Chapter Ten
Gareth
Meanwhile, I was staring at the seam where the ceiling met the wall, and trying not to think about the taste of her, the clutch of her thighs, the tremble that ran up her spine just before she broke.
I wanted to know if she was dreaming of me, of our time together, because I knew it wasn’t leaving my mind any time soon. And I’d had to get up, or I knew I’d wake her with the same needs we’d fallen asleep in the aftermath of last night.
So I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake her, I showered, scalding hot, but her scent still lingered.
I put on a suit, charcoal, crisp, clean, and glared at my own reflection.
The man staring back was pale, hollow-eyed, and looked like he’d spent the night wrestling with wants and needs without resolution.
And I knew why, not that I wanted to admit it one bit. I wanted her until I could get her out of my system. It was a dangerous line of thinking, but it was the truth. I left her a note to join me for breakfast.
At 7:00, I sat down with coffee. The breakfast nook was an architectural afterthought, one narrow floor to ceiling window, two chairs, a marble bistro table, and a built-in bench just wide enough for a cushion.
Most mornings I ate in my office, but today I wanted company.
Hers. I wished I’d asked her to come early, but I wanted her to get good rest after our nocturnal activities.
No Maribel, no staff, no gossip. Just black coffee for now.
When she joined me, I’d have a hard-boiled egg, and a hangover that had nothing to do with drinking. No, it was all because of her.
I glanced at the time. 9:04.
And she came in, a soft smile on her face, fresh clothing in place, hair giving an illusion of being tamed.
I watched her as she took a seat at the window bench seat. She looked beautiful, a small amount of makeup just accentuating her features, and she glowed with the kind of post-orgasmic clarity you could bottle and sell for a fortune.
“Morning,” she said, as if last night hadn’t happened. As if we hadn’t spent three hours tangled up in one another as I mapped every inch of her with tongue and teeth, memorizing the taste of her until I was drunk on it.
“Morning,” I replied. My voice was shredded. I sat across from her, hands folded tight, and forced my attention to the coffee.
She tucked into the space like she’d been born to it. “Did you sleep?” she asked, and the tilt of her head, mocking, soft, made it clear she already knew the answer.
“Not much.” I gripped the cup, internally demanding myself to keep calm and unflappable, like I was supposed to be. “You?”
She smiled, and something hot flashed in my gut.
“Like a baby. Out cold before I could even change into pajamas.” The way she said it, like she hadn’t passed out with me, sleeping so adorably I couldn’t imagine a night without her now, and heat surged through me with a white-hot need that demanded to be acknowledged.
Seemingly unaffected, she bit into a croissant Maribel had left a basket of in the middle of the table, forgoing jam or anything else, flakes scattering.
“Maribel thinks you’re mad this morning.
She thinks she’s being punished for some coffee incident.
” She was too flippant, too calm, too unaffected by our night together.
Nothing short of a medal for her acting skills was appropriate.
Or was she truly unbothered? Perhaps she was used to these kinds of relationships, flings that meant nothing to her and then back to life as normal.
Somehow, I seriously doubted that. Her movements last night were full of surprise. I wouldn’t be shocked to learn I was the first to make her orgasm judging by her wild eyes and unrestrained thrashing.
I frowned. “I don’t punish people for honest mistakes.”
She didn’t bother hiding the smile. “You punish them for the dishonest ones?”
I bristled. “I expect discipline.”
“Of course,” she said, but her tone was syrupy, and the heat rose in my face. I looked away, furious with myself for letting her rattle me.
There was a pause. She picked up a blueberry with her fingers, rolling it between thumb and forefinger. “You know, you don’t have to pretend nothing happened.”
I jerked my gaze back to her. “Nothing did happen.”
She held the berry aloft, looking at me past it, and grinned. “Liar.”
I slammed my hand on the table before I could stop myself. The sound rang out, sharp, and the silverware jumped. She didn’t flinch, but she did set the blueberry down.
“Sorry,” I said, though the word tasted like poison.
She leaned in, forearms on the marble, and lowered her voice. “If you want to talk about it, we can. If you want to pretend it didn’t happen, that’s fine, too. But maybe don’t break your own furniture in the process.”
I ground my teeth. “You’re very…collected, this morning.”
She popped the berry in her mouth, chewed slow. “Shouldn’t I be?”
I tried to come up with a reason. Something rational, adult, aboveboard. “You don’t find this-” I gestured between us, helpless “-complicated?”
She thought about it, her delicate throat flexing as she swallowed. The motion, the thought, had me shifting in place and discreetly palming my hard cock. “It’s as complicated as you want it to be.”
I wanted to throttle her. Or fuck her on the table. Or both. “I want it to be simple,” I said. “I want things to go back to normal.”
She studied me, eyes bright and intent. “Define normal.”
I opened my mouth, but the word didn’t exist. There was no “normal” with her. From the first second, she’d derailed every plan, every protocol, every certainty I’d ever trusted. I could no longer imagine a single day without her voice ricocheting off the inside of my skull.
Taking deep breath, I clenched my hands under the table.
I could still feel the outline of her hips in my fingers.
The pulse at her throat when I’d bitten the sensitive skin there, marking her.
The exact pitch of her moan when she’d finally, finally let go and let me see her come undone, surrendering to me, giving her all and taking what I offered.
She leaned back, stretching. The turtleneck rode up, exposing a sliver of midriff, pale and soft and utterly, stupidly distracting.
My voice was low, hoarse. “You don’t regret it?”
She blinked, then smiled. “God, no. Do you?”
I nearly laughed, the question was so absurd. “I regret nothing.”
She poured herself more coffee, the motion lazy, unconcerned. “Then why do you look like you’re about to be executed?”
I gripped the edge of the table. “Because I don’t do this. I don’t let people in.”
She sobered, just a little. “It’s not a crime to want someone.”
“I don’t want,” I said, too fast, too harsh. “I need.”
She swallowed, slow, letting it settle. “You can have me, you know.”
The words hit with physical force.
I looked up, met her eyes. They were steady, unblinking, completely without fear.
No one had ever said something like that to me. Nobody offered a full surrender, though I knew she wasn’t the type to surrender. Maybe in bed, but in life, we’d be pretty evenly matched in most things.
I studied her. For a second, I thought I might reach across the table, drag her into my lap, and devour her in front of anyone who might walk by, rules or not. The only thing that stopped me was the memory of her voice last night, the way she’d begged, the way she’d said my name like a secret.
I shuddered.
She held out a crescent, as if to make peace. “Eat something,” she said. “You’re going to faint.”
I took the perfectly-baked pastry, hating her, loving her, all at once. My hands shook.
We ate in silence for a minute, the tension morphing into something almost companionable.
I watched her lick the jam she’d added as an afterthought to her pastry from her thumb, watched the way she chewed, the way her hair caught the sunlight.
I memorized every detail, because I knew I’d be replaying it for the rest of my life.
She finished her meal and wiped her mouth on a linen napkin, then stood.
“Where are you going?” I asked, an unfamiliar panic spiking in my chest.
She glanced at the clock. “I have work to do, Mr. Wolfe.” She stretched, and grinned at me over her shoulder. “I’ll see you soon?”
I nodded, mute.
She left, her flats silent on the tile, and I sat there for a long time, staring at the place where she’d been. My hands were fists. My breath came short.
I was ruined. I was lost. I was utterly, hopelessly hers.
And that scared the ever living shit out of me.
Help me understand.
I stared at Eden’s text, unsure how to respond. But I knew. I knew what to do, but I didn’t know if I could.
Join me outside your bedroom in ten. I was making a huge mistake, but some part of me trusted her, and whispered to the rest of me to just trust her.
And she met me there, eyes wide, breath catching as she studied me and continued talking from the texts she’d sent.
"Tell me something real," she said. "About you. About your family. The stuff you don't put in annual reports."
I almost laughed. "I don't think you want to know."
She grinned. "Try me."
I hesitated, but something in her expression, defiant, sure, made it impossible to refuse. "Fine," I said. "Follow me."
We climbed the main stairs, up past the bedrooms, up past the short-term staff member’s quarters, to the third floor, where the house thinned and the ceilings pressed in.
At the end of the hall was a locked door no one used, paint chipped and hinges rusted.
I fished the key from my pocket and handed it to her.
She turned it, the lock shuddering open, and we stepped into a world draped with dust and cobwebs.