Chapter 16
Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint
Willow’s clearly upset, but damned if I know why or what to do about it. She clears the table and cleans the kitchen as if she’s a reprimanded kid. Only, for all my talk about her being too young, she’s nothing like a child. As if I could forget her tempting figure wrapped in lace on our so-called wedding night. She’s all woman.
I have half a mind to tell her to leave everything, that the staff will clean it. But, if I do that, she’ll leave and either go to her room or to the studio, leaving me alone.
As she cleans, like a horny jerk, I watch her backside closely, perusing her curves, remembering those sexy-as-fuck globes in a thong. By the time she folds the cloth and hangs it below the cabinet, I’m uncomfortably hard.
“Goodnight.”
Her blonde waves swish with her pissed off steps as she departs for her bedroom.
I could’ve asked her to stay and talk, but what are we going to talk about? I can’t talk to her about my business. I know jack shit about art. What I know of her family, I can’t stand. I can’t breathe a word to her about mine. And around her my body falls completely out of line.
Beyond the glass walls, London twinkles with a deceptive purity and promise. A closer examination, if one hits street level, reveals the grit, the homeless, and the grind. But up here in the tower, from a distance, the night shines beautifully. Sure, the stars are few and far between, but who needs stars with a luminous horizon?
On the way to my bedroom, I pause at Willow’s open bedroom door. She’s closed the drapes, and she sits on the edge of her bed. There’s not much to do in here. There’s no television. It’s her forlorn expression that tears at me. It’s like stumbling on a grenade on base. Unexpected, but in this case, it shouldn’t be. This is a safe space, but it’s not a home—for either of us, it seems.
“What’s wrong?”
She startles, as if she hadn’t heard me approach. Maybe she didn’t. After all, she hasn’t been through awareness training.
“Nothing,” she answers.
I half chuckle. Yeah, that’s bullshit. I’ve got sisters to thank for being able to grasp that much.
I step into her room and pick up a framed photograph of Willow and Scarlet taken on a yacht with the Amalfi Coast as the backdrop. She’s younger in the photo, and her blue eyes sparkle.
“Do you find me attractive?”
I could not have heard that question correctly. I breathe deeply, set the photo down, and turn to face her. “What?”
“I find you attractive. I’m just curious?—”
“Willow.” I shove my hands in my pockets. “Where is this coming from?”
“Our arrangement is temporary, but it could last for months, even years, right?”
If I’m still in this role years from now, I’ll lose my mind. I might’ve already lost it.
“Right?” She wants an answer.
Tread carefully.
“Impossible to say.” I rock back on my heels, assessing her. She is a truly beautiful young woman. A delicate bone structure, high cheekbones, full, rosy lips, and bright blue trusting eyes, crowned with wavy golden strands and raven roots.
She’s an artist who simply wants to pursue her art and sidestep the destiny crafted by her heritage. The CIA didn’t tell me to help her. Doing so didn’t move me up any ladder or prove my skills to anyone. It doesn’t help my country or my family. Helping this young woman might be the one selfless thing I’ve done.
“Regardless of our age difference, we are married.” Her cheeks flush with what I take to be embarrassment. Thin straps cross her shoulders, holding up the flimsy cotton top that hugs her breasts and does nothing to conceal the shadowy silhouette of her nipples.
Proving I’m not a saint, my body reacts, my cock stiffening with desire like it always does when I take her in for too long. But she’s too young, and regardless of what she might think, we’re not married. Not legally. I didn’t use my real name, and soon enough, she’ll be a widow to the identity I used in the ceremony.
Entering her bedroom was a mistake. I step past her. It’s early, but I’ll go to bed. Or take a shower. Her big blue eyes shine with hope and maybe…lust?
“I’d have to be blind not to be attracted to you. You’re gorgeous. I want you, but that doesn’t make it right. Desire is not justification.” Nothing good can come from this . That’s what I want to say. Her expression is unreadable. Sloane, my middle sister, would rail at me right about now. Sage, my youngest sister, would never question me. And why am I thinking about my sisters? Willow’s younger than both of them and nothing like them. I need to put distance between us.
“Night, Willow.”
Back in my bedroom, I breathe with purpose to calm the fuck down. My dick throbs. And she’s a fucking kid. I’m a monster. That’s what this job has turned me into. I was supposed to stop the monsters, and yet I added to their numbers.
With careful steps, I enter the bathroom and flick on the shower. Steam billows, clouding the ceiling. I remove my shirt and let my jeans and briefs fall to the floor. I grip my erection and stroke up once, then twice.
I tighten my grip, close my eyes, and envision her. That white lace corset pushing her breasts into perfect pillows, the pale pink points of her nipples pushing against the fabric. The smooth lines of her ass that my fingers ache to touch. That slip of lace I’d give anything to slide to the side, to explore her folds with my finger, my mouth, my dick.
Jesus, I am one sick fuck. I remove my socks and step into the stream of water. I close my eyes and submit. Hot water flows from my crown, over my eyes, through my hair, over my body.
The vision that’s taunted me for weeks surrounds me. Willow in lace. I’ve given myself permission, I’ve opened the box, and she’s everywhere. My grip tightens up and down my shaft, teasing the tip. God, what I wouldn’t give to drag my tip through her wet folds, to tease her clit. To lift her breasts out of that corset and suck her nipple, to tease her mercilessly. Why the hell did I have to see her like that? My palm flattens against the marble, and my speed increases. I’m going to rub myself raw fighting this urge.
If I had touched her that night, if I had removed those lace panties, or slipped them to the side, would she have been wet? Does she feel this lust, too? Is that what she meant by attractive?
The shower door creaks, and I spin, arms out, ready to fight blind. Blinking away water, my stance spreads, seeking balance.
“I…”
It’s Willow, standing in the doorway of my shower. There’s no lace. No. She’s a vision. She’s not wearing anything at all.
Dizziness strikes first, and my palm flattens once again against the marble. I swipe my eyes, blinking to confirm she’s not a hallucination.
“What’re…” I can’t get the words out. A sharp intake of air doesn’t clear a damn thing up.
“Men have needs. That’s what I’ve always been told. And women have needs too. I would prefer that you come to me, instead of to other lovers. If you…”
Her gaze falls and I can only guess she’s taking in my protruding erection.
“Willow. You should leave.” My dick fucking weeps. I deserve sainthood. I force myself to turn back to the shower stream because, otherwise, I would stare at her perfect, svelte body with her pert breasts and wide, smooth hipbones and what I’d bet is a perfect fucking pussy, and my willpower would crumble. As it is, I have one more image to add to my spank bank.
One more temptation to deny myself.
My fingers itch to grip myself again, to jerk off a release, but I refrain, straining to hear the creak of the door. She’ll leave. I told her to leave.
Warmth covers my backside. Her warm body, skin on skin, presses from my ass up my back. Fingers lightly mix with water, tracing my ribcage, sucking out all the oxygen. Black and white dots mar my vision.
I blink back water, watching as long, graceful fingers travel down my abdomen. The light flickers on a narrow gold band. She reaches the base of my shaft, and then those fingers gently wrap around me.
All that is holy.
“What’re you doing?” I grit out as my hips involuntarily buck. Her grip tightens, and fuck if my knees don’t threaten to snap.
“I’m going to prove to you I’m not too young.”
She moves up and down with one hand, while her other flattens on my chest, holding me in place. Her soft breasts press against my back and her hips mold to my ass.
Jesus .
“Why?”
I have done nothing to bring this on. I’ve been good.
“Why not?” She strokes me, up and down. Her pressure is lighter than I like, lighter than I apply, but her touch still feels fucking amazing. The moment is more fever dream than real. “You’ve done me a favor. I want to return it.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” Of course, as I say the words, I’m watching her fingers on my dick and the nails on her other hand scratch my nipple.
“Maybe this is for me. You said I can’t have sex with other men. Is it so bad if I want sex? Or are women not supposed to enjoy sex?”
She did tell me she’s not a virgin. Jesus, I’m so fucking lightheaded. Steam clouds the ceiling, and water rivulets cascade down the walls.
She’s twenty-two. When I was twenty-two, I slept around. I spent my twenties dating sporadically. Going from bed to bed.
“I don’t have a condom.”
Her grip tightens, as do my balls.
“I have an IUD.”
Fuck, I want her.
My mind blanks. Why am I resisting?
“That’s what you want? Sex?” Her thumb circles the pooling pre-cum in a tempting, erotic rotation. I blink back the fog. “Meaningless sex? That’s what you want?”
“Yes.” The streaming water drowns out her answer, but I heard it, and the permission releases a dam.
I push off the wall, and she stumbles back. I fist her hair, angling her head. Her mouth opens slightly, and with hooded, tempting pools of blue, she gazes up at me. Her pale skin pinks from the hot water. I flick a thumb over her nipple and bend, allowing my fingers to roam her stomach, down to her glistening, pink folds masked by black, trimmed curls. I slip a finger inside, and my eyelids close in gratitude. She’s hot, wet, and ready.
“God, I’m a sinner.”
“We’re all sinners.” Twisted blonde strands veil her face as she shares her wisdom. Her gaze lifts from my finger and her pussy, the veil falls away, and those lust-filled baby blues are my ruin.
I crash my mouth over hers, brutally claiming her lips, her tongue. She tastes like heaven.
My dick presses into her belly, and my balls tighten. Christ .
I break away and take in her swollen, ruby lips as my chest heaves.
I spin her around and place her hands on the wall, palms flat, fingers spread.
“Keep them there.”
She looks over her shoulder at me, hair soaked and darker with hot water, a smear of mascara tainting her angelic face.
“This is what you want?”
She nods. Maybe she speaks. The shower roars. Too loud to hear, to think.
“Spread your legs.”
She does as I command. I drag my tip between her ass cheeks and bend my knees for a lower swipe.
“Flatten your back. Stick out your ass.”
She does as commanded, and her movement shifts my tip to where I need to be. I grip her hips and surge forward. She’s tight, wet, hot velvet.
“Oh, fuck, you feel good.”
I slam into her, over and over. She feels better wrapped around my cock than I ever fucking imagined.
My balls tighten. Same with my lower back. I force myself to slow and reach around, searching for those dark curls, for her mound, for her clit. My fingers circle and pulse. The position is awkward, and I’m not as deep as I want to be, but her walls clench around me and she moans.
“That’s it,” I tell her. “How do you like it? Soft like this? Firm pressure? Or do you like it like a hammer?” I piston my fingers and she moans, pushing against me, her pussy tightening around me in a vice.
Guess she answered me. I still behind her, reveling as her body comes undone. Her knees give, and I pull out and lift her.
“Wrap your legs around me.” Her eyelids flutter, and I lift her higher so her thighs hug my hips. She tilts her head back, and for some ungodly reason, my lips find hers again.
Bad decision.
It’s too much. Too intimate.
I stumble until her back flattens against the wall of the shower.
I shouldn’t.
The thought flees. I kiss her like a man possessed. Plundering her sweet mouth, savoring honey and mint and vice. Her nails scratch my back and the nape of my neck.
I break our kiss, needing oxygen, and needing more. “Hold on.”
Her arms rise over my shoulders, and she presses down as her legs dig into my hips. With one hand on her ass, and one on my dick, I find her entrance and slide back into her heat.
“Jesus.” It’s all I can say in this heaven.
My muscles strain as I lift her and position her just right on the wall. Her tight channel grips me, so fucking right. Water cascades around us as I pound into her. She convulses around me, milking me for all I’m worth, and I explode, pulsing so hard inside her my legs weaken and I stumble to the ground.
We crash in a tangle of limbs on the floor of the shower. I rest my back against the shower wall, settling her against me, and press a kiss to the top of her head. My hand wraps around her front, and I fondle her breast. I daydreamed about tasting these breasts, and I didn’t even touch them.
She bends her neck, looking up at me, and I press my lips over hers. She smiles, and her fingers tenderly trace my jaw. “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I laugh. A full-throttled laugh. I don’t know where it’s coming from. Possibly I’ve been way too sexually frustrated, or possibly it’s the ludicrousness of the situation. Me, on the floor of the shower with my twenty-two-year-old fake bride.
I help her off the floor, turn off the shower, and reach for a towel to wrap around her.
“This shower has two showerheads,” I muse. “We could’ve used both of them, I guess.”
“We only needed one.” The coy smile playing across her lips is one that says she won. She turns to leave, but I grab her waist, spin her around, pop her ass playfully, and smack my lips against hers.
“Go to bed,” I tell her.
She clutches the towel and bows her head, but I catch the self-satisfied smile. She steps past the bed, as if she’s leaving my bedroom, and in a flash, I’m in the doorway. “My bed.”
It’s wrong of me. So wrong. But she is the one who entered my shower. And now that we’ve done that once, we’ll definitely be doing it again. If not tonight, in the morning.
If you’re headed to hell, you might as well enjoy the ride.