26. Chapter Twenty-Six - Cursed Touch
Imust have looked panic-stricken because his chuckle came rich and low, curling through my ribs.
“I promise,” he murmured with his sinful mouth, “it will be right back where it belongs. Just for a moment, let me have it.”
My cheeks warmed helplessly beneath the weight of his attention, and I nodded, agreeing like some wide-eyed girl who’d just realized how good it could feel to let someone in close… even if it meant handing over a little control.
Culver opened my door and offered his hand like we were stepping out of a limousine at a red carpet event instead of simply walking into his family’s mansion. Gentlemanly to a fault, as usual.
We fell into step through the towering entrance, both unusually quiet.
I tilted my head up to study him as we walked.
His lips curled into a smirk—not his usual vaguely sinister one, but something rooted in genuine amusement.
Seeing him amused by me made my stomach flutter and my pride bristle all at once.
“Why are you smiling?” I asked cautiously, already bracing myself, my mind racing ahead to all the ways he could twist it into something that would leave me flustered and reaching for him again.
“I enjoy your clingy behavior,” Culver replied, turning his green eyes toward me with a playful accusation that made me want to combust.
I scowled and tried to yank my hand away, but he didn’t even flinch. I tried again, harder, muscles tightening like I could actually win a tug-of-war.
Nothing. Not even a twitch. God, I hated how strong he was.
And by “hated,” I meant I thought about it far too much, the way his grip stayed steady and made me imagine all the ways that strength could wrap around me and never let go.
“Ugh, I don’t even wanna hold your hand,” I snapped, fully aware I sounded like a teenager getting called out for having a crush, like he could see straight through how much I craved the connection.
“Now, now,” he purred, low and dangerously soft, “why not continue being truthful with me? Your body already gives you away.”
I lit up like it was Christmas morning, and Culver was the only gift under the tree.
The spark raced through me from my chest down to my core, making my skin tingle and my pulse quicken in ways I couldn’t hide.
So I yanked at his hand again out of pure desperation, wishing for once I could play it cool instead of reacting to everything he said.
Why couldn’t I have been born unaffected?
Why did I have to be like this, wired to respond to him?
Instead of letting go, he moved with my momentum, stepping into my space until my back met the wall with a soft, startled thud.
His presence closed over me like a weighted blanket soaked in want, dense and impossible to escape without choosing to.
Our hands were still threaded together, and he lifted them above my head, pressing them gently but firmly against the cool wall beside my cheek.
“That’s not what I wanted,” I breathed, trying to keep irritation in my voice and failing miserably as it wavered with want.
The edge of my words softened, giving away how much I was already leaning into the press of him against me.
My breath tasted like nerves and something embarrassingly close to anticipation, the mix hanging heavy as I waited for whatever he’d do next.
He leaned in just enough for his chilled breath to graze mine, his thumb stroking over my palm in slow circles that traveled down my spine like a metronome.
A very horny metronome.
Each pass sent little shocks through me that settled low in my belly.
“My lovely lamb,” he whispered, the words curling around my body like smoke.
The way he said it told me he was fully back in control, steering the moment without breaking a sweat.
I practically whined when I tried shoving at his chest, genuinely surprised he had let me have at least one of my hands back. It did nothing, though. Not even a nudge. It was like pushing against a statue carved out of cold marble.
A super smug marble statue.
“You really enjoy pinning me, huh?”
“Touching you soothes me,” he said with matter-of-fact calm. “Having you beneath me, where I can keep you safe, is the greatest feeling.”
My heart tripped over itself, stuttering in my chest as the words sank deep. I attempted a scoff, but it came out breathier than intended. “Do I look safe to you?”
I puffed my cheeks out, heat prickling beneath my skin in places no one could politely acknowledge. An insistent throb reminded me just how far gone I already was, caught up in the way he made me feel both protected and utterly exposed all at once.
He didn’t answer with words.
Instead, he slid one of his legs between mine and hitched it just right so it nestled exactly where I had no business being that sensitive already.
My thighs clenched instinctively, the automatic squeeze pulling me tighter against the solid press of him.
It made it impossible to pretend I wasn’t already aching for more, even as I tried to hold onto some shred of self-control.
My eyes widened, breath catching sharply as he rolled his thigh against my pussy…
slowly, like he’d timed every second of pressure to see how fast I would fall apart.
Each shift built pressure low in my core until my whole body hummed with it, leaving me balanced on a raw edge of wanting him so badly it almost hurt to keep still.
“What’re you doing?” My voice cracked, landing somewhere between a complaint and a moan. I bit down hard on my lower lip to keep more sound from spilling out.
His eyes lifted to mine, hooded and focused, a predator watching the precise moment his prey realized escape wasn’t just unlikely, but pointless.
And then, as if he hadn’t just destroyed my entire pelvic floor, he stopped.
He stepped back with infuriating calm, like he was finishing a conversation instead of leaving me in ruins.
His expression smoothed into polite serenity, but his eyes didn’t match.
They were stormy and restless, caught in some internal war I couldn’t see, making them more beautiful and more frightening.
My knees wobbled, and I had to brace a palm against the wall to keep myself upright.
Every nerve from my hips downward throbbed in slow, molten pulses that made it hard to think about things like weddings or walkable legs or dignity.
Culver knew. Of course he knew, reading every shaky breath and lingering ache like he had mapped out every weak spot in me.
“Anna will come for us if we stay here,” he said lightly as he adjusted his jacket, as if the hallway weren’t still vibrating with the ghost of his thigh. “Her impatience sickens me at times.”
I could have screamed from frustration and need, from the maddening tension coiled low in my stomach that begged for release and kept me trapped in agonizing limbo where every step forward felt like it might unravel me completely if he so much as brushed against me again.
Instead, I clenched my thighs uselessly and forced my breathing into something resembling normal while he extended his hand once more, smirking like the cat who had not only caught the canary but left it flustered and questioning its entire existence.
I took his hand because pretending otherwise would have been an insult to reality, and he tugged me along, leading me deeper into the house.
My thoughts stayed shamelessly fixed on how his thigh had nearly rewritten my life choices, replaying the firm slide and the way it had lit me up inside, making it impossible to shake the lingering throb whispering promises of what could come next if I just let myself fall into it completely.
“I will have Belinda bring snacks to the art room for you in a bit,” Culver said, his voice gentler as he pushed open a pair of intricately carved double doors.
The room beyond flooded with color and texture: painted canvases in gilded frames, glass pedestals displaying twisting sculptures, and carefully arranged crafts tucked into curated corners. The entire space hummed with soft, cultivated creativity.
“This is the art room, or the gallery. Whatever you prefer to call it.” He motioned inside like he was unveiling something sacred. “She wanted to speak with you in a creative environment, so please, make yourself at home.”
He paused, his gaze warm and heavy on my face.
“After she spends her time with you, you are mine for the rest of the day.”
Heat flushed through my chest at being his for the rest of the day. It sounded like something I wasn’t emotionally prepared for, yet my body had already RSVP’d yes.
And then there was the second realization: this single room was larger than the house I grew up in. Standing in it made me feel like a kid in a fairy tale who’d wandered into the wrong chapter without anyone noticing.
At the center of the room, elevated on a shallow platform that made her seem even more ethereal, Anna sat poised like a piece of art waiting to be admired.
She wore a gown in a shade of pink so rich it flirted with coral at sunset, and her curls cascaded down her back in gleaming waves that reminded me of fire flickering behind frosted glass.
The entire room seemed to bow to her without needing to.
She looked like she belonged in a painting framed in gold leaf beneath museum lighting.
“Ira, it’s so lovely to see you again!” she called, lifting her hand in an elegant wave that my brain insisted on comparing to a princess in a storybook.
I waved back, fingers fluttering awkwardly, my smile stretching a little too wide. “H-Hi Anna,” I managed, stumbling over my own tongue like I was back in middle school meeting the cool senior girl who always smelled like expensive perfume and emotional stability.
“Go on,” Culver murmured behind me, his palm settling lightly against the small of my back. His touch was brief but grounding, steadying my nerves the way a hand does when you’re about to step onto a stage you didn’t rehearse for.