Chapter Eleven
Spencer
Marama is, quite clearly, speechless. I blink.
What on earth came over me? I suppose I just need her to understand that it’s not because I don’t find her attractive.
It is absolutely the opposite of that. It’s almost agony being in her company and not being able to touch her.
But if she thinks she can seduce me into bed with her, she can think again.
She turns to her paints and tidies them up, gathering her wits, I think.
I watch her, my mischievous flare subsiding, to be replaced with a kind of resigned tiredness.
I’d half-hoped she might tell me I’m being an idiot and that it doesn’t matter what her father or anyone else thinks.
Deep down, I suppose I hoped she would try to talk me into it.
It’s ridiculous, because I have no intention of giving in.
But it would be nice to be wanted that much. To feel desired.
I’ve made my position clear several times now, though. I’ve spent years cultivating a persona that suggests I brook no arguments, and Marama—being a younger woman—is unlikely to be the first to stand up to me.
She finishes organizing her paints and wipes her hands on a cloth. I collect my coffee cup, and I’m about to get to my feet when she rises and comes over to stand in front of me.
My eyebrows rise as she bends forward and rests a hand on each arm of the chair. The bib of her dungarees and the top of her tee beneath it gape, and I have to fight not to look down her top, even though I think she wants me to.
“Right,” she says, “this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to stay. I’m going to cook us dinner. And then I’m going to finish the first draft of the painting. After I finish the painting… we’ll see what happens.”
“Nothing is going to happen.”
“We’ll see,” she repeats. In a low, husky tone, she says, “I know you want me.”
I can’t deny it because I’ve already told her I do, so I just lift an eyebrow.
She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue, her gaze dropping to my mouth.
Beneath the smell of pencils and paint is the aroma of her perfume, something deep and sensual, with amber and spice, making me think of exotic-sounding places like Samarkand and Marrakesh.
I can imagine how smooth and silky her flawless, light-brown skin would feel beneath my fingers.
How soft her lips would feel pressed against mine. How she would taste.
“I want you,” she whispers.
My heart bangs against my ribs. Her open admission is an incredible turn-on. How simple my needs are. I crave to be wanted. To be desired.
“Kiss me,” she says, her voice husky.
I tear my gaze from her mouth and lift it to hers. “No.”
“You’re going to,” she says, with complete confidence.
I look her in the eyes. “I won’t.”
“You will.”
My lips curve up. “I. Won’t.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “If you’re so sure, then why won’t you stay?”
I don’t have an answer to that. She’s right. If I’m so adamant that I can resist her, what’s the problem with staying?
The truth is that I’m not sure. She’s right—I do want her.
Right now, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my whole life.
I crave her. I want her young body pressed against mine; I want her under me, on top of me, dammit I don’t care where she is, I just want to be inside her.
And if I stay, it’s going to be like slow torture, and I’m just making things hard for myself.
But if I leave, I’m admitting I can’t resist her, and I’ve never backed down from a challenge.
And besides, I really fancy a steak.
“All right,” I say. “Medium rare?”
She smiles. “Medium rare. I make an amazing blue cheese sauce.” She straightens and holds out a hand. “Come on, old man, I’ll help you up.”
I snort, ignore her hand, and get up, and then we both laugh when my right knee cracks. “Ow,” I say, following her out of the studio and down the hallway. “Don’t mock the afflicted.”
She giggles and leads the way into the kitchen. “Sit there,” she instructs, pointing to the bar stools on the other side of the breakfast bar, “and you can entertain me while I cook.”
“You want me to juggle?”
“I meant talk to me.”
“I can do the blue cheese sauce if you like.”
She looks at me in surprise. “You cook?”
“I do. Don’t look so shocked.” I go over to the fridge and look in it. “Come on then, let’s get this show on the road.”
Marama puts some chips in the air fryer, and while they’re cooking she prepares two sirloin steaks, grinding some salt and pepper on them, and heating the pan until it’s piping hot.
I retrieve the ingredients for the sauce and start preparing them, making some beef stock, letting the cream stand for a bit, crumbling the blue cheese, and chopping some chives.
I lean against the counter and we chat while she fries the steaks, and then when she’s done she removes them and passes the pan to me.
I pour the stock in and scrape up the bits from the pan, add the cream and blue cheese, and stir it until it’s creamy.
Meanwhile, she puts a pack of frozen green beans, broccoli, and sugarsnap peas into the microwave and sets it heating.
She pours me a Sprite, then she chooses a bottle of red wine from Rangi’s wine stand and pours herself a glass.
I look at the bottle with amusement—it’s Babich’s flagship red, a dark, rich blend of Cabernet Sauvignon, Malbec, and Merlot that’s been aged for twenty-one years in French oak, and it’s called The Patriarch.
“Very funny,” I say when she smirks.
“You sure you don’t want a glass? It’s what you are, isn’t it? The male head of your family and business?”
I shrug. “The word seems tied to toxic masculinity now.”
She leans a hip on the counter and watches me stir the sauce. “What’s your view on equality?”
“I believe women are equal to men. I just think they’re better at ironing and doing the dishes.”
She laughs. “I hope you don’t say that to other women. They won’t know you don’t mean it.”
“Give me some credit. I wouldn’t say it to a stranger.”
“So you don’t consider me a stranger?”
“Of course not. I’ve known you since you were… what? Four?”
“Mm. Long time.”
I stir the sauce slowly. “I’m sorry about Connor.”
She sighs. “It was very hard at the time. Now, I’m kinda glad it didn’t work out. When you’re in something it’s tough to see what’s happening, isn’t it? Like looking at a jigsaw puzzle too close up. It’s only when you get some distance that you’re able to see the whole picture.”
“Yeah.”
The air fryer beeps, announcing that the chips are done.
She goes over and opens it, then tips the chunky chips onto two plates and adds the steak.
I bring the pan over and top the steaks with the blue cheese sauce, she adds the hot veggies, and then we carry the lot outside to the smaller circular table on the deck.
We take our seats, and Marama holds up her wine glass to me. “To whatever tonight brings.”
I give her a wry look and tap my glass to hers.
We cut into our steaks, which are plump and juicy and perfectly cooked, and chat about nothing as we crunch into the chips. We both enjoyed traveling, and we talk for a long time again about the places we’ve been and the people we’ve met.
My dinner finished, I stretch my legs out and rest my feet on the opposite chair, sipping my drink while Marama finishes her steak.
It’s quiet here, and it’s now nearly six p.m. The clocks went back this weekend, and the sun has almost completely disappeared beneath the horizon.
She’s lit a citronella candle to keep any insects away, and it flickers in the evening breeze.
It’s cooling down, and there’s more than a touch of autumn in the air. Joe must have cleared the lawn today, but already a few brown leaves litter the surface. Clouds are darkening the sky even more; I think it might rain.
“Talk to me about sex,” Marama says.
I look at her, eyebrows raised. She’s finished her dinner and is now curled up in her chair, facing me, resting her head on a hand, her glass almost empty.
“No,” I say, amused.
“Tell me what you like,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken. Her eyes glow in the dusky twilight.
I just tip my head and give her a sarcastic look.
“I know you like being in charge,” she says. “I expect you prefer to direct the action.” She sips her wine, then brushes a drop from her bottom lip. “Do you ever give up control?”
“No.”
“Not even in bed?”
Unbidden, I remember a conversation I had with Genevieve on the night where she tried to seduce me.
She’d had several drinks, and the conversation was enjoyable up to the point where she obviously decided it was time to make a move.
She asked me if I’d ever fantasized about submitting to a woman, and started becoming quite aggressive in her sexual suggestions, naming several things she’d like to do to me that I found distasteful, if not alarming.
I feel a spike of dislike. “No. My pleasure is… not irrelevant, exactly, but secondary to the woman’s.
I enjoy giving sexual pleasure more than receiving.
I have no interest in just lying there and letting the woman do all the work.
” She finishes off her wine, then studies the glass thoughtfully.
Something occurs to me. “Have you dated anyone else since you broke up with Connor?”
She shakes her head.
That makes me frown. “So you haven’t had sex for a year?”
“Nope.” Her eyes dance. “Me and Mr Buzzington have formed a firm friendship.”
Heat rises inside me. “Glad to hear you have help in that department.”
She shrugs. “It’s not the same as a man’s warm tongue, but it does the job.”
Our eyes meet. This is dangerous territory. No Man’s Land lies between us—a minefield with barbed wire and No Entry signs plastered all over it.
But now all I can think about is Marama with her legs wide, head tipped back, moaning as she pleasures herself with her vibrator, and I have a hard-on that feels as if it might break through the stitching on my trousers.