Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Roses
Carrson
I follow Becky up the front steps, my focus fixed on the wrought-iron railing, on the key in my hand, on anything but the way her hips sway.
She steps aside, and I unlock the door. It swings open smoothly, maintained too well for a house no one really lives in anymore.
Cool air spills out to meet us. Slightly stale.
The kind that’s been sitting in the same rooms for a long time.
I step inside.
The floor is polished dark wood, reflecting the light that slips in behind us.
Becky follows a step behind me, and when she goes silent, I’m not surprised. The house does that to people.
The entryway stretches out in every direction, hallways branching off, doorways left slightly ajar, offering glimpses of rooms beyond. Everything is clean. Ordered. Untouched. As if no one ever left. The air smells faintly of wood polish and old stone.
My hand closes around the keys in my palm, metal digging into flesh, as I walk into a living room, one of many.
Becky trails me.
“This place is…”
She doesn’t finish.
I glance back.
Her eyes move across everything, taking in the scale of it, the details. Gold leaf wallpaper. Stained-glass lampshades. Carpet thick enough to swallow every footstep.
“It’s a lot,” she says finally.
That’s one way to put it.
“There’s a housekeeper and a butler. They come early to set everything up,” I explain as we walk from that room into the main hall, at the base of the giant curved staircase that leads to the upper floors. “They’re usually gone before I wake up.”
I pause, realizing she’s not behind me anymore. A step back reveals Becky, her eyes staring at the massive stained glass that makes up the ceiling three stories above us. It shows a garden of red roses, thousands of them, tumbling and intertwining, all bound together with thorn-tipped vines.
“Whoa,” she says in an awed whisper, head tilted back, again showing off that long, slender neck.
“Come along,” I say, walking ahead so I don’t linger on the view.
I give her the tour. Kitchen. Family room. Dining room. The guest bedroom where she’ll sleep. It’s right next to mine, also a guest bedroom. I don’t sleep in my boyhood room here, and I’ll never sleep in the master bedroom.
That was my father’s.
Becky follows without questioning, her eyes everywhere.
Her favorite is the ballroom. She gasps when I fling its double doors wide.
Inlaid floors. High ceilings. Windows that run nearly the full length of the walls, letting in the last of the afternoon light.
It spills across the wood in long, pale lines, catching dust that hangs in the air.
Chandeliers are strung high over our heads.
If I turned them on, they’d glitter, but I don’t.
I prefer this room without them, muted shadows and softened corners.
Priceless statues sit in alcoves, frozen in place.
Becky steps past me.
Her shoes tap against the floor as she walks further in, turning slowly.
“Oh my God…”
Her voice echoes. Everything does in here.
I stay where I am, standing inside the doorway, watching her.
She’s smaller in this room.
Not diminished.
Just…framed.
Like she belongs in it.
She spins in a circle, arms lifting from her sides as if she can’t help it.
“This is insane,” she says, laughing softly. “Do you actually use this?”
“No.”
She glances back at me, her brow lifting.
“Not even for parties?”
“Not anymore.”
I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her about the string quartets that used to play in the corner or how I used to sneak down when my father threw galas here. How I’d watch through the cracked door as the men and women danced, ballgowns sweeping the floor.
How I wished I could be one of them.
She studies me, and I think she’ll ask more, but she lets it go. Instead, she steps further into the center of the room.
The light catches her again.
Green silk. Pale skin. Hair burnished to gold at the edges.
Everything about her stands out.
My gaze follows the line of her shoulders, the movement of her hands as she turns back to face me.
“Come here,” she says suddenly.
I hold my ground.
She smiles, a little wider, like she knew I’d resist.
“Seriously. For a second.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You don’t have to dance.” She waves her hand, beckons me forward. “Just stand here.”
There’s no conscious decision to go to her.
I just…do.
One step. Then another. Until I’m standing directly in front of her, close enough that the air between us isn’t air anymore.
It’s heat.
Her breathing shifts first.
Shallow. Uneven.
Mine follows a second later.
She lifts her hand toward mine. I catch her wrist before her fingers make contact, firm enough to halt her but not enough to push her away.
I feel it, the warmth of her skin, the shape of her bones. So delicate. Easy to break. Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers, like it’s trying to get away from me. Or move closer.
Her eyes flick down, then back up to my face.
“Still not allowed?” she asks softly.
“Not like that.”
“Then how?” she asks, eyes on mine.
I swallow, my heart knocking unevenly against my ribs. The thought isn’t new. It’s been there a lot recently, returning when it shouldn’t. What it would be like to touch her. To let her touch me. It used to turn my stomach. I used to shut it down before it could take hold.
Now, it stays.
Maybe something I’d consider.
Possibly enjoy.
My fingers wrap around hers slowly, as I decide how much of this I’ll allow. Her breath quickens as the air between us grows heavier, charged like it gets right before a lightning strike.
She steps closer without touching, stopping short of me, but it’s enough that the space between us stops being distance and becomes something else.
Her eyes stay fixed on mine, wide, blown open in a way that wasn’t there before.
“Carrson.”
My name isn’t a word. It’s a plea.
She rises onto her toes, brings her face closer to mine. I squeeze her hand, instinct locking in before thought has a chance to intervene. Her face tilts toward mine, eyes closing, lips parting slightly.
I let go.
My head drops, drawn down as if it’s inevitable, as if there was never another outcome. My mouth hovers at her throat, close enough that the heat of her skin warms my lips without quite touching.
Her pulse beats there, fast and unsteady, under the surface.
She smells soft. Floral. Warm.
Wrong.
This is so wrong.
I do it anyway.
My lips brush her skin.
Barely. Enough to feel her. Taste her.
A small, quiet gasp slips from her. She wasn’t expecting that, neither of us were, and the reaction hits me hard, pulling, demanding before I can stop it. I grab her waist, dragging her closer, closing that last inch of space until her body aligns with mine.
My teeth press lightly against her throat, not to hurt, just for her skin to give under the pressure. She lets out a small, helpless moan.
My cock stiffens against my jeans.
Fuck.
The thought comes too late. I’m already there. Already past where I should’ve stopped.
Her other hand lifts, hesitating for only a second before moving as if she’s about to touch me, to pull me closer instead of pushing me away. That’s what does it, the lack of hesitation, the way she leans into it instead of back, like she trusts me, like she doesn’t think I’ll—
I jerk away from her.
The space between us yawns open, cold, and abrupt, the loss of her a slap to the face. My chest rises in bursts as I try to get a handle on something that slipped too far, too fast.
What the hell am I doing?
She sways slightly. As if the break hit her just as hard. Her eyes open, unfocused, pupils dilated, and the sight of it lands somewhere deep and dangerous.
I drag my hand away from hers. Better to let go now.
“This is all you get,” I say.
I grab her hand again before she can bridge the distance I tore open, lifting it and spinning her once. Her hair flies out as she turns, catching the light, silk shifting over her body, clinging enough that I see—No.
I drop her hand immediately and step back, putting space between us where it belongs. Where I can breathe. Think. Pretend that didn’t happen.
I expect her to push, to ask for more.
Becky just smiles.
Like she’s already won.