Chapter Seven #2
The face I turn away to look out the window because his dig lands harder than it should and I frantically hide the sting. ‘I’m not here to write a story, Ashon. I’m here because we made a deal.’ And, oh yes, the reminder is as much for him as for me.
His fingers tap idly on his thigh. ‘Right. The land. The legacy. The baby.’
There’s something in his voice, sharp and clipped.
‘Why do you say it like that?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like it’s all just…business.’
His jaw flexes. ‘Isn’t it what you’re at pains to remind me at every turn?’
My mouth goes dry. The helicopter dips slightly in altitude, the sun cutting a halo around his remote profile.
We land and he walks me, courteous as ever, into the villa. ‘I need to touch base with Renée and with Theo about the blueprints for the studio. I might be a while. I’ll have dinner organised for you. Goodnight, Cilla,’ he says.
And just like that, before I can snap that I can organise my own dinner, thanks, he’s gone.
And in the silence, I listen to my heart, just like the thoughts I dared to entertain, lurching into spaces it shouldn’t.
Surprise, surprise, I don’t sleep. And yes, I’m fully aware it’s probably my own fault.
It’d be easy to blame it on pregnancy and the almost non-existent morning sickness. But I can’t stoop to that level of disingenuousness. My hand glides over my belly, which is beginning to harden just a little bit, but I don’t…can’t think about my baby.
Not when my mind is consumed by Ashon.
I don’t know what hurts more, his distance or my longing.
The villa is quiet, too quiet, the kind of stillness that amplifies your thoughts until they’re too loud to ignore. I’ve already tried reading. Pacing.
Even a bath with the fancy salts Renée packed.
Nothing works. My body hums with unshed tension, but it’s not just that.
I’m haunted by the feel of Ashon’s hands, the sound of his voice when he lets the mask slip.
I’m haunted by possibilities and hidden desires that feel a little less hidden with each passing moment.
A little fed up with my insomnia and a lot fed up with myself, I sit up.
Pad barefoot to the small writing desk by the window.
After a moment’s hesitation, I pull open the journal I’ve kept since that morning after.
I’m not even sure why I picked up the teenage habit I abandoned a long time ago, but I’m not ashamed to say it helped through those first days.
I flip through pages of observations, lies I’ve told myself, dreams I’ve buried, grievances I’ve inked and circled like my own personal dartboard.
Then, without fully thinking, I flip to a fresh page and I write: What if I’m not pretending any more?
The stark, heart-pounding words terrify me enough that I snap the book shut, rush across the room, towards the bed as if it wasn’t the lonely sanctuary I fled from minutes ago.
But the thought of more tossing and turning makes me veer away from it. I hate that I half-wish Ashon is lingering in the hallways.
But he’s not.
Only moonlight and silence greets me, the floors cool beneath my bare feet. I wander and eventually, I find myself in the cinema room.
It’s luxurious, of course, like everything else in this spectacular place—velvet recliners, surround sound, a screen that could rival any theatre.
I stop long enough to snag a small box of sweets, then sink into a seat, remote in hand, and start flicking through channels like I don’t have a motive.
But I do. One that’s been teasing the back of my mind since this afternoon.
Ten minutes in, I’ve given up the charade.
Ashon’s second film, Fracture Point, plays on the screen fast-forwarded to the fifty-fifth minute.
It’s a quiet scene, one of my favourites.
His character sitting alone on a rooftop, talking about fathers and failure.
It’s raw, magnetic. He’s barely acting. Even then, he was carrying the weight of legacy.
‘I always wondered if that rooftop monologue was scripted,’ I murmur aloud.
A voice answers from the dark. ‘It wasn’t.’
I start and several pieces of wine gums go flying. The same way my heartbeat is.
Spinning around, I see Ashon leaning against the doorway, arms folded, wearing only low-slung lounge pants and a sardonic smile. ‘I wondered how long it would take for you to cave and watch me.’
‘I wasn’t watching you,’ I lie because I’m weak but not stupid. ‘I’m watching something you made.’
He steps into the room and the light from the screen bathes his masculine beauty. ‘Same difference, wife. So what, then? Academic curiosity? Artistic appreciation?’ he drawls, eyes gleaming.
My fingers tighten around the remote and I summon my most haughty expression. ‘I was channel surfing.’
He laughs, low and disbelieving. ‘Sure you were.’
I don’t move as he approaches, don’t even pretend to look away. I’m not sure I could. ‘It’s a good movie. Your actor is exceptional in it.’
‘I know.’ He stops in front of me, blocking out the heartthrob on the screen. For a wild moment, I wonder if that’s why he’s positioned himself this way. My senses leap far too wildly at that thought. ‘But that’s not why you’re watching it tonight, is it?’
I don’t answer. The way my instinct is flailing tells me I don’t need to. Ashon Biney is clever. Wildly intuitive. And I sense that scrambling for other excuses will only dig my hole deeper.
His hand cups my jaw, thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. My skin tightens in anticipation. My breath snags.
‘You keep finding new ways to haunt me,’ he murmurs, half-contemplative, half-disgruntled. Wholly fascinating in its exposition. ‘In quite unique and unexpected ways.’
‘And? Are you going to pretend you don’t like it?’
‘No, my sweet wife, I like to leave the pretence on the screen.’ A tight smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘And for my grandfather.’
‘So what are you saying? That this…’ I make a vague gesture at the hand holding me captive, ‘Is something that intrigues you?’
‘Oh yes, enough to drive me from my bed. Enough to want to dig deeper, discover why you have this…’ He pauses and his jaw ripples with tension.
‘Go on, say it. Don’t be shy.’
Again a smile that is crashed out by intense speculation long before it reaches his eyes. ‘Do you know how many I’ve told about my father? About this place and what it means?’
I open my mouth but the words dry up when his gaze drops to it, his eyes igniting into a blaze.
‘Very, very few. And those people I trust.’
I fight the hurt tightening like a vice around my chest. ‘And you don’t trust me.’
‘When we keep circling each other like gladiators in a blood-stained arena?’ His voice is rough-edged with something compulsive. And that introspection deepens until I want to squirm. ‘Most would think me a fool if I did.’
‘I don’t care about other people,’ I blurt before I can stop myself. ‘What do you think?’
He stiffens, then his nostrils flare. ‘Like I said, I’m in no hurry to race to the credits.’
‘Or you’re hedging, waiting for the hammer to fall?’
‘Do you blame me?’
‘Yes, I do. You might want to blame others for letting you down but shutting yourself off is a choice you made. So—’
‘Let’s find other uses for this sharp tongue, I think, wife,’ he cuts through me, then follows with a sound, half-growl, all animal, leaps from his throat.
I know what’s coming long before he lowers his head. The remote leaves my bruising grip a nanosecond before our mouths crash together, urgent and unapologetic.
His hands find my waist, pulling me into his lap as I straddle him in the recliner. I’m not wearing much, just my thong and one of the long nighties that formed my trousseau—the hem of which is shoved up to enable my thighs to frame his.
The feel of his bare chest beneath my palms makes my head spin.
We kiss like we’re starving. Like the walls we’ve built are paper-thin tonight.
His lips trail down my neck, my collarbone, until he’s got me gasping. I grind against him, chasing something I shouldn’t want this badly. He groans, hard and low as I rock on his steel-hard erection, moaning at the memories reeling through my brain and dying with the need to relive them.
After an age, Ashon shifts, sliding down, fingers hooking in my underwear. That primal, determined look, the one he wore on the yacht, is back in his face and I know he’s seconds away from calculating my downfall. From taking me apart with his magic hands and lips and teeth.
But no, not tonight. I falter a little when his fingers graze my clit, then suck in a composing breath and stop him. ‘Maybe it makes you feel manly to think you need to blow my mind all the time,’ I say, panting. ‘But I have something to give too.’
He goes still. Then slowly, he leans back into the armchair, eyes burning.
‘Oh yeah? Show me what you’ve got then.’ His voice is rough. A dare.
Nerves pinch me, a voice rumbling at the back of my mind with the need to know what the hell I’m thinking.
But I push it away, lower myself between his thighs, until my knees meet the plush carpet.
Sliding my hands into his waistband, I pause, raise an eyebrow.
He holds out for one second, two.
Then with a flash of curious vulnerability and a touch of helplessness that punches something into my chest, Ashon lifts up, his six-pack clenching so deliciously in the flickering light my mouth waters.
And I pull his loungers down.
His cock springs free and I can’t help it. I gasp. At his beauty. His girth. In fresh recollection of what delights this shaft brought me.
And because I’m at risk of tumbling back down that dangerous rabbit hole, I slide my hands up his taut thighs, lean in closer, let my mouth move with purpose.
He groans my name at the first taste, his fingers tangling in my hair, and for a moment, I feel powerful. Worshipped. Necessary.
I seize the moment, take control and work this man who so effortlessly consumes my hours and my life, into a frothing frenzy. I lick and suck and tease until grunts and groans turn to guttural pleas and spicy curses. Where a promise is tossed here and a hot, sexy threat is snarled at me.