James
TWENTY-SEVEN
Never play mind games with a smart woman.
She is my punishment. It’s no less than I deserve. But damn, the cruelty in being so close to something so perfectly made for me is greater than anything the pits of Hell have in store for me.
I huff as I stir the sauce into the fresh pasta.
It’s a little early for dinner, but the sooner I can disappear into my bedroom, the sooner I can deal with my increasingly painful arousal.
Think of horrible things. There are enough to choose from.
Anything other than the way my name sounds on her lips as she falls apart. Anything will do.
“Did you happen to have a hairbrush?” her sweet voice calls out.
I turn, and all thoughts of banishing my desire for her disappear. I’m almost certain that’s not the largest size of towel on offer. That thing is a hand towel at best.
“James?” she prompts.
I clear my tightening throat as she smiles. “The essentials are located in the top drawer in your bedroom, including…”
She drifts forward, not bothering to hold the precarious knot between her breasts.
“You’re dripping wet,” I point out, as if it’s some great revelation and not the most obvious thing in the room, only second to my erection that is preventing me from fully turning around.
“That’s generally what happens when you take a long, hot shower.”
Yes, and I’m well aware of why it was so long, and it wasn’t just the water that made it hot.
It’s got to be hands down the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, and given my history and the clubs I’ve had to frequent with the late Jonathan, that’s saying something.
But she wasn’t acting, wasn’t trying to lure or entice.
She was a woman lost in her head, and I had the starring role in her fantasy.
That right there, no man is capable of resisting.
She comes to my side, her berry scent swirling around me, and peeks over the saucepan with a quiet groan.
Hell’s bells. I need her to leave.
“I’m making such a mess, sorry,” she mutters. “But the smell is making my mouth water.”
She’s making my mouth water. “It’s carbonara, not a gourmet meal.”
“It’s naughty.” She swirls her finger in the white sauce and dips it into her mouth with a moan. My eyes are glued to her lips. “Freaking delicious. Give me this over pretentious crap any day and all night.”
I blink. She’s fucking with me. “It will be ready in ten minutes.”
“Great. I’ll go put something comfy on,” she says with a wink.
I keep stirring and tear my eyes from her face. “Yep, great idea.”
She stalks away, and it takes everything in me not to turn around and watch her walk away. There’s no chance the curves of her ass aren’t showing in that dishcloth that is doing a terrible job of getting her dry.
I swipe a hand down my face and think of what my sister would say if she had any idea I was harboring an attraction for Stephanie. Pretty sure I’d be annihilated by some kind of Terminator-style robot.
I slide the garlic bread into the oven and set a timer before going back to stirring and trying to list all the reasons she’s off-limits. They’re getting harder to remember, much like my cock.
Great, and now it’s back. Come on, Austin, you’ve got this. Think of dying birds. I raise a brow at my crotch. Nope. Slug trails over clean floors. No deal. What about...
“Found the brush. Thanks.”
And she’s back. The timer beeps like it’s under her command. How has it been eight minutes already? I really spent a long time on the fictitious slugs situation.
“You want something to drink?”
Yes. You. The nectar between your legs on tap.
Fuck me.
“Sparkling water, please.”
“Ooh, good choice with the meal. Also, I need to take a painkiller because my head has been throbbing since the shower.”
“You shouldn’t exert yourself then,” I murmur.
She chuckles, low and throaty. “Showering isn’t exertion. But I’ll keep your advice in mind for next time. Maybe you can give me pointers on how to manage the shower better?”
I freeze my stirring and snap my head over my shoulder. “What?”
She blinks, innocent as the day she was born.
“The shower. Is there a special method on how to manage it? Maybe less heat? More pressure? Tell me what works for you.” The words penetrate, but my brain has checked out on account of her new attire.
I want to beg her to put the towel back on because I have never understood the appeal of a woman wearing a man’s shirt until this moment.
Now it’s stirring a feral need in my chest. The one that’s begging me to lift her up onto the counter and show her I can beat a shower and any fantasy she has of me.
She probably dreams of slow and soft lovemaking.
It’s everything she deserves, but not what I can offer, reinforcing the fact that we’re mismatched in so many ways.
“There was nightwear in the drawers,” I point out.
Her lips curve as she pours water into two glasses. “I prefer a little more room when I sleep, less restriction.”
Nope. Don’t take the bait. Don’t do it. “Really?”
“Yep, I often get restless in the early hours.”
“Okay.”
Look away, man. Do it now. Save yourself.
She slides onto the bar stool, making my white shirt ride up her thigh. She catches me shamelessly staring and flutters her hand against the glimpse of damp, glistening skin leading down to the valley between her breasts. “You don’t mind, do you? I can take it off.”
Absolutely not. “Nope, that’s fine. It suits you more. It’s yours now.” I slide the garlic bread onto the wooden cutting board and slice it before sprinkling a little fresh chopped basil over it.
“Yum,” she says. “I’m ravenous.”
That makes two of us. “I made plenty. There’s another garlic bread if we run out. It only takes ten minutes in the oven.” I avoid her eyes as I plate up the carbonara.
“Who taught you to cook?”
My lips lift with fond memories of the woman who raised me. “My mother.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers.
My eyes lift, and I frown. “For what?”
She picks up her fork and swirls it in the pasta. “For being weak. For being the victim that led everyone onto that boat and which ultimately led to your mother’s death.”
Flashes of that night assault me, reminding me of the impossible choice Jonathan engineered to torture my sister’s boyfriend—lose the love of your life or your sister.
But he didn’t count on me having loyalty to my blood over him.
And he definitely didn’t count on my mother launching an attack on him and becoming the mistress of his ultimate demise.
But none of that is Stephanie’s fault or doing.
Before I can overthink it, my fingers are under her chin, and I force her to meet my eyes so I can ensure my words penetrate. “Do you feel like a victim?”
She flicks her gaze over my face as if she’s committing me to memory. “No.”
“And I have never treated you as such. No one blames you for the acts of an evil man. My mother broke many moons before that night. It was her dying wish to make me free of him, and she achieved that.”
“But you aren’t free. Jonathan haunts you, and you’re still entrenched in the cult and with people like Christopher.”
Her tone isn’t accusing, but I can hear the thousand questions that any reasonable person would have about my life. “I’m working on it.”
My thumb traces the corner of her lower lip, making her mouth part and breath rush out. “What happens when you’re free?” she whispers. There’s hope in her eyes for a future I’ll never see.
“Then I’ll rest.” In my grave.
Her eyes flutter closed. “What does rest look like for you?”
I tilt my head. “It means safety for you.”
Her eyes snap open. “You can’t promise that. No one can.”
Try me. “I can dispatch the worst of them. But you’re right; I can’t neutralize every threat.”
I need to step away, but she keeps me in her orbit. I’ve never felt as out of control as I do when I’m with her.
“We should eat before it gets cold,” she murmurs and licks her lips like she’s trying to take the taste of me inside her.
I release her and grab my plate before I do something stupid. I debate on eating elsewhere, but she would take it personally, and I’ll do anything not to make her sad.
Dropping my ass onto the stool next to her, I focus on my food and dive in.
“Do your skills extend beyond pasta and bread?” she wonders before following it up with a groan. “Damn, James, that’s good.”
“It was an unwritten rule that men didn’t do anything domestic, but I think my mother always dreamed of a future for me and Eleanor to be free, and she wanted to give us the skills to survive beyond the walls Jonanthan built.”
“But you did often venture out, right?”
“Never for pleasure.”
“That’s a shame. There’s so much beauty in the world if you only open your eyes.”
“That’s what this place is about. It’s my secret. No one is meant to know about it.”
“Camryn is a resourceful woman who is excellent at her job.” She takes a second slice of the garlic bread. “Tell me you made this, because I might marry you for this bread alone. Your mother knew what she was doing.”
“I made it.”
“Okay, so I’ll make the place pretty, and you take care of the carbs. Deal?”
I quirk a brow. “What’s not pretty about this place?”
She waves the garlic bread in the air. “It’s stunning in location and design, but a little too magazine-worthy. It needs an injection of color and warmth.”
Her being here does both of those things, but I can’t keep her. “Feel free to change whatever.”
She gasps and does a cute wiggle on the stool. “Are you serious? Don’t tease me. My heart can’t take it.”
She’ll take it just fine. Nope, not what she meant. “Sure. Use my laptop, add things into baskets, and I’ll sort out where to ship them.”
“I thought you were joking when you said you’d have to go pick stuff up.”
“No joke. This place is off the grid. The second the postal service gets a hold of it, it’s burned as a hideout.”
“Fair enough. Does that mean we get to leave here for a few hours? Because I’m already going stir-crazy.”
“We? No.”
She pouts. Brat. “But you get to leave.”
“I’m not being hunted.”
“You must be fairly certain that you won’t be recognized wherever you go to collect your stuff. Otherwise, you wouldn’t risk it.”
I lean back and fold my arms. “There’s a difference between me being spotted and you.”
“You believe he’s circling your job. He might lose interest in me and move on. That’s not happening with you.”
I hate how she can run circles around me with words alone. “Not worth the risk.”
She sighs. “It’s like being back at the institute. Probably similar to the way women feel in your cult.”
I tense. “You aren’t a prisoner.”
“Glad we cleared that up. Let me know what time we’re leaving, and I’ll be ready.” She nods at me with her decision, hands on her hips, looking delectable in my freaking shirt.
How did she do that? I’m left baffled as she finishes her meal and starts clearing up the dishes and loading them into the dishwasher.
“See you bright and early, roomie.” She disappears out of the kitchen and heads into her bedroom in a whirlwind of berry-scented air, toned legs, and a smart mouth that is going to be the death of me.