Chapter Twenty-Eight
Max
After dinner and putting everything in the dishwasher, Rhys gives me a tour of his home.
It’s even bigger than it appears from the outside—three wings, each with its own kitchen, a theater and a courtyard full of various blossoms, mostly fancy-looking orchids, lilies, jasmine vines and hyacinths.
The halls have fresh flowers and oil paintings on the walls.
The east wing has landscapes, the west features modern, abstract art, while in the main one hang portraits of people who bear a remarkable resemblance to Rhys and his father.
“The family portraits,” he explains when my eyes linger over them. “That’s my grandfather, when he was young. I think this was done a year before he met my grandmother. That’s his cousin, who supposedly also wanted to marry my grandmother, but lost the battle for her heart.”
I gaze up at the men. “Why’d she pick your grandfather?”
“A bigger trust fund.”
“Cynical.”
“Truthful.” He points to a painting of a ballet dancer on a straight leg ending in pointe, her torso tilted forward and the other leg raised high behind her. Every line is long, graceful and effortless. “That’s Grandmother when she was twenty-five. Piqué penché en pointe. Grandfather’s favorite.”
“Why didn’t he keep it?”
“She has a photo of this exact pose that she likes better, so they kept that one instead. There are tons of pictures from her Mariinsky years at their place.” Rhys sighs a little.
“She’s probably still unhappy about the fact that her injury ended her career the way it did.
She would’ve had to retire anyway as she got older, but there’s a big difference in deciding for yourself and it being suddenly forced upon you. ”
I recall the woman who sat with rigid control in his office. Someone like her would value being the mistress of her fate.
The east and west wings are designed specifically for hosting parties and guests, while the main wing is for the owners and has a fully equipped gym.
The layout is perfect if you ever need to invite guests who don’t get along with each other, even though I can’t see Rhys hosting anything of that nature in his home.
The only bullshit he tolerates is from his parents, probably out of obligation.
The white sheets covering the furniture in the side wings prove me correct.
Even some of the extra bedrooms in the main wings have their furniture covered.
The home office and the master bedroom are the only rooms that look regularly used, although one guest bedroom seems ready for an unexpected overnight visitor, assuming Rhys would let them stay.
The office is a replica of the one at the firm, except for a comfy-looking leather couch and a Barcalounger.
Makes sense, though. Rhys is a man of habit.
He prefers everything to be the same at work, as it supposedly keeps him productive.
He doesn’t go on business trips by himself because he finds every deviation a distraction, and wants somebody—usually me—to handle it.
The master bedroom is spacious, at least twice as big as my old apartment.
It has a bed that’s definitely a California king, with pale cream-and-sage bedding plus more pillows than I can count.
A bench with the matching color scheme sits at the foot.
There are a couple of plush armchairs occupying a sitting area with a round cherry table between them.
An antique lamp with a stained-glass shade sits on it.
Cove lighting on the high ceiling casts a soft glow to the space, making it look surprisingly cozy despite its size.
The walk-in closet is so huge, it could be converted into an en suite bedroom.
All of Rhys’s suits hang neatly, and the island holds his watches, cuff links and belts on the top glass display case.
Impeccably polished shoes line the racks.
But there’s still a lot of space for more things—if he ever decides to go on a shopping spree.
The carry-on I left behind in Tokyo sits in a corner like a child in timeout.
“Which bedroom?” Rhys asks as we head to the car to grab my things.
“The master.”
“No quibbles, no pillow border?” He raises an eyebrow.
I laugh. “If a flying roach attacks me, I’ll be able to hide behind you. Besides, the bed is a proper king, not some ‘king bed,’ and we pretty well crossed all the border there was—unless you think we can roll back time.”
He studies me for a moment. “Huh. Very interesting.”
“I’m just forward looking.”
“Yes, but you also hold on to the past. Like your father and Slick.”
I grab the plastic bags. Rhys takes my clothes, and we head back inside.
“Just remembering past lessons so I don’t repeat them,” I say.
“I’ll never marry a man who isn’t loyal, or give him the power to hurt me or make me question my self-worth.
And I will also do my absolute utmost to ensure any child I have won’t end up with a father like mine.
Mom was the best. She loved me, and I loved her back, but it hurts to know my father didn’t think I was worth it.
When he blamed Mom for not giving him the son he desperately wanted, I wished I hadn’t been born at all.
” I press a hand over my mouth, to stop the flow of the words.
It stuns me that so much has slipped out.
“It wasn’t your fault.” Rhys’s voice is gentle.
“Well…yeah. I know that.” I pause. “Now. But back then, it felt like it was all my fault.” My eyes are on the floor as I lower the bags.
He drapes my clothes over the back of the armchair and cradles my face. His palms feel shockingly hot against my cool cheeks. “It’s his loss. I’m glad you were born, Freckles, and I’m happy as hell he didn’t break you.”
The skin around my eyes grows heated with unshed tears.
I’ve never told anybody how Dad’s blatant disdain hurt me.
Not even Mom. It would’ve broken her heart, and I was terrified of being a burdensome child.
I should regret sharing it with Rhys, but when he looks into my eyes like he means every word, I can’t feel sorry.
I go on my toes and brush my lips on his cheek…and then suddenly we’re really kissing. My hands go to his shoulders, then climb up to dig into the cool, silky strands of his hair.
I press my body along his lean, muscular frame, then shiver at how hard he is.
He caresses my breast with one hand and squeezes my ass with the other. Hot excitement shivers up my spine at the blatant show of desire and possessiveness.
I tug at his tie, undoing the impeccable knot and pulling it away. Excitement bubbles in my veins like champagne. I feel like a kid unwrapping her most anticipated birthday present. The blunt desire in his eyes is the best kind of gift for my aching soul.
I shift the angle of my head to deepen the kiss without smudging his glasses. I love the cool, intellectual look they give him. It makes me feel like a seductive vixen to be able to shatter his control. I run my hands down his torso, flicking my fingers over his small nipples through the clothes.
He groans against my mouth. Underneath my palms lies such restrained power. I want to see him unravel and completely lose control, just like I did when he dropped to his knees only a couple of hours ago.
I reach for his belt, nip his lower lip, then flick my tongue over the spot.
He dips his head to recapture my mouth. Feeling playful, I cock my head and offer him my neck instead.
He nuzzles the pulse point, his light breaths tickling my sensitive skin.
The tip of his tongue licks over the spot, sending goosebumps all over my nape and back.
As soon as his pants are unfastened, I slip my hand under his boxers and grip his cock. It pulses against my palm. I bite my lip with triumph. Its feverish heat inflames my lust. I hold it hard, making it twitch. He lets out a tortured groan, and I shoot him a wicked smile.
“Good God, don’t stop,” he begs. His eyes are narrow as he gazes down at me.
Slowly pumping my hand, I slither down until my knees hit the floor.
At this height I’m faced with the sexy, lean lines of his abs.
Heat pools between my thighs, making me want to squirm.
I trace the ridges of his taut belly with my mouth, licking and sucking and tasting.
His skin burns under my lips. His breathing grows ragged, and he can’t keep the low groans from rising in his throat.
I give another good pump, then stop right below his cockhead.
I swipe my thumb over the slick tip, spreading the precum.
The muscles in his thighs tense in anticipation, and I can’t suppress a slow smile.
His scent is strong, and more clear fluid drips from the end of his long, pulsing cock.
I stroke the plum-shaped head with my tongue, getting a good taste of him—slightly salty and all Rhys.
I look up to see his reaction. His chest is barely moving—he’s holding his breath, waiting for me to do whatever I want. I pull him into my mouth, inch by inch.
Ecstasy slackens his face. He pins me with his eyes, and I can’t look away as I take as much of his cock as possible, until the tip grazes the back of my throat. Even then there’s still a decent length of him left. I wrap my hand around the base and carefully move my head, setting a rhythm.
He sighs with bliss as I pick up the tempo. My jaw aches a little from his enormous girth, but the satisfaction from watching him enjoy what I’m doing is more than enough of a reward. His hips twitch—he wants to fuck my mouth, but he catches himself. Instead, he threads his fingers into my hair.
“Are you wet?” he asks huskily.
I slip a hand between my legs. Then pull it out to show him the drenched digits.
“Fuck.”
I hum a wicked laugh, high on my power and control as I suck him.
“If going down on me makes you feel good…turns you on…”
I groan against his cock.
“Finger yourself. Make yourself feel good.”
I push three fingers inside as I hollow my cheeks. He wraps my hair around his fist as his breathing grows shallower. His thigh muscles tremble and tighten. I move my head in a wild rhythm while my fingers are pushing me toward orgasm. Pleasure shimmers along my nerve endings. I’m so close.
He groans, and his grip on my hair loosens to give me a choice—to pull away or not. I suck harder.
He lets out a cry as hot fluid fills my mouth. I swallow every drop, gazing up at him—every tendon stark in his neck, the abdominal muscles jerking. With his face twisted in agonized ecstasy, he looks like a fallen god.
“Holy shit, Freckles,” he manages, struggling to catch his breath.
I grin up at him. I couldn’t quite push myself over the edge, but it’s okay. Watching him come was just as satisfying.
Determination hardens his eyes.
“What?” I ask.
“You didn’t get to come.”
“So?”
He shakes his head, then picks me up and drops me on the bed with a bounce.
He pushes my dress up savagely and pulls my clit into his mouth while his long fingers plunge into my aching emptiness.
I arch my back as he rubs my G-spot. It only takes a minute before I’m pushed over the edge, writhing on the sheets, screaming his name.
That night I do not have nightmares about headless cockroaches.