24. Chord
twenty-four
Chord
66 DAYS TILL HOCKEY SEASON
We finish at the warehouse later than expected, so I reschedule the appointment with my accountant, and we head back to the ranch earlier than planned. I hold Violet’s hand every single second of the drive home, and we spend most of it talking about how I’m going to tell Charlie—and everyone else—about the wine.
Violet makes smart, sensitive suggestions, and we volley a few ideas back and forth, but the further we drive from the city, the more I get the sense something is off. Violet grows quiet and reflective. Withdrawn. She carries her phone in the hand not holding mine and checks it constantly, and her knees bounce in a way I’ve come to recognize as nerves.
She was into the kiss. I know it. We were both into it and fuck if it wasn’t the best kiss of my life. She keeps glancing at our intertwined fingers with a small, disbelieving smile, tracing her thumb over the blue veins of my hand in a way that makes it difficult to swallow. But when she isn’t doing that or staring at her phone, she’s gazing out her window. And when our conversation fades away to nothing, I know something isn’t right.
I pull the sports car into the garage, shut off the engine, and get out, but before I can round the hood to open Violet’s door, she’s already out and inside the house.
“Are you hungry?” I ask as I follow her down the hall from the garage. “We could go to The Hill for dinner or find somewhere in town?”
Our first official date. I like the sound of that.
“Um.” She stops in the kitchen and looks around like she’s searching for an exit. “I’m sorry. What?”
I’m trying to understand and not worry, but the change in her is odd.
“Are you hungry?” I ask again. “Do you want to change and—”
“Oh, no. Thank you.” She nibbles her lip, checks her phone, and glances toward the hallway, then the stairs. “I’m a little tired, so I’m just going to go to my room. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later?”
I don’t get a chance to reply before she’s gone.
She’s tired?
I stand there, staring at the now-empty staircase. I didn’t get a tired vibe from her. I got nervous and uncertain, maybe a little uneasy…
Oh, shit. Does Violet think I expect to sleep with her tonight? I pray that’s not the case, and I rack my brain for another explanation, but this is the only thing that makes sense. The closer we came to the ranch—to this house and to nightfall and the possibility of taking our kiss to the next level—the more introspective she grew.
I would gladly drop to my knees right now and show that woman what she does to me. I would bury my head between those smooth thighs, palm her heavy breasts, and make her scream my name so loud everyone within a five-mile radius would hear the echo for days. But I was pretty fucking happy with her hand in mine today. Pretty fucking pleased with the way she kissed me.
It took me three weeks to get over myself enough to get this far, and when a little voice reminds me that my world needs to be all about hockey and women are distractions I can’t afford, I shut it down. Hard.
Violet isn’t a fucking distraction . She’s so much more than that. And if she wants to go slow, that’s what we’ll do.
I deliberate in the kitchen for too long, pacing and scowling at the clock, before I head to the gym and lift weights to pass the time. I shower. I call Dylan to arrange for food to be delivered when dinner service starts.
When enough hours pass that the sun is almost set and Violet still hasn’t emerged, I’m agitated enough that I climb the stairs and ease my way down the hallway, then hover outside her bedroom door. It’s closed, and because this is as far as my genius plan went, I’m trying to decide what to do next when I hear a muffled sound through the timber.
I freeze, waiting for another, going so far as to lean close enough that the shell of my ear brushes the door, and I hear it again. There’s no mistaking it now.
Violet’s crying.
And then I’m knocking. And opening the door. And pushing my way in without an invitation because Violet is crying, and every cell in my body needs to know why so I can make it better.
“Wallflower?”
The light in Violet’s room is a mix of pinkish gold and shadow. She sits on the bed, wet hair falling around her face and down her back and leaving damp circles on her silky dark pink camisole. The bed linens cover her bottom half in a way that gives me a glimpse of bare thighs underneath, her headphones lay discarded next to her glasses, and her sketchbook with pencils and shavings has been pushed to the foot of the bed.
Violet dashes at her cheeks, then tugs at the sheets to make sure she’s covered. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey.” I take another step into the room. “You’re crying.”
Okay, so I’m not the most tactful person on Earth, but the sooner she tells me what’s wrong, the sooner I can fix it.
“No.” She offers me a watery smile as tears spill down her cheeks. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. Talk to me.”
I take another step closer just as the front doorbell rings. It’ll be our dinner, and I glance over my shoulder.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
Violet chuckles under her breath. “Actually… yes. A little.”
My relief at being able to do this one small thing for her is disproportionately enormous. I hold up a single finger and back up a couple of steps. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back.”
I race downstairs to collect the food from the server and decline his offer to set the table and plate up. Instead, I grab a bottle of wine and two glasses from the kitchen, stuff a handful of cutlery and napkins in with the takeout containers, and hurry back to Violet’s room.
“Dinner is here,” I announce, holding up the bag in one hand and wine in the other. “Do you object to a bedroom picnic tonight?”
She blinks and fights a surprised smile. “No. That sounds good.”
I set the bag on the bed and unpack the boxes as I watch Violet from the corner of my eye. Her eyes are red, and her skin is blotchy, but, to my relief, she’s not crying anymore.
She inhales deeply as she reaches into the second bag and sets a couple more boxes on the bed. “This smells amazing.”
“It does.” I pour us both glasses of red, set the half-empty bottle on the table beside the bed, and hesitate at the edge of the mattress. “Do you mind if I join you?”
Her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. “Not at all.”
I settle myself on the mountain of pillows piled up against the headboard, then straighten again immediately. “Dammit. I forgot plates. Let me go—”
Violet sets a hand on my shoulder, and my heart skips at the small smile on her mouth. “I’m good to share like this if you are.”
“Yeah.” I ease back onto the pillows, taking a box of Dylan’s signature roast duck with me. “I’m good like this.”
I stab my fork into a crispy slice, pop it in my mouth, and then pass the container to Violet. She accepts and takes her own piece, and I watch as her pink lips wrap around the fork.
Violet drops her eyes like she knows what I’m thinking, and I don’t even care. I want her, and I want her to know it.
“So, do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
Violet’s fork freezes before she returns to poking at a container of roasted vegetables. With a sigh, she sets the food aside and picks up her wine. I wait while she takes a sip, sensing that this is another one of those moments where if I’m silent for long enough, she’ll start talking. And I want her to talk so badly.
“I called my dad a little while ago,” she finally admits, staring into her glass of pinot noir.
“Okay.” When she doesn’t elaborate, I offer her another dish, which she absently accepts while setting down her drink.
“I called my dad,” she repeats, “and he sounded a little down. And when he’s down, I’m down. Or, at the very least, I start to worry.”
“Because he has depression.”
Violet gives me a look that says she’s surprised and a little bit pleased. “Yeah. I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I listen. But he’s had this condition for a long time, right? What’s different about today?”
She sets down her food, taking care not to spill anything as she bends her legs under the covers so she can wrap her arms around them and set her chin on her knees. “I’ve never lived away from home. Dad hasn’t been on his own since before I was born. The two of us—we’re the only family we have. This separation is hard on him, and I feel guilty.”
I frown as I finish what’s left of the crispy duck and choose another box. I’m at risk of saying something stupid here. Something along the lines of Violet being a grown woman who probably should have moved out of her father’s house years ago. Something about hating the idea of her taking responsibility for someone else’s happiness—even if that person is her father. Something about the injustice of a child worrying about a parent the way he should worry about her. But I’m smart enough to know that none of this is what she needs to hear.
As I analyze and discard every piece of advice I can think of, another possibility occurs to me. Is this Violet’s way of telling me she wants to leave?
My spine is suddenly lined with sweat. I can’t keep her here. She’s an employee, not a prisoner, but I am her boss. And she needs this job—ironically, to pay her father’s therapy bills and for the insurance. It would be a simple adjustment to finish our contract and release her back into the clutches of Courtney and the Fury marketing team, and I consider it. I do.
For about six seconds.
I can’t let her go before the end of the summer. It’s not long enough as it is, and I don’t know what will happen when it’s over. Violet is mine every minute of every day until the end of September, and I’m not letting her go, so I’ll have to find another way.
We eat in silence for a while. When most of the boxes are empty, I toss everything back into the delivery bag and set it on the floor, then clear my throat.
“I don’t have any experience with depression, so I don’t want to sound insensitive, but you’ve done nothing wrong by being here. And I’d like to think your father loves you enough to not make you responsible for his mental health.”
“Of course he does. That’s not the problem.” Violet dashes a single tear from her cheek. “I feel bad because I should have found a way to see him when we were in the city today.”
A stab of regret shoots through my middle. “I’m sorry. If I’d known you wanted to see him, we could have made it a priority.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, and it’s not the real problem.” Violet breathes in deep and sighs with her exhale. “These last few weeks have made me so happy, and I’m sad that he wasn’t around to share it.”
“Yeah? You’re really happy here?”
God, I’m an arrogant motherfucker, because all I heard in that sentence is how the last few weeks have made her happy. The last few weeks with me .
Violet turns her head where it rests on her knees and smiles. “Yeah. I’m really happy here.”
I nod once, like I’ve been awarded a prize, and after that awkward gesture, I’m pretty sure it’s for “Dork of the Year.” On the plus side, it makes Violet’s watery smile stretch wider.
“I’m glad to hear that. But there’s just one problem now.”
Her face falls as she straightens from her slouch. “Oh. What?”
I resist the upward pull on my lips and reach over to twist a lock of her damp hair around my finger. “You saying things like that makes me want to kiss you, and—”
“You can kiss me,” she says in a rush.
The heat in her voice is all the invitation I need. I lean across the short space between us, slide my hand behind her neck, and pull her mouth against mine.
There’s none of the hesitancy of our first kiss, and Violet laps against my tongue with needy whimpers that draw me closer to her and deeper onto the bed. When the taste of her lips feels nowhere near enough, I twist my fingers into her hair, gently pull her head back, and kiss my way across her jaw, her neck, her collarbone. The flavor of her skin is sugar on my tongue, and I respond to the sweet little moans in her throat with husky growls of my own.
Violet slides her open palms up my arms, around my shoulders and down my back, then slips her cool fingertips underneath the hem of my shirt and brushes them along my lower back. Goosebumps jump up at her gentle strokes, and I groan as my cock fights the confines of my jeans. Her fingernails dig into my sides as she latches onto the muscles above my hips, and I respond without thinking, pushing myself up and over her body, straddling her hips, pinning her slender frame between my thighs.
I cradle her head and kiss her, my body arching over hers as she sinks deeper into the pillows.
When Violet’s hands disappear further under my shirt, her palms tracking a smooth course over my back, I mirror the move by skimming my fingers down her neck and shoulders. The flimsy straps of her camisole fall off her shoulders, the remaining fabric clinging to the soft swell of her tits and nothing else.
I moan at the promise of them—of her—then kiss the dip behind her earlobe just so I can breathe in the scent of her hair.
“Is this okay?” I ask. “Do you want me to stop?”
Violet moves her mouth to the shell of my ear. “Don’t stop,” she whispers. “I want to feel good. I need to feel good. Please.”
Her words ignite a chemical reaction in my blood—a mixture of desire and desperation and challenge.
I run the tip of my nose across her collarbone, swirling my tongue across the hollow at her throat, and keep my voice low. “Wallflower?”
She arches back, pressing her tits against my chest, and I resist the urge to tear her clothes off with my teeth. “Yes?”
“Can I make you come?”
“Oh, God.”
Violet closes her eyes, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breaths. I hover over her, watching the flush creep up her chest and tease her cheeks, wishing I could free the painful hard-on trapped inside my jeans.
She’s so beautiful like this—wet hair sprawled across the pillows, skin pink and damp, her body on the edge of wanting and needing and having —so when she bites her bottom lip and nods, I groan and stretch my body over hers, the sheets still between our hips, and fall on her neck as I tug her silky top down and free her incredible breasts.
“Damn, Wallflower.” I wrap my palm around one breast, tweaking a pink peak that’s already pebbled and perfect, and capturing the opposite nipple in my mouth.
She gasps when my hot mouth closes over the sensitive zone, then hardens further under my tongue, her fingers tangling in my hair as she gasps and groans, her pelvis twisting beneath the covers as she hunts for friction.
I set my lips to her ear and whisper, “I’ve thought about you like this so many times, but touching you now is better than even my wildest dreams.”
I glance up at her, wanting proof that I’m doing what she asked and making her feel good, but her eyes are closed. Yes, her body writhes beneath my touch. There’s a salty, sensual sheen of perspiration across her neck. Her hair is tousled, she’s making lusty little noises in her throat, and I know if I touched her between her legs, I’d find her wet and wanting, but it’s not enough. Not for tonight and not for me.
Watching her face to see how she reacts, I skate a deliberate palm over Violet’s breast, skim her ribcage, and then lightly brush my fingertips over her smooth, flat stomach. I tease the edge of the lacy thong she’s wearing underneath the sheets, hooking a finger beneath the elastic and running it around to her inner thigh, and her leg falls open in invitation. Violet’s expression reacts to my every movement, her breath grows shallow, her hips lift, and she talks in hot little whimpers, but her eyes remain shut.
I kiss her mouth and snake my hand down her body, circling a peaked nipple with my palm, squeezing her hip on my way to her inner thigh. She blindly and desperately shoves the linens away to remove the barrier between us, and I use my hips to spread her legs.
I slip my fingers between her thighs, and I’m right. She’s soaked.
I start slow with a single finger, dipping the tip in to start, then push her panties aside to swirl the moisture over her clit.
Violet’s whimpers turn needy, and I spread her lower lips, running my palm and fingers over her soaked warmth until she coats my hand. I want to lick it—I want to lick her —but if I’ve learned anything about this woman, it’s to go slow. So, I fill her with my fingers. I sink in the first, then the second, and the way her back arches, the way she opens her thighs so I can go deeper, is enough to make me come a little in my pants.
I fuck her like this for ages, dragging my fingers in and out, teasing her clit with my thumb, stroking the soft, sensitive spot deep in her core that sets her pussy fluttering. But she’s not getting there. I coax her all the way to the edge, but she keeps falling off the wrong side. She’s thinking too much. I can tell by the way she keeps her eyes closed, squeezing them tight like she’s trying to block out the world.
And I’m not having it.
I remove my fingers from her pussy, ignoring her pouty whimpers as I cradle her head with my free hand. Violet sucks fast breaths in through her nose and waits.
“Eyes on me,” I order.
Her lashes flutter and she meets my gaze, her brown eyes hot and hazy and almost golden in the last light of the sun. “Good girl. Now keep them open—and keep them on me.”
I hold Violet’s stare and refuse to let it go, and when I’m satisfied that she’s going to do as I say, I resume the tight, wet circles over her clit. She responds with quivering thighs and a thwarted whimper.
“You’re going to get there, baby,” I say, slipping my fingers deep into her. “I won’t stop until you do. I swear to fucking God you’re going to come for me.”
Her breath catches on a needy moan, and she lifts her knees with a pleading nod, begging silently for more.
I pump in and out of her in long, slow drags, and loop my arm under her shoulders to anchor her to my palm so she can ride my hand the way she needs to. Soon, the telltale flutter of her orgasm moves against my fingers, and I know it’s different this time by the way her eyes widen on mine and her hips buck against my hand.
“That’s it, Wallflower. You’re nearly there.” Our eyes remain on each other, her attention never wavering, and it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever done. “Can you feel it? Can you feel me inside you? Do you know how badly I want you to come on my hand?”
I curl my fingers inside her, playing her like an instrument, and grit my teeth as the precum of my own orgasm beads at the tip of my cock. Our eyes are locked, hers bright with the promise of her climax, and as her core clamps down around my fingers and her pussy soaks my hand, she finally tears her eyes away from mine, arching and crying out and cutting her nails into the deep muscles of my shoulders.
“There it is,” I murmur against her ear, breathing in the smell of her as she shudders through her climax. “You did so well. You feel good now, don’t you, Wallflower?”
She responds with a self-conscious little laugh, dragging her hands through her hair. “Oh, God. So good. Thank you.”
She lifts her head and plants the sweetest, softest kiss on my mouth, then runs her thumb across my bottom lip. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
I capture her thumb between my teeth so I can kiss it before she takes it away. “Why?”
“Because nights like this only happen in my dreams,” she murmurs, watching my lips trail up her wrist, her forearm, the crease of her elbow.
“That’s music to my ears.” I sweep the hair back from her face and kiss her as reverently as she did me. “I’m all about making dreams come true.”