revenge in blood and soothe myself with his screams.
The memory of the wild rush that’d overtaken me when I beat the thief flashes through my mind. The power and savagery of the violent moment had been the most ecstatic high I’ve ever experienced.
Until my kiss with Abigail eclipsed it.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks, her tone mildly curious but her gaze a bit wary.
Internally, I curse my slip-up, but I quickly ease the sharpest edge of my smirk.
“I’m wondering what dessert you’ll order,” I reply smoothly. “Something with strawberry?”
Her soft laugh is the sweetest music, and she relaxes at my side, her steps lengthening slightly to match my stride perfectly.
“No daquiris for me this evening,” she says. “I have another early shift tomorrow. But I can always indulge in something chocolatey.” Her gaze takes on a slightly unfocused, dreamy quality. “I hope they have peanut butter gelato today too.”
The way her voice deepens is pure temptation, like she’s experiencing physical pleasure at just the thought of her favorite sweet combination.
It’s the smallest bit of new knowledge—I’d noted her Belgian chocolate ice cream and her huge jar of creamy peanut butter when I broke into her apartment. But the fact that she blends the decadent treats and experiences such bliss is just as addictive to me as her soft sigh of arousal when I caressed her spine on our first date.
“What do you think you’ll order?” she asks, her gaze focusing on me again. Her eyes are wide and guileless; I love how open she is with her emotions, and I’m hungry for more.
“I’ll have to try what you like,” I say. “Chocolate and peanut butter together is a very American combination.”
She cocks her head at me. “Oh? What would you have back home in England?”
“Mr. Whippy.”
“What?”
I shake my head. I should’ve known she wouldn’t get the reference. “It’s an ice cream that we used to have at the seaside when I was a boy. I’m sure your chocolate-and-peanut-butter combo will be much sweeter.”
In truth, I don’t like overly sweet things. Food is fuel, and I care more about staying physically fit than treating myself to unhealthy options. My self-control has never been remotely tempted by dessert before, but now, I’m curious to experience the flavors that make Abigail feel such sinful pleasure.
“Did you go to the beach a lot when you were growing up?” she asks as we wait to cross the street, her clear blue gaze swinging back to mine in the moment of stillness. “My hometown, Georgetown, is just an hour and a half drive away from Charleston. We spent all of our free time on the beach when I was little.”
“The North Sea is a bit colder than the southern Atlantic,” I reply in traditional British understatement. “It’s a very different experience to the South Carolina coast. I never cared for it much.”
“I’d love to see it one day.” She sighs the words, and that dreamy expression softens her gaze again. “I’m fascinated by Whitby. Have you ever been?”
I blink at her in surprise. Whitby was a staple day out during my childhood, and just thinking about the dreary place fills my memories with scents of briny sea and newspaper-wrapped fish and chips. “Many times. How do you know about Whitby?”
She cocks a brow at me, as though the answer is obvious. “The ruined abbey was the inspiration for Dracula . All of the pictures I’ve seen online are breathtaking.”
I’m about to rebut that the pictures don’t show how cold, windy, and rainy it is, but I’m too entranced by her innocent enthusiasm to ruin her fantasies about the seaside town.
“I shouldn’t be surprised that you like Dracula ,” I say instead.
I’m starting to sense a darker theme to the fiction she prefers. I already know that she’s perfect for me, and I’m relishing each new revelation about her forbidden desires.
The crossing light turns green, and we finish walking the short distance to the dessert bar.
“I have to admit that I was surprised when you walked into the café with a copy of Addie LaRue ,” she says. “What made you pick up the book?”
“It’s a bestseller, isn’t it?” I say smoothly, covering the strange, disconcerting sensation that the pavement just dropped two feet beneath my next step.
Why didn’t I think that she might ask me this?
I manage a casual shrug. “I was browsing the bookstore, and I thought the premise sounded interesting.”
We arrive at Delia’s Dessert Bar, so I open the door and gesture for her to enter. It’s warm now that the storm has broken, and there’s a sizeable queue of overheated tourists waiting to buy ice cream. There are too many people ahead of us for me to distract her by placing an order immediately.
She’s still looking at me with that clear, keen blue gaze. She’s completely open to me, but the sense that she’s peering deeper than my mask makes my chest tighten.
Anxiety?
I definitely don’t like this particular feeling.
“Do you usually read fiction?” she asks. “For some reason, I would’ve pictured you with some politician’s autobiography in your hand instead of Addie LaRue. ”
I shake my head and don’t bother to hide the slight twist of distaste that curls my lip. “You’re right, I usually prefer nonfiction. But I’m not interested in other people’s self-indulgent ramblings. I like theoretical physics, particularly astrophysics.”
Her smile takes on a rueful tilt. “Science isn’t my strong suit,” she says, as though it’s an admission of a personal failing. “I’ve always been more into the arts.”
She sees the natural world in a way that I’ve never considered before, and she captures the darkest aspects of human nature in the stunning paintings that she keeps hidden in her closet. I’m in awe of her art, but she’s not ready to hear that yet.
“I like understanding how things work,” I explain instead. “Knowledge is power. But I’m starting to appreciate that the arts have their own power too.”
Our gazes are locked, and her cheeks flush my favorite shade of pink. It’s the ideal complement to the stunning aquatic blue shade of her eyes. The soft, rosy hue is enhanced by the cool purple tones of her amethyst curl. She’s completely beguiling and utterly perfect.
It’s all I can do to stop the impulse to touch her cheek and feel the warmth of her blush.
Her voice is a bit breathless when she speaks, as though she’s just as affected by our intense connection as I am. “If you prefer nonfiction, what made you pick up Addie LaRue ?”
She’s not ready to let this go.
“You’ll have to tell me what you love about the book if you want to know the answer to that,” I taunt, delaying the moment when I’ll have to figure out a proper explanation for my reading choice.
She tries for an exasperated huff, but it sounds more like a breathy sigh. “Do I have to beg for more information?”
I release a low hum, and I don’t resist the urge to touch my forefingers to her wrist, testing her racing pulse with the lightest contact. “I don’t hear you begging yet.”
“Can I take your order?” The woman behind the counter has raised her voice pointedly. I wonder if it’s the first time she’s asked.
I’ve been so entranced by Abigail that I almost forgot where we are.
“I’ll have a scoop of chocolate and a scoop of peanut butter, please,” she requests, her cheeks still flushed as she answers the irked server. “With Reese’s Pieces.” She adds yet another sugary confection to the sweet treat.
My tongue already curls at the prospect of so much processed sugar, but I smile at the woman too. “I’ll have the same.”
Abigail shoots me a teasing glance. “I thought chocolate and peanut butter might be too American for your English sensibilities.”
I don’t bother to hold back the wolfish edge to my grin. “How else will I learn to fit in with the locals? Teach me your ways.”
She shakes her head at me. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re a difficult student?”
I fix my features in an expression of mock-disappointment. “I’ll have you know that I was head boy at Eton.”
Her brows lift. “Is that supposed to mean something in American English?”
She’s not impressed by my posh upbringing, and I’m starting to realize that I like this about her. There’s a reason I left all that bullshit behind and moved an ocean away from my family and their expectations of me.
I shrug. “No, it doesn’t mean anything, really. Other than the fact that I’m a model student.”
The server hands over our heaped scoops of ice cream, and I suppress a frown when I allow Abigail to pay for her own in change—likely from the meager tip jar at the café.
She blows out a soft sigh, and her expression drops to something more serious. Her eyes focus on her dessert, denying me the access to peer into her soul.
“I figured you must’ve been good at school to get accepted at Johns Hopkins.” Her tone is polite but cool.
Fuck. We’re going to talk about my job again.
“Are you going to tell me why my career bothers you so much?” I ask, keeping my own voice bland and nonconfrontational as I open the door for her.
She takes a moment to soak in the sunlight on her face before she replies. Her porcelain skin is luminous beneath the bright summer sun, practically glowing against the midnight black of her soft cotton shirt. Rich jewel tones would suit her complexion better, but she’s breathtaking even in these simple, understated clothes—alluring like my own personal sea nymph.
She keeps her gaze on her dessert rather than meeting my eye. “I would never change my appearance to be more pleasing to others.”
I study her lovely profile: the gentle slope of her nose, the sharpness of her cheekbone with that fascinating freckle, and her slightly stubborn chin that offsets the soft definition of her jawline. Her petal-soft lips are understated—I have plenty of patients who might ask for fillers with that mouth to keep up with current trends. But Abigail’s Cupid’s bow is sharply defined and symmetrical. Her lips are perfectly in balance with her large eyes and the delicate taper of her jaw.
“You value authenticity,” I surmise rather than extoling her beauty. I don’t want her to retreat into herself if I compliment her physical attributes when I sense that she’s talking about something much deeper.
Her gaze finally meets mine, as though she’s surprised at my incisive remark. “I don’t like fake people,” she admits.
“I meant what I said before,” I assert. “It’s just a job. I do it because I’m good at it.”
She presses her lips together, dissatisfied with my answer. “You don’t care at all about what you do? You must’ve studied very hard for something you’re not passionate about.”
“Are you passionate about being a barista?” I challenge, my own lips pursing in irritation at her imbalanced assessment.
She blinks. “No. But it’s how I pay my bills. It allows me the time and creative energy I need to paint.”
“And my job affords me the lifestyle I desire,” I counter.
She’s quiet for a beat, and I struggle to maintain eye contact as she stares straight into me. This connection goes both ways, and the power of our intimacy unnerves me.
Something squeezes in the center of my chest, and I can’t draw breath until she offers me absolution. I need her approval more than I need oxygen, and I’m bizarrely cold in the absence of her sunshine smile.