Chapter Thirteen
Pepper
I take back everything I said about Paris not being romantic.
I feel like I’m living in a fairy tale. Not only did Clay literally lose his breath at the sight of me in my new Dior cocktail dress, but he also hired a driver to take us to the Crazy Horse in a vintage Bentley. I was floating on cloud nine in the back of the ritzy car with this beautiful man who has been making my heart sing all day. Imagine my surprise when we pulled up to the venue and saw bright red, illuminated lips . It turns out we’re not seeing a Western show, but a cabaret featuring female nude dancers, and Clay knew exactly what the Crazy Horse was the entire day.
Needless to say, he got a kick out of seeing my shock.
It’s a good thing we had dinner before the show. It gave me time for the idea of watching a nude show to settle in. Although I was too nervous to eat much of the lavish meal, I did indulge in champagne to help calm my nerves. Our time together truly is an experience of firsts. I’ve never pictured myself watching nude dancers, but here I sit under dizzying lights, utterly mesmerized by the tantalizing cabaret of perfectly sculpted, long-legged women perched on sky-high heels, wearing nothing but red lipstick and a few straps of strategically placed leather, which covers absolutely nothing. The stunning dancers look identical, save for their vibrantly colored wigs.
“This is incredible,” I whisper to Clay, surprised by how much I’m enjoying the show.
“Yeah,” he says, a little clipped.
I glance over and see him rubbing his neck. I noticed him doing that during dinner, too. When I asked if he was okay, he said rubbing his neck is just a habit. But now his curt tone has me wondering if it’s more than that.
“Hey,” I whisper, bringing his eyes to mine. They’re a little stormy, and that worries me, too. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“ Yes . Just watching the show.” He flashes a wolfish grin and squeezes my hand. “I hope you’re taking notes, because I want a private show with the prettiest woman in here later.” As I try to work out whether he means me or one of the dancers, he says, “Stop overthinking. I’m talking about you.”
I swear he can read my mind.
We watch a number of performances with short magic shows in between each set while the dancers change from one alluring costume to another. Their current costumes consist of leather straps crisscrossing over their shoulders and ribs, leaving the rest of their bodies exposed. Thigh-high fishnets and mid-calf high-heeled boots finish off the scant outfits.
After an hour and a half of watching back-arching, body-baring, provocative dancing, I’m embarrassed by how turned on I am. Applause rings out at the end of the show, and as the lights come on, I notice Clay rubbing his temple, but his eyes brighten as he takes my hand and we follow the crowd out of the building.
When we’re safely in the Bentley, he says, “What did you think?”
His voice is tight, but I don’t ask if he’s okay. It’s obvious that he doesn’t want to talk about whatever is bothering him. “I thought it was fantastic. Those women were gorgeous, and so fit. They must practice all the time. Did you like it?”
“Yeah. It was good.” His brows are knitted, but he gives me a half smile and pulls me into a kiss. He threads his fingers into my hair, which I love, and in between kisses, he brushes his lips along my cheek, whispering, “I’m so glad you stayed.”
When we get up to his suite, I reach for the light switch, but he intercepts my hand, pulling me into his arms. “No lights.”
The discomfort in his voice is too harsh to ignore, and when I take a good look at his eyes, they’re shadowed with pain. “Clay, what’s going on?”
His hands slip down to my ass. “We’re about to have an unforgettable night.”
Knowing he’s pushing through whatever is causing him pain for me kills me. “The night has already been unforgettable. The whole day has been better than anything I could have dreamed of, but you’re obviously not okay, and that worries me. If you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong, that’s your prerogative, but if you’re trying to brave whatever this is for me, you don’t need to.”
“I’m fine ,” he insists.
I can see he’s not even close to fine, and that’s when a harsh and unwanted realization hits me. “If you’re trying to act fine just to keep your man card in place, you don’t have to worry. I’m not going to tell anyone you couldn’t perform.” It hurts to say it, but my rational brain refuses to ignore the truth anymore. This is a fling, and I need to keep that in mind.
He rubs the back of his neck, wincing as he grits out, “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think. I trusted you with all of myself, and I can see you’re hurting, but apparently you don’t trust me enough to be honest about it.”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you.” He pauses, the muscles in his jaw bunching. “It took me a long time to get you to give me the time of day. I just don’t want to let you down.”
“Let me down ?” I laugh incredulously. “How can you say that after the wonderful day we’ve had?”
“I don’t want you to go home unsatisfied and regret staying.”
“How can I possibly be unsatisfied when—” Understanding hits me like a brick. “You mean sexually ?” Ohmygod. What is wrong with men? “I’ve had more sex with you than I have had in the past year, and better sex than I’ve had in my entire life. I’m more than satisfied. But even if I weren’t, your well-being should come before my sexual satisfaction.” I soften my tone. “Please tell me what’s going on with you. I refuse to ignore it.”
“It’s just a migraine. I get them sometimes from my shoulder injury. I’ll take some Tylenol, and I’ll be good to go in no time.”
He heads into the bedroom, leaving me to stare after him in disbelief. Good to go in no time? Most migraines are not that friendly, and I have a feeling his has been building all day.
I grab a bottle of water from the mini fridge and find him in the bathroom, lights off. He’s leaning on the sink with one hand, rubbing his temple with the other. He straightens the second he notices me, grabs a bottle of Tylenol from his toiletries bag, and shakes a couple of pills into his hand.
“I brought you water.” I hand him the bottle.
“Thanks.” He takes the medicine. “I’ll be good to go soon.”
“Clay, you’re not on the field. Your fans aren’t watching.”
He manages to cock a brow. “Too bad. I was hoping you’d become a fan today.”
“I am, of you , but you don’t have to impress me with your virility. The lights at the show must have wreaked havoc with your head.”
“It was fine.”
“Why are you so stubborn? We’ve established that you’re not fine, and I’m just pointing out a fact. I wish you’d told me that you weren’t feeling well. We could’ve left early, or skipped it altogether.”
“I’d never disappoint you like that. It’s really not a big deal. I’ll be fine.” He slides an arm around me.
I’m touched by his efforts, but now that I’m looking for it, the tension in his face and body is inescapable. All I want is to take that pain away, and the way he’s acting makes me wonder if anyone has ever cut him a break and let him bring less than his A game. The thought of that makes my heart hurt.
“Let’s make a deal.” I put my hands on his chest and slide them up to his shoulders, rubbing gently. “You forget about having sex tonight and lie down, and I’ll take care of you.”
His brows knit. “That’s a sucky deal for you.”
“It’s a better deal than you know. It’s hands-on research. I’ve been working on a new pressure point device to alleviate migraines.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Yes, I have, and if you lie down, I’ll tell you about it.”
He gathers me in his arms, speaking low, the way people with migraines do when the pain becomes overwhelming. “Sex is not off the table, but I’m not about to turn down your hands on me.” He presses his lips to mine and gives my ass a squeeze. “How about we get this dress off.”
I move his hands from my butt to my waist. “Getting your blood pressure up isn’t going to help your migraine.”
“Touching you will help.”
“Clay…”
Several negotiations later, I convince him to lie down. I wash off my makeup, brush my teeth, and change into my silk sleeping pants and matching cami. He’s lying on the bed in his black boxer briefs when I come out of the bathroom carrying a bottle of lotion. His arm is draped over his eyes, the blanket and flat sheet bunched up at the foot of the bed. He has definitely awakened something carnal in me, because as I drink in his broad, muscular body, and the bulge between his thick thighs, a sexual hunger takes hold.
He’s lying so still, I’m pretty sure he’s fallen asleep, so I crawl carefully onto the bed, trying not to wake him.
He reaches for me, his eyelids heavy, his lips curving up despite the pain written all over his face. “Aren’t you a sexy sight for sore eyes?”
The strain in his voice underscores that pain, and the hunger I felt morphs into a bone-deep desire to ease his discomfort. I’ve never been a caretaker like Amber and Grace, who always seem to know exactly how to help people feel better. But it feels natural, as if I have always been one, as I run my fingers through his hair and say, “Thank you. How about you tell me where you hurt?”
He gives a half-hearted eyebrow waggle, his hand resting on my hip.
“I doubt that hurts. Come on. Let me help you.” I trail my fingers over his shoulder. “I know your neck and shoulders hurt, but tell me about the migraine. Is the pain in one area, like your temples? One side? Or…?”
“I don’t know. It hurts everywhere.”
My heart squeezes. “Okay. There are several pressure points that might help, but why don’t I try to ease some of the tension in your shoulders and neck first? Can you turn over?”
“Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?” he asks as he turns over, and I can see that even that motion is hurting him.
“It is a chore to touch you,” I tease, moving closer, tucking my legs beneath me. “But I guess I can deal with it.” I pour lotion into my hand, warming it between them, and begin massaging his shoulders. His muscles are so tight, I wonder how much of his pain is caused by the insurmountable pressure he’s under with his career. “Wow, you’re all knotted up.”
“I’ve got a beautiful woman touching me and telling me not to touch her. Of course I am.”
I don’t want him to continue trying to keep up the charade, so I don’t respond, and apply pressure, kneading the knots with my thumbs. He winces. “Sorry. Are you always this tense?”
“Not when I’m buried deep inside you.”
“Nice try.” I apply more pressure, kneading and massaging, working my way across his shoulders and up the back of his neck.
“That feels incredible.” He’s quiet for a minute. “You can straddle my hips if it’ll help with leverage.”
“That’ll make your back muscles tense up, and I’m pretty sure it might make other things take notice, too.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, the second your hands touched me, my entire body went on red alert.”
I smile and deepen the massage.
“ God , Pep,” he says gratefully. “I think I like your hands as much as I like your mouth.”
I laugh softly and continue massaging his shoulders. “How did you hurt your shoulder?”
“It wasn’t any one thing. Years of overuse, and enough direct blows to make it worse.”
“When did your headaches start?”
“A few months ago.”
“Have you gone through PT and tried migraine meds?”
“I’ve done it all. It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about me. This is just a minor setback.”
I apply pressure to a knot and hold it. He sucks in air between clenched teeth.
“That doesn’t sound fine to me,” I say gently.
“I don’t usually have anyone pushing on me like that.”
“Sorry. Applying pressure limits the blood flow. When it’s released, more blood flows in, which should help the muscle relax.”
“I hear ya, Dr. Pepper. That’s cute. Dr. Pepper .”
I’ve been called that so many times, I thought it had lost its cuteness. But coming from him, I kind of like it. “You need to stop talking and relax, or your headache won’t go away.”
He’s quiet as I work out the knots in his shoulders, neck, and back. I take my time, touching him lovingly. I get the sense that’s what he needs, and it’s definitely how I want to touch him. When he’s breathing easier and is visibly more relaxed, I ask him to turn over and begin working my way through the pressure points. Starting with the simplest, I apply pressure to his hand between the base of his thumb and index finger.
“That pinches.”
“I know. Sorry . This one doesn’t always help, but I thought it might be worth a try.” I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, so I skip some of the others and move to sit against the headboard. “Come lie on your back with your head between my legs.”
“It usually works better if I’m on my stomach, but I’m game.” He moves into position, gazing up at me. “Hey there, beautiful. Want to come here often?”
Yes plays out in my head. “What I want, is for you to close your eyes and relax.”
“Should we get the scarf and use it as a blindfold?”
“I might be tempted to use it as a gag if you don’t stop flirting and let me help your headache. Now close your eyes.” When he does, I use my thumbs to gently massage his face. Starting at the bridge of his nose, I press gently, easing them down the sides and across his cheeks.
“That feels nice.”
“Shh.” I work my way over his entire face, relieving the tightness in his jaw and mouth, giving extra attention to where the bridge of his nose meets his brow bones, around his temples, and along his forehead.
“You’re really good at this. It’s helping.”
“I’m glad,” I say softly. “But you should try not to talk.”
“I will if you tell me about the migraine device you’re working on.”
“It’s just something I’ve been fiddling with during my off hours. It’s a device that alleviates muscle tension while stimulating the nerves that cause migraines. There are devices that stimulate the nerves separately, but I’m looking at enhancing them and possibly combining two of them for people who react well to the individual stimulation.”
“That sounds complicated.”
I finish massaging his face and begin massaging his scalp. “Like your grandfather says, nothing easy is worth a damn.”
“Why are you doing it after hours?”
“Because I have to work on the projects that are funded, and this isn’t one of them.”
“Are you going to develop it eventually?”
“That’s the dream.”
“Why not the reality?”
“Because it takes money and time I don’t have, and getting funding is hard. I’m glad you’re interested in my work, but please stop talking.”
“I’m okay. You took the edge off. Thank you.” He starts to sit up.
I stop him with a hand on his chest. “I’m not done. Can you scoot down a little?” When he does, I massage the base of his skull.
He winces. “That hurts. Like my skull is bruised.”
“That’s because you carry a lot of tension there. I’m going to try a pressure point release. It may hurt a little at first.” I place my index and middle fingers on the pressure points at the base of his skull and hold them there. “Relax your head and neck. Just let your head fall back.”
He groans as his head falls back, and my fingers press against the pressure points.
“I know it’s uncomfortable, but the pain you feel is the release.”
“How do you know how to do this?”
“I studied reflexology. You’re a difficult patient. Please stop talking and relax.” I release the pressure and run my fingers lightly over his forehead.
“That feels really good,” he says just above a whisper.
“Shh.” I do the pressure point release two more times, and he exhales with so much relief, I can feel it. When he opens his eyes, he looks half-drunk, and I know he’s on the mend. I gently massage his head and shoulders again. “I want you to close your eyes and just breathe. Let any remaining tension bleed out.”
I expect him to fight me on it, but to my surprise, he says, “Can I put my head on your lap?”
“Of course.”
He repositions himself, moving out from between my legs, and rests his head on my lap. He pushes one arm around my back and drapes the other over my hip, holding me like he doesn’t want me to get away. “That’s better,” he murmurs.
It is better.
“See? It’s okay to be not so perfect,” I say softly, and run my fingers through his hair. He makes a humming sound of appreciation. I love the friendship we’ve developed and the incredible sex we have, but I also really like this togetherness, and taking care of him. I realize I’ve never seen him simply relax. He’s always on , upbeat, making sure I’m okay and happy. I think about the latte he got me when we were with my family yesterday. He noticed my yawn, for Pete’s sake. Even the two mornings we woke up together, he was energetic from the moment he opened his eyes. I wonder if he knows it’s okay to just be sometimes.
His hold on me eases, and his head becomes heavier in my lap.
He’s fallen asleep, and I love that, too. I continue stroking his hair, listening to the peaceful cadence of his breathing, and I’m overcome with a sense of contentment I can’t ever remember feeling. It makes me want more.
But this isn’t real life . This is a fling.
A dull ache forms in my chest. As exciting as it is being with him, the person I am when we’re together isn’t me . I’m not someone who shirks her responsibilities and blows off work on a whim for a whirlwind day in Paris. This is some altered version of me that reacts solely to Clay’s energy, his touch, his voice, the things he says.
The thought of our time together ending brings a wave of longing, and I have to force myself not to give in to it. I know better. I turn my thoughts inward, searching for the real me.
I know she’s there. She’s always at the ready.
But this time she’s been pushed back to the shadows. I try to will this altered version of myself to retreat. It’s not easy, but eventually she takes a step back, leaving sorrow in her wake. It takes a few minutes for the real me to find her way forward and settle in. When she does, I do what I need to in order to keep her there.
I pick up my phone and scroll through work emails, but there’s no fire in my belly to handle them like there usually is. I open a report from Min and try to concentrate, but after reading the same paragraph three times and comprehending none of it, I know the effort is futile.
In a few hours I’ll have nothing but time for work.
It’s just one night.
I realize I’m still running my fingers through Clay’s hair and set down my phone. I gaze down at his handsome face, so unguarded and serene. I wonder if that’s how I looked falling asleep in his arms the last two nights. The first morning we woke up together feels like it was a month ago. I wish I hadn’t run from him.
Too many emotions stack up inside me, and I toy with the idea of staying for another day. I can see us lazily welcoming the morning, exploring more of the city, or spending the day in bed, pleasuring each other. Just as I feel myself smiling, my hand stills in Clay’s hair.
Have I lost my mind? I shouldn’t even have taken today off work .
That’s how dangerous Clay is for me. All it took was thinking about spending more time with him and I’m pondering shirking more of my responsibilities.
I take my hand out of his hair, but the need to touch him is too strong to deny. I put my hand on his back, feeling the sure and steady beat of his heart, and close my eyes, reveling in it as I accept the hard truth.
This wonderful man is far more dangerous than I thought. Not just to my heart, but also to the business I’ve worked so hard to build. Too hard to jeopardize it.