Chapter Thirteen
Spencer
Marama’s hands glide over my skin as she washes the paint off, and then she offers me the shower gel. I pour some onto my palm and proceed to do the same to her, removing the splodges of color.
She watches me while I do it, her gaze steady. I keep my expression calm, even though inside my heart is racing.
Fuck, what have I done? All I can think of is Rangi’s warning, You touch her… I’ll break your fucking legs . I’m not physically scared. I’m confident I could take Rangi in a fight. But the thought that I’m considering taking him on is scaring me.
I’ve gone mad. I think I’ve actually gone insane.
I could have any woman I wanted, pretty much.
I know that sounds arrogant, but it’s nothing to do with my looks or personality—it’s no surprise that most people are attracted to vast wealth and confidence.
So why have I just fucked my business partner’s daughter on the table?
I didn’t even have the decency to take her to bed.
But even as the thought enters my head, I frown.
That’s not how it was, and I refuse to use that terminology.
I didn’t get carried away. I wasn’t led by my dick.
I knew perfectly well what I was doing. And the truth was that her warmth and desire, and her declaration of I need you…
I want you inside me… totally unraveled me.
Mine , she wrote on my chest. I can still feel it, and I glance down, wondering if my skin is reacting to the paint, but it’s not red. I think it’s just the memory of the possessiveness of it, and the way she demanded that I tell her I was hers.
She slides her arms around my waist again and cuddles up to me, and I wrap my arms around her, and we stand there beneath the stream of hot water, just enjoying being close.
“Will you stay?” she whispers.
I kiss the top of her head. “I have to make sure my car’s gone by the time Joe and the others arrive in the morning.”
“I understand. But just for a while.”
“Of course.”
She moves back and gives me a shy smile, then turns off the shower.
We go out, and when she picks up one of the big fluffy towels, I take it from her and proceed to dry her, taking my time to mop up the drips from her damp skin.
She does the same to me, and then she takes my hand and leads me into the bedroom.
It’s decorated like any spare room, in neutral shades of green and lavender, so I imagine that Huia had it repainted after Marama left home, but it still bears the remnants of her girlhood—a bright purple jewelry box on the chest of drawers; a painting on the wall of a Māori goddess that was probably done in her younger days; her poi—which are balls made from flax attached to cords that are swung to create patterns during traditional dances; and, on the shelves, a variety of school trophies.
I glance at them, but Marama obviously doesn’t think about the connotations of displaying her youth, and she takes me over to the bed.
She pulls the duvet back, and we climb onto the mattress and bring the duvet back over us. I lie back on the pillows, and she cuddles up to me.
“Thank you,” she says. “I didn’t expect this.”
She thought I’d get dressed and say I have to leave. I probably should have. I should bring an end to this and walk away as fast as I can.
But Marama is soft, and she smells amazing, and I want to wring every last drop of pleasure out of this encounter before I move on.
So I turn to face her and wrap my arms tightly around her, until our legs are tangled and we’re pressed together from our chests all the way to our thighs. She lifts her face to look up at me, and I kiss her slowly, leisurely, just enjoying the softness of her lips.
“Thank you,” she whispers, during a brief respite in the kissing.
I kiss her nose. “For what?”
“For not turning me down.”
I kiss her eyebrows. “I was powerless to resist.”
“I would think there aren’t many men who would say no when a woman sits naked before them and offers herself to them on a plate.”
I kiss back down her nose. “That wasn’t the reason.”
“What do you mean?”
I taste her lips again. “You’re beautiful. Stunning. I love your vivaciousness. Your spirit. But if I’m honest, it was the way you wanted me that made me cave.”
She lifts up on an elbow so she can look at me. “Really?” She draws a finger across my forehead. “She really did a number on you, didn’t she?”
“You mean Genevieve?”
“No. Your wife.”
I don’t say anything, but she’s right of course. I still feel disloyal saying anything against Eleanor. She bore me two children, and she was a good life partner in many ways. But I’m only just beginning to realize what an effect her emotional coldness had on me.
She lays her head on my shoulder again, and we lie there in the semi-darkness, our hands moving slowly across each other’s bodies, gently stroking.
I brush my fingers down her back and kiss the top of her head. “This can’t happen again. You know that, right?”
She trails her fingers through my chest hair, and doesn’t reply.
“Marama,” I scold.
“I could come to your house,” she says. “Nobody would know.”
“I’d know. We couldn’t risk it.”
She turns her head and rests her chin on my chest, looking up at me with mischief in her eyes. “Don’t you think it would be fun?”
My lips curve up. “I’m sure it would be amazing. But we can’t.”
“I could stay over. Then you could play with me all night.”
Fuck. I’m getting hard again. Once, I could explain as getting carried away; a second time I’d have no such excuse.
“Stop it,” I scold, pushing her away and sitting up. “It’s not going to happen.”
“You want to tell your cock that? I don’t think it got the memo.”
I throw her a glare, rise and pick up my underwear and trousers, and go into the bathroom. I grit my teeth and pace up and down until my erection has gone, then pull on my boxer-briefs and trousers.
When I come back out, she’s pulled on her knickers and T-shirt, and she’s sitting cross-legged on the bed.
“I have to go,” I tell her, pulling on my shirt.
“I know.” She rises onto her knees, shuffles forward, and beckons to me. I hesitate, then stand at the edge of the bed, and she does up my buttons.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
She gets to the bottom of the shirt and brushes a crease away. “I understand. I enjoyed it, that’s all.” She lifts her gaze to mine. “And I want you again.”
I suppress a shiver. “Don’t.”
“I can’t help it.” She studies my mouth. “There’s so much we didn’t get to do.”
I close my eyes. “Marama…”
“I want you in other positions.” She strokes down over my chest, brushing my nipples, and moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I want to taste you.”
Jesus. I pick up my wallet and walk out of the room.
She catches up with me as I reach the front door. “Aren’t you going to say goodbye?”
I stop and turn to her. She stands there, looking young and hot in just her tee and knickers, her hair rumpled, her cheeks flushed.
Her eyes are filled with hot desire, and I have no doubt that if I kiss her now, she’ll be able to persuade me to start all over again, even though I came only twenty minutes ago.
“I have to go,” I tell her.
“Aw.” She looks so disappointed.
I can’t help myself. I walk up to her, cup her face with my hands, and look into her eyes. “You’re like a siren,” I say huskily. “You drive me crazy.”
“I love the way you look at me,” she says. “The way you make me feel.”
I kiss her, just a press of my lips to hers. She sighs, her breath whispering across my skin.
“Please,” she whispers.
It would be so easy to kiss her senseless. To take her back into the bedroom and make love to her all night.
“I can’t,” I say, lowering my hands.
“I know. Your relationship with my father is important.”
I meet her eyes, which spark with resentment. She means ‘more important than me.’
It’s true that Joe starts early in the morning, and if he sees my car here, covered in morning dew, he’s going to know what happened.
He’s loyal to the family, and he might tell Rangi, and that would be the end of our friendship and business partnership.
But that’s not the only reason why I have to leave.
“Have you thought about your own reputation?” I ask.
Her expression turns wry. “My reputation? This isn’t the nineteenth century.”
“No. But even though you’re not a member of the Midnight Circle, you’re Rangi’s daughter. The Circle wouldn’t approve of us, and rumors spread quickly.”
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”
“Would you care if you were accused of sleeping your way into exhibitions or money? What would Genevieve say if she knew you were sleeping with the man she wanted you to ruin?”
She drops her gaze, and her cheeks flush. She didn’t realize that I’d guessed Genevieve’s ulterior motives.
I slide a hand beneath her chin and lift it so I can look into her eyes again.
“I don’t care what Genevieve does to me,” I say harshly, “but I do care about your reputation. She could tarnish your name as an artist and a Māori woman of integrity. This…” and I brush my thumb across her moko kauae , “is more than decoration. I understand that. And some people may claim you’re not honoring it by sleeping with me. You need to think about that.”
She blinks; that hadn’t entered her head.
“I’m thinking about you,” I tell her roughly.
She lifts her chin. “I can look after myself.”
That makes my lips curve up. “I know that.”
I brush my thumb over her bottom lip. Then I drop my hands, pick up my keys, shove my feet in my shoes, and leave the house.
It’s dark out. I stride across to my car, get in, and start the engine.
Glancing over at the house, I see Marama leaning against the door post, arms folded, forehead creased in a thoughtful frown.
We study each other for a moment, before my lips curve up, just a fraction. Hers match, again, just a fraction.
Then I put the car into Drive and head off along the driveway, back to my suite at the Midnight Club.
*