5. Christian
CHRISTIAN
LA, December, 3 Years Ago
W here are we going?”
“You are going to bed.”
Mila giggles, stumbling along beside me like a baby deer walking for the first time. It’s cute, the way she grabs onto my arm to steady herself.
Oddly enough, I’ve never found anything cute a day in my fucking life.
“I’m fine,” she argues, right before she trips in her ridiculous heels and falls to her ass on the marble floor.
She gawks up at me as if I’d pushed her, and a laugh passes my lips.
Luckily, her mother is just as drunk as she is. I can only imagine the hell she’d raise if she knew I’d let her daughter get sloshed at the Christmas gala that we were all forced to attend for Parker’s social status.
“Still haven’t gotten your sea legs, I see.” I reach down and slide my arms under her. I lift her and hold her against my chest, carrying her down the hall towards her bedroom.
Carrying her inside, I kick the door shut behind us and move to the bathroom, sitting her on her feet by the sink and pinning her to it with my body. She sways, her eyes hazy and unfocused, while I slip off her heels.
“I’m surprised you left these on all night,” I murmur, tossing them to the floor behind us. In the three years I’ve been working for Parker, chasing after his three stepdaughters, I’ve seen Mila barefoot more than I’ve seen her in shoes. The heels left her feet red in spots, and I massage the skin absentmindedly. She lets out a quiet moan, and I pause, the sound going straight to my cock.
That’s new.
Then, she tugs her foot away, snickering because she’s ticklish.
“Take these,” I place two painkillers in her palm and hand her a bottle of water. “All of it,” I tell her when she tries to put the half-full bottle back down.
While she drinks, I grab a washcloth from the cabinet by the sink, wetting it with warm water before I start to work on the makeup on her skin. Her mascara and eyeliner have melted under her eyes, and her lipstick is long gone, save for the slight pink hue on her lips. Her hair, once straight, is starting to curl around her face, and I’m glad. I don’t know why, but I’ve always liked the wild, unruly blonde curls.
“How the fuck do you get this shit off?” I grumble, and she laughs when the makeup just smears like fucking molasses. Why do women bother with this shit? “Industrial cleaner?”
I laugh with her because I can’t help myself and know she won’t remember this in the morning. I’ve never done this shit before, but I know enough that sending her to bed with a face full of makeup is a woman’s nightmare. I’ve also never put Mila to bed before, but there’s a first time for every obsession.
“Makeup remover,” she slurs, her heavy gray eyes opening to meet mine.
Fuck, those eyes . . .
All the while I’m cleaning her up, her hands are sliding up my button-up, over the ridges of my abs, before slipping higher. My cock protests when I continue to ignore it and gently pull her hand away.
“Mila,” I warn, and she lets out a breathy sound close to a hum.
That’s also new.
“Christian,” she breathes, blinking up at me, and the air between us hums. She tugs at my hand, but I hold her wrist in mine, refusing to let her go.
She’s just drunk and horny. She doesn’t know what the fuck she’s doing. I mean, this is Mila. Young and innocent. Sweet with her soft heart and even softer soul.
In an act of defiance, she stands up on her tiptoes, pressing her lips to mine, and a deep groan rumbles up my chest.
Fucking hell.
Why the fuck did I decide I needed to take care of her tonight?
“Why won’t you kiss me?” she asks, falling back with a frown. My cock is so fucking hard it hurts, pressing against the zipper of my slacks.
The asshole in me says to do it. Kiss her back and let her have what she wants. The idiotic gentleman in my head tells me to do what I came here to do. Stick to the plan.
Unfortunately, the plan doesn’t involve little twenty-one-year-old Mila Carpenter.
“Because you are way too drunk, and I am way too old for you.”
“I’m twenty-one,” she argues, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. Despite everything in my head telling me to get the fuck out, my hand has other ideas, lifting to tug her bottom lip from between her teeth.
So fucking soft.
“I’m twenty-eight.”
She rolls her eyes, tugging from my grasp.
Roll your eyes again, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you don’t stop.
“You know what I think?” she asks when I reach for her hairbrush.
“I’d love to hear it,” I murmur sarcastically.
Really, the only thing on my mind right now is the thought of burying my face between her thighs until they tighten around my head, and she’s screaming my name, but I ignore it.
“I think you’re afraid to care about people,” she mumbles, her eyes holding a challenge.
I know what she’s doing. Egging me on. It’s working, but I won’t act on it. Not with her. I mean, this is Mila, for Christ’s sake. She’s too sweet. Too innocent for a man like me. She hasn’t experienced the world and all it has to offer yet.
But fuck if the idea isn’t there, taking hold like poison ivy on a fallen log.
“You care more than you like to let on. I think you’re just afraid to get too close to me,” she continues, and the little thread holding my patience snaps.
Sinking forward, I press the front of my body against hers, my hands on the counter on either side of her, my cock digging into her stomach. I lean into her, my lips hovering over hers, but I don’t kiss her. When she leans up, attempting to close the distance between us, I back up, just out of her reach.
“Is this close enough for you, little devil?”
Her cheeks flame, and her tongue darts out to lick her lips. All the while, I can’t help but wonder what she tastes like. Will she taste just as sweet as she smells? Like vanilla and honey and everything that makes me want to ruin her?
And then she shocks the hell out of me.
“No,” she breathes, her back arching against the counter behind her.
I search her gaze, giving myself an out before I allow the thoughts swarming in my head to go too far. She’s always been the unobtainable. Perfect for me in every way.
And that’s precisely why I can’t fucking have her.
I’ll ruin her. Steal the light from her eyes and replace it with my darkness. Until all she can feel is me. Until she’s as deep in this obsession as I am.
“Time for bed.”
I stoop down, lifting her back into my arms. I need her in bed where the scent of her perfume and those pretty gray eyes aren’t fucking with my head.
She huffs, her eyes fluttering closed and her head leaning against my chest. I place her on her bed, reaching behind her for the zipper of her dress. I unzip it, pull it up to her waist, and slip it over her head, ignoring the fact that she’s got nothing on but a black lacy thong and bra underneath.
This is about taking care of her. Something I’ve done half a dozen times in the last three years. Nothing else.
I lift her, placing her under the covers while she clenches her eyes shut at the head rush. I pull the covers up over her, and I’m about to walk away when her hand reaches out to catch mine. I turn around, finding her smokey eyes running over the bruises still healing on my knuckles.
She doesn’t know what they’re from, and she probably never will. Not if I have a say in it.
She’ll never be a part of that life. Never.
“Thank you for taking care of me,” she whispers.
Her words catch me off guard, and I freeze. She blinks like she can see multiple of me when I lean down, pressing my lips to her forehead.
Vanilla and honey.
Fuck me.
She won’t remember this in the morning. Unfortunately, I will, and now that the thought’s there, I have a feeling it’ll never leave.
Looking back, I don’t think I understood, even at the time, the impact that moment would have on the rest of my fucking life.
Standing from the bed, I cross to the bedroom door before turning back to find her eyes shut and breathing soft.
“Sweet dreams, little devil.”