Chapter 8
LILA
Since I have the house all for myself, I put on my new swimsuit and spend an hour in the pool.
I feel much better after stepping out, patting myself dry, and walking back into the house.
It’s about three in the morning when I finish showering and go to sleep.
As soon as I put my head down, I drift off to sleep.
It feels like I’ve slept a good eight hours when I snap my eyes open.
My forehead is dotted with warm sweat, while the remnants of a horrible nightmare still poke holes into my awareness.
“What was that?” I murmur, running the back of my hand over my brow, trying to remove that anxious feeling.
What was that dream all about?
A shudder sweeps through me when it dawns on me that my dream was about my father.
He looked good, young, and he was smiling as he was trying to tell me something.
A wall of glass erected between us made it impossible for me to hear him.
I press my hand to my chest, wishing my panic away.
A different dream preceded this one, and it was about Damon.
He had his back turned to me while I kept trying to step in front of him and see his face.
That fueled my anxiety, too.
I’ve never been a fan of mixed messages, and the fact that I can’t trust him––how could I?––makes me harbor conflicting feelings about him.
And don’t start me on Henrietta. I’m surprised she hasn’t made an appearance in my dream.
Sighing, I look out the window.
Why is it so hot? And what time is it?
I climb out of bed and walk to the French doors. A faint pink light blooms at the horizon.
Surprise, surprise.
I’ve only slept a couple of hours.
I pivot away and check the AC. It hums quietly.
My dreams must have made me sweat.
Yawning, I put on a sheer short robe over my shorts and tank top before moving to the bathroom.
A noise rings outside, making me freeze in the doorway.
I shift my head toward the main entrance and listen. A few steps trail up.
With all the sophisticated security in the house, I can’t say I feel safe. Against my better judgment, I turn around and move toward the exit.
Slowly, I open the door, crane my neck out, and peer down the corridor. A faint light slips from under a door.
That must be a bathroom.
The light dims, and no one walks out.
That’s not exactly what I wanted to see.
I initially pull back before realizing I won’t be able to sleep unless I find out who is in the house.
Is it her? Henrietta?
Somehow, the thought of her being in the house scares me even more than the thought of him being here.
But why? Why would she be here?
They left a few hours ago.
I step out, close the door behind me, and tiptoe to that particular room. Yes, it’s a bathroom. The door is open, and a quiet sound comes from inside.
It must be him.
“Mr. West?” I call quietly, just in case his wife is shaving her legs with him inside.
The noise stops, and steps move inside before the door opens and our eyes meet.
I instinctively step back.
This is probably the last thing I should be thinking about now, but…Wow. He looks amazing.
His eyes look like melted gemstones, his expression a mix of deep-seated danger, inescapable lust, and perhaps a need for a nap.
A drop of aftershave glistens at the corner of his mouth, while a soft smile barely moves his lips.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as my eyes slide over his tattooed, muscular torso.
His suit pants are on, and his belt is barely unbuckled.
His shirt sits on the vanity.
I lift my gaze.
“I could ask you the same thing. Where’s your wife?” I murmur, pulling the lapels of my robe over my chest.
His eyes leave a trail of desire across my skin.
I feel like running away to escape him, although I’ve got nowhere to hide.
Without taking his eyes away from me, he flicks his head toward the other side of the house.
“She’s sleeping.”
I part my lips in surprise, then swallow hard in panic.
“Is she okay?” I ask, befuddled.
Three hours ago, the woman rocked a red dress and looked like a woman on a mission. She wanted to end up in this man’s arms tonight, and now she’s asleep?
I find it hard to believe.
He steps away from me, stops in front of the mirror, and checks his face.
“Are you under the impression that I drugged her or something?”
He seems amused, while I don’t know in which direction I should move.
Eventually, I follow him into the bathroom.
The shirt lying on the vanity is clean and pressed. It looks like he’s on his way out.
He shifts his eyes to me before setting himself in motion and moving past me. He reaches for the door, closes it behind me, and swiftly locks it.
My legs melt under me.
“Did you?” I murmur to show him that I’m not afraid of him.
Am I afraid of him? I should be, yet I’m not. I’m afraid of other things that he could do to me.
He shakes his head in response.
That could mean anything, even a lie.
“Wasn’t it a good party?”
He studies his cheeks in the mirror for a few good moments, so his answer arrives late.
“Huh?” he pushes out.
He has no idea what I’m talking about.
Done with what he was doing, he shifts his focus to me, and tilts his head to the side, waiting.
My voice shakes a little as I go on.
“You said she was sleeping in the other side of the house. Isn’t she supposed to rest in your bedroom?”
He folds his arms over his chest, enhancing the tension in his muscles.
I wish he didn’t do that.
Now, I gawk at him as if I’ve never seen a man like him in my life.
Newsflash.
I’ve never seen a man like him in my life, but that’s beyond the point.
“She has her own bedroom,” he says, gauging my reaction.
That’s neither here nor there.
He knows what I’m asking; he’s just not willing to give me a direct answer.
Seriously now?
They’re not sharing a bedroom?
“Is there anything else you’d like to know?” he asks as if he’s had enough of my questioning.
“No, not really. Have a good night, sir,” I say, changing my attitude and pivoting to get out of the bathroom as quickly as possible.
Two steps and a firm hand on the door stop me from doing that.
He’s right behind me, wearing only his sexy pants, smelling like a giant sample of aftershave.
The heat oozing from his body wraps around me like a cloak.
“Don’t leave yet,” he says, using the same voice that he used in the office when he asked me to stay.
It’s quiet and tender.
Honest and impossible to argue with.
Facing the door, I look down, while he sets his other hand on the nape of my neck.
“You must know what she had told me before you interrupted us,” I murmur, his fingers slipping inside the neckline and slowly pulling at my robe.
My belt unties, and the sides fall open. He easily peels my robe off and lets it slide to the floor.
“I sure do.”
“Is she always jealous like that?”
“She’s always jealous of someone. She’s always been like that,” he says quietly, breathing over the back of my hair as he positions himself behind me, his groin touching my lower back.
His answer is like the one about her bedroom.
His answers are strings of words without clarity or meaning.
What is that supposed to mean?
She’s always been jealous.
He talks about her as if he’d known her from before he met and married her.
That thought shatters when his hand slides around my body and squeezes a boob through my sheer top a couple of times before drifting down and trailing the waistband of my shorts.
Warm and wet, my center clenches when his fingers part my folds and stroke my clit.
At once, I grab his wrist and stop him.
“I don’t want to do this, Damon.”
He stops but doesn’t take his hand away from me.
“Why?”
“I can’t do it with her in the house.”
“This has nothing to do with her,” he murmurs.
“Yes, it does.”
I swiftly shift around but find myself caged in.
He sets his other hand on the door above my head and leans toward me, his eyes drilling into mine.
“It does not,” he says.
I find his stance compelling although his words have little logic.
“She was mad at me,” I say, invaded by the aroma of his skin.
“She’s jealous of any woman.”
My eyebrows move up.
“How reassuring. Have you done this before, then?”
A smirk arches his lips.
I swat at his chest.
“Forget that I’ve ever asked that.”
He laughs quietly as he grabs my hand and kisses my palm, turning me into a heap of need.
“In a different life,” he says, reading my eyes.
Here comes again… Another poetic, elusive answer.
Are all men the same? Never making any sense?
“What if she does something bad to me when you're not around?” I argue.
A smile curves his lips.
“Why would she do that? She wants your father’s money more than anything else,” he says, and for the first time ever, he seems to show his true feelings about her.
He’s cold and blunt, not protective or connected to her. He talks about Henrietta, as if she’s the guest who has overstayed her welcome.
There’s a hint of something else in his voice. Something dark and vile, woven in anger.
I can’t get a proper reading of it, so it’s hard to tell what fuels his anger, but it’s directed at her, and it may be in connection to my father’s money.
Perhaps, he doesn’t like this arrangement. I never thought about that. My father hadn’t had Henrietta’s new husband in mind when he drafted his will.
So maybe Damon West is not thrilled that his wife has to fulfill her late husband’s requests and have me here in his house.
How does he feel about her inheriting all that money?
It’s hard to tell.
He’s a rich man. And despite what he said about money, it may just be that he doesn’t want her to still be shackled to her old life.
But that would mean that he was jealous.
And if he’s jealous?
That means he has some feelings for this woman.
He doesn’t look like a man in love, though.
Not with her, not with anyone else.
He moves his hand to my shoulder as if we’re not having this conversation. As if he didn’t say what he just said.
The other thing is, for the first time ever, I have this feeling that he and his wife are at odds.
That they’re not playing the same team.
That being accomplices is not a real possibility.
His fingers trail my collarbone before moving over my shoulder, sliding off a strap.
My top barely clings to my chest, and without a pinch of hesitation, he peels off the other strap.
"We’re not doing anything,” he says. “I just want to see you.”
My back is pressed into the door as he tugs at my top, and he doesn’t stop until it’s crumpled around my waist.
“You’re a beautiful woman,” he says, examining my body.
That’s strange coming from a man married to Henrietta, who has always put a lot of effort and money into her appearance.
I may be as beautiful as he just said, but he was saying it with wonder in his voice, as if he’d never seen someone like me.
I find it hard to believe.
“Let me take them off.”
He tilts his chin toward my shorts, and I mull over what’s sexier. The way he narrows his eyes as he looks down and barely pushes a smile to his lips? Or the fact that he’s asking for permission?
He moves his eyes to mine, reads my expression, and without breaking his stare, slides his hand into my shorts.
He moves his fingers between my legs as he pushes the shorts down.
Then he slides them to the side with his feet.
Without a word, he grabs the hemline of my top and pulls it over my shoulders.
“Hmm…” he murmurs with a knowing smile as he tenderly runs his fingers up between my thighs, along my slit, and past my navel, and then draws little circles around a nipple.
He notices the goosebumps on my skin and the shudders claiming my shoulders.
“So, you’re looking for a boyfriend?” he asks, slightly amused. “Why?”
“Why am I looking?’
“Yeah. Why are you looking?’
“Is there an alternative to looking for a boyfriend?”
A sultry chuckle blooms on his lips.
“You can have sex without a boyfriend,” he says, peering down as he flicks a nipple and watches it pucker, becoming hard.
He scrunches up his nose, in a playful mood.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” I ask.
He brings his eyes to me and lowers his hand.
This time, he moves his fingers over my slit and massages my clit.
“Yes, I do,” he says, amused.
“We can’t do this, Damon.”
“We’re not doing anything. Do you see me fucking you?”
The way his voice rolls over that word makes my insides pulse.
I can’t be that easy, can it?
I had such a hard time in bed with my first guy, and now I get turned on by this man’s words?
I take his hand and move it away, my eyes locked with his.
“What is this, Damon? What we're doing. What is it?”