The Gamble

19. Lavender

Poor,sweet, little Daisy.

I wonder if she’s disappointed to have a stepmother who isn’t at all hoochie. Not that I would threaten her with watery soup to find out. For starters, the poor little thing seems far too concerned with doing the right thing.

But as the saying goes, from the mouths of babes comes truth and wisdom. I think I can now safely assume how Raif ordinarily likes his women. And I suppose this might go some way to explaining why me.

If I’m not his type, things are less likely to be complicated, obviously.

I cross the bottom of Raif’s imposing bed and the luxurious velvet bench that runs along with it (if this were my bedroom, the thing would be piled high with clothes and books and plates with toast crumbs), still looking for the laundry hamper that wasn’t in his swanky bathroom.

His room is more like a suite of rooms, the vibe one of masculinity, and the design pallet stark with an overlay of muted tones. The bedroom includes a sitting area, then there’s a bathroom as big as my living room, and a closet that looks like a menswear boutique. I had a little snoop, of course, as soon as the opportunity arose. So many bespoke suits and shirts, all color-coded. Designer sneakers and handmade Italian shoes. And watches. So many watches. What is it with men and their wrist wear? They only have two wrists, so what’s with the compulsion?

I also snuck a peak in his underwear drawers, given I haven’t seen his underwear drawers yet. Tom Ford boxer briefs. Black, naturally. And some traditional boxer shorts, the maker’s mark including a royal warrant.

Back to the laundry hamper hunt. It’s not in here, either, as far as I can tell as I swing around, scanning the place.

Looks like that bench might not be ornamental after all.

“Damn.” I scratch my thumbnail over a drop of sauce on the T-shirt I’ve just taken off because, as it turned out, I did manage to eat dinner. It would’ve been a crime not to, the yummy scents filling the kitchen as Sam began to cook.

There was so much food. Too much really, but I gave it my best shot. He’d served the sumptuous meal in a room just beyond the kitchen, overlooking the huge garden. Another anomaly for a house in central London.

Raif had referred to the space as the breakfast nook as in… the breakfast nook next door to the solarium. Turn right at the vestibule, and if you come to a green door, you’ve gone too far, because that room is a boudoir. I’m not being totally facetious. It’s just that kind of house. Five floors, two of them subterranean, including a multi-car garage, a second cellar, a high-tech-looking gym, and a twenty-foot swimming pool.

I don’t think I could’ve eaten in the dining room anyway. I would’ve been too busy staring at the Bridget Riley piece above the fireplace or the intricate hanging sculptures by Ruth Aswa. I can sort of see why Raif didn’t pick up anything when he visited the gallery. My pieces, while lovingly curated, are mostly from unestablished artists. In other words, we’re not in the same price range.

I chuckle softly. As though anyone looking at us would think anything different.

Today, I’d slipped back into my university grunge era while Raif looked like he’d just stepped from his super yacht. Or supercar, as the case was.

“You look deep in thought.”

I startle at Raif’s voice, swinging around to find him watching me from the doorway. Hand slunk in his pockets, his shoulder is pressed to the frame. He’d shown me to his bedroom earlier, leaving me at the door with some lame excuse of having emails to send. Like he couldn’t have done on his phone, like a regular person.

But I was relieved that he gave me a little time alone. It allowed me to get my bearings, paint on my brave face for the evening.

I say when.

I say where.

I say Lord, what have I done?

I’d showered, shaved, and brushed my teeth all without his proximity. His scrutiny. Because I see him watching me when he thinks I don’t.

But now, here he is, in all his glory.

I am so screwed, I think, as heat flares and swirls inside me.

“Where do posh people keep their laundry hamper?” I ask, turning away, not willing to share the effect he has on me. I glance at the chaise flanking the marble fireplace at the other end of the room. It’s more midcentury Danish than Edwardian lady’s fainting couch. I wonder how many women he’s made swoon in here. A coffee table filled with art and travel books sits between it and a pair of midcentury blond wood chairs.

My attention returns when I realize he hasn’t answered. And that I’m staring at a chair like it owes me an explanation. Whatever nonsense I might’ve been about to sprout disappears as my eyes meet his. Heavy lidded, his gaze seems to burn with such heat and silent promises. It drops very obviously down my neck, then over my chest, causing my nipples to tighten under my pajama shirt. There’s no hiding his inspection, no shame in him either, as he continues to survey my body with candid appreciation.

My nightwear isn’t provocative. I hardly had time to agonize over my choices earlier, my work outfits for the week taking up much of my brain space. It’s just a plain blue T-shirt, a little silky to the touch. The bottoms are short and fluted at the hem, which might look a little flirty, but I only chose them to avoid the very real hazard of sleep stripping. I’m sure he’s already worked out I have a tendency to wake naked if I become too hot or constricted in my sleep. I’ve been the same since I was a kid.

His gaze drops lower, burning a path down my legs, every inch of my skin warming and prickling. My mouth growing dry as it rises once again. But he still says nothing.

“Hamper?” The word comes out rusty and awkward. I almost drop my underwear from my scrunched laundry pile, so jam them between my ribs and my elbow.

“She doesn’t play soccer.”

“What?” I ask, his meaning dropping a split second later. At Polly’s front door this afternoon, I’d said Raif looked like a dad on his way to watch his kid play soccer. At the time, I didn’t know he was playing daddy for real. And now he’s calling me out because I’m looking at him just the same way as he’s looking at me. Sizing him up, appreciating, cataloging some of those finer details. Like how his shirt clings to the curve of his bicep and how the dark stubble on his cheeks only seems to enhance the kiss-ability of those chiseled lips.

He pushes away from the doorjamb, his gait languid and easy, and making my brain empty out.

“What sport does she play?” My question sounds breathy. Did I get the dumb because a pretty man is stalking toward me?

“She likes art.”

“Oh. Nice.”

“Drawing, painting. Cutting shit up and making things.”

“Much better than sports.” I tilt my gaze upward as he comes to a stop in front of me. “I was the same. I used to make clothes for my dolls out of bits of paper and fabric. It’s how I ended up with a useless degree.”

“And just look at you now.” The back of his knuckle coasts down my cheek.

“Trapped in a loveless marriage?”

“Who needs love when we have chemistry.”

“You should put that in a greeting card. You’d make a fortune.”

“I have a fortune. And you don’t want falsehoods and niceties.”

“Wooing, you mean?”

“You don’t need that shit. You already look at me like you want to fuck me.”

And… I have nothing. Not a comeback in my head. Mainly because it’s full of dirty images. My stomach flips as he takes my hand. Only, he doesn’t lead me to the bed, but rather, back to the bathroom. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed (also, I am a liar) as he opens a saucer-sized hatch, which I wouldn’t have noticed given it blends with the tile. He plucks up my T-shirt, and a quiet whisper sounds from the gap. As he lifts the black cotton closer, the thing is sucked from his hand.

“I don’t know about posh people…” his words trail away.

“You? Of course you don’t.” My answer is not in the same tone. “Hey!”

He plucks away my knickers next.

“Pretty.” The black gossamer scrap dangle from the tip of his index finger. “I like how you color coordinate,” he says, studying them.

“With my mood, you mean?”

He doesn’t answer as he swings them closer to the chute. They too are sucked away.

“I’ll be impressed when they come back washed and pressed all by themselves,” I mutter, stuffing my jeans and socks in after them. “Rich people are so—”

I begin to turn when I find myself spinning further—faster—than I anticipated. My palms hit the cool stone vanity and I arch my back, my body seeming to understand this opportunity faster than my brain.

As our eyes meet in the mirror, him with his hot gaze and me with the needy pull between my legs. He takes my hips in his hands as he brings those chiseled lips to my ear.

“My lady disdain.” His voice is low, the words a bare breath.

“I’m not—” My lids flutter, my argument instinctual. I’m not what? A smart arse, full of contempt for anything I don’t have, that I don’t understand? A woman who still feels like that little girl uncomfortable in her own skin?

I gasp as his teeth nip my fleshy lobe.

“You’re determined to make every moment hard, aren’t you?”

I forget the rest of my denial—I don’t even make a quip—as he flexes into me, the kind of hard I yearn for a thickness pressed against me. I close my eyes at the sight of his wicked expression and the rush of warmth between my legs.

“Lavender.” My name is an exhalation as his hands slips between my legs. I give in to a quiet groan as he grips my inner thigh. “Why does everything have to be an argument with you?” My T-shirt stretches as he hooks the neck with his finger, bestowing a sucking kiss to the place my shoulder and neck meets.

“I don’t mean for it to be.”

His chuckle is whisper soft as it slides across the back of my neck. “You are such a pretty little liar.”

The noise I make is animal, indelicate, my body bucking against him as he cups me between my legs. His long middle finger curls, stroking over the fabric.

“Tell the truth.”

I give a ragged sounding moan as he rotates his palm, pressuring my clit just right. But I’m telling the truth. There’s just something inside me that chooses mayhem and anarchy over rational expression. I suppose it doesn’t take the brain of Briton to work out my personality is my amour.

“I can’t help it.” A rush of discomfort washes over my skin. “You just bring out the worst in me.”

“Isn’t that the truth.”

It’s not all of it.

“What can I say? Men with fancy laundry systems just do it for me.” His eyes darken as I lick my lips. “Tell me, did you have it installed because suction turns you on?”

“I don’t need to stick my cock into a wall to have it sucked.”

“I expect you could just call Celeste,” I answer, deliberately using the wrong name.

“Or Celine. Or maybe both.”

“I could call Tod, and we could make a party of it.”

“If you want to see a grown man cry, that’s your prerogative.”

“Would you cry watching me kiss him?” I give an exaggerated pout and startle a little as I take in my own reflection. My eyes are dark, my hair is mussed, and my neck marked by patches of pink and red from his attentions.

When he palms my clit, I make that noise again. Reflexive, instant, and lust filled.

“There will be no Tod for you.” He presses my body between his hand and his cock. “Not while we’re—”

“Fake married?” I push my hand between us, wrapping my fingers around his thick girth.

“Greedy.” He grunts, pulling my hand away. He puts his lips to my wrist before lifting it to the back of his neck.

This ache, this need, it’s so bittersweet.

I take my breast in my free hand and we both watch as I scissor my fingers over my hardened nipple.

He almost growls my name. “You’re such a sweet little cock tease.”

He’s right. I am a picture of wantonness as I touch myself. Legs spread wide, Raif’s tan arm snaking around my waist, and his hand cupped firm between my legs.

“Real married,” he growls as his fingers tighten. My body jolts, pleasure pulsing through me.

“Fake relationship.” Upping the ante, I moan as I tug the peaked tip. “Seems one-sided that you can call Celine, but I can’t call Tod for a little… relief.”

“You want him stuffed in that suitcase?”

I almost cry out, but not for Tod. I’ve pushed Raif too far as his hand slips away. But my cries take on another edge as he thrusts it under the waistband of my pajama shorts.

He grunts as he parts my flesh, dragging two fingers through my wetness. “Is this the kind of relief you need, princess? Fuck.”

“Yes!” My body twists under his touch, the relief sublime, yet not enough.

“Because no one else gets to touch you. This tight little body is mine,” he commands, pressing two long fingers inside me.

“Not,” I whisper as my hips buck, chasing his touch.

“Fucking mine,” he rasps, painting my arousal over my clit. “You get off on making me jealous.”

In the mirror, those feline eyes darken. My body bucks as he pinches my clit.

“Oh!” I swallow, my throat parched. “Oh!” Who knew that would feel so good?

“You’re trying to drive me fucking insane.” He fucks me with his fingers again and again. “And you excel at everything, don’t you, princess?”

If only he knew.

“You get off on tormenting me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” My answer is all breath and want as he plays me like a well-tuned instrument.

“Too late for that. Because this doesn’t feel fake. It feels wet and hot and smells so fucking fragrant.” My eyes meet his knowing ones in the mirror. “It feels like mine, princess. Like fucking ownership.”

You can’t own people.My own words float into my consciousness.

I was right—you can’t. But bodies, those you can own.

And he does.

“Oh God. Please,” I whisper, as he works me with such exquisite expertise.

“That’s it, yes. Beg for it. I am way too busy trying to keep up with you to go chasing other women.”

“Swear it,” I demand quite suddenly. “Swear that you won’t fuck anyone else while you’re with me.”

“You want me to be celibate?” A rough sound emanates from his throat as I begin to undulate against him, stuck between his exquisite touch and his rock-hard cock.

“You don’t think I’ll be worth it?”

“Princess, that would have to be one excellent fuck. Make it worth my while. More than ifs and maybes. What have you got to negotiate?”

“No, not that.”

“You checking, princess?” His fingers grip my chin, twisting my face to meet his. “No. You always take the bet.”

“Just make it good and I might let you fuck me again.”

“You know it’ll be good.” His kiss is quick and savage. “And you’re so fucking hot for me, it won’t happen just once.”

“Big talk.”

“The more you deny it, the more your body demands. Why is that?”

“I make it a rule n-not to offer explanations to people.”

It tends to give them the impression they’re allowed a say over my life.

I fall forward and close my eyes, my whole being reduced to nothing but sensation.

“Think of it,” he whispers, his tone velvety and seductive, as his thumb begins to strum. “Twelve months of driving me crazy for this pussy.”

I feel myself smile. Maybe I like the sound of that.

“Open your eyes.”

In the mirror, his dark expression is resolute.

“Watch me, princess. Watch me get you off. Make you cream all over my fingers. You might have a mean mouth, but your pussy is sweet for me.”

Shock and desire and need ricochet through me, echoing through my bones.

“I’m not—” sure what’s going on. But I want every dirty threat he throws my way.

“This is all mine. This sweet cunt belongs to me, do you hear?”

“Oh God.” I reach back again, pushing my hand between our bodies.

“No.” Catching it, he fastens it to my waist. “Not yet. Not until you’re aching for it.” Under his touch, my body writhes. “Here, princess,” he says with a deep thrust of his fingers. “Here’s where you want me. Riding you. Filling you.”

“Yes!” My throat feels parched—as though I’ve been running. “Yes, Raif. Yes!”

“I’ll make it so fucking good for you.” His body bends forward, mine with it as I press my palms to the stone, shuffle my feet wider as I arch my back. Right here, and right now, I know he wins. I’d let him do just about anything as my body begins to spasm. As he pushes me, forces me, over that sharp edge. And all the while, he whispers how I’m a good little girl, taking his fingers like this. How he can’t wait to feel my insolent little mouth around his cock. How crazy I make him and how he’ll get his revenge when he fills my pretty pussy until I can’t take it anymore.

So dirty. So wrong. And I want it all and more as I cry out his name, riding a wave of pleasure so exquisite, I see stars behind my closed lids.

I come to with my cheek plastered to the stone, my breathing ragged, and my eyes fixed on Raif’s outspread hand. I begin to stand, my legs feeling like rubber as I brush the bird’s nest of hair from my face with the back of my hand.

His smile quirks in the corners of his mouth as he pulls a couple of strands stuck to my cheek. I think I might be temporarily mute be presses a kiss to my neck. I make a sound of contentment.

“Go on, now.” His hand curls around my shoulder.

I glance back with a frown when I realize he’s trying to turn me around.

“Get.” He makes a negligent motion in the direction of the bathroom door.

“What?”

“Time for you to leave,” he says, reaching for the buttons of his shirt.

“But I thought—”

Then the arsehole actually swats my bottom!

“What the fuck!”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I do a lot of things with this mouth,” I retort, not sure what I’m saying. “And not all of them she’d approve of.”

“What the fuck,” he mutters, angrily unbuttoning his shirt. “Well, you got that right. What the ever-loving fuck.” Abandoning the buttons, he slides both hands through his hair as he gives a startled-sounding laugh. Like what the hell just went on in here? And I get it—how did we go from laundry to insults to this?

“Lavender, for all your smart mouth…” His lips thin before he begins again. “If you’re not ready, you’d better get the hell out of here before I break my promise.”

“But I thought …” that’s what we were about to do.

“You tell me you choose now and here—say the words explicitly—and I’m down.”

“Do you want a written invitation?” I squeak indignantly.

His chuckle sounds rusty. “You know, I might just hold you to that. That way you can’t throw it back in my face.”

“I’ll throw something in your face,” I retort angrily.

“Your pussy? I might like that. But I’d also want to fuck it. So, how’s it gonna be?”

He doesn’t sound very happy. I know the feeling. I’m so conflicted, wanting him— on his knees, crazy for me—but not wanting to give in.

“If you have to think about it, it means you’re not ready.”

“Oh. You’re a mind reader now?” Turning, I lean my butt against the vanity and fold my arms.

“Then tell me otherwise.”

I tighten my hold on myself and sigh. “Maybe you’re right. A lot has happened today, and I’m not sure we should… do that. Yet. But that doesn’t mean I want you screwing someone else.”

“You don’t like to share your toys,” he purrs as he begins to unbutton the rest of his shirt.

“As it happens, no I do not.”

“Same goes both ways, princess.”

“Good.” I try to keep my expression neutral. Not to drool as I devour his tan chest with each tiny reveal. He reaches the last button, and pushes the sides apart, my gaze falling to the very obvious bulge in his pants. The sight feels like a lick to the inside of my stomach.

Maybe I have changed my mind.

But then Raif makes a gesture, a courtly flourish. Sort of after you. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

“I’m going. In a minute.”

He casts his eyes heavenward and mutters something in that language I don’t understand.

“Would you just leave?” his low voice demands.

I don’t realize I’m nervous until I find my thumbnail in my mouth.

“It’s just… I haven’t even seen it yet.” Apart from a peek.

“You want to see my cock?”

“Yes,” I admit in a mouse whisper. “I want to see all of you. You’ve seen me.”

His eyes shutter closed, and he swallows. I want to press my teeth over that masculine ripple—I want him to do the same, but over the ripple of longing I experience between my legs. His eyes are almost black as they open again.

“Can I?”

“Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

As Raif peels the black leather belt from the buckle, my body begins to throb like it’s sending me a violent message in Morse code.

“When you’re ready to get on your knees and suck it.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in, the entirety of my brain power directed to my eyes, like I might suddenly develop x-ray vision.

He sticks his hand into his underwear as he makes the most masculine, groany growl. “Fuck. I can’t wait to feel your greedy pulse as I fill you up.”

Yes. Yes, please. Tell me more dirty words.

“Which means I’m not in the mood to let you watch.”

“What?”

He gestures to the door.

“Spoilsport.” I push off the vanity.

“Cock tease,” he returns but it doesn’t sound like an insult.

We’re both smiling, so I’ll call this one a draw even though I feel like I’m missing out as I hear the shower turn on.