24. Jamison #2
That was the bar I had built. Existing and kindness had become suspicious events.
I put the cigarette out before I snapped it.
Only to immediately lit another one.
Sienna came back into the lounge a moment later, smoothing the front of her dress as if she could smooth the conversation with it. Reeves stayed in the kitchen and began pretending to care about plates.
Sienna stopped near the armchair, keeping a respectful distance from me. “My father will expect you at breakfast if dinner is canceled.”
“Your father can develop healthier expectations.”
“It’s tradition.”
“Many terrible things are.”
“The first dinner matters.”
“It mattered so much the sky intervened.”
She frowned. “You can’t hide in the cottage for three weeks.”
“I disagree.”
“Jamison. I’m serious. My family will think you’re insulting them.”
“I am.”
Her mouth opened, then closed. She tried again. “They invited you into a private retreat.”
“They invited a contract,” I said. “Unfortunately for everyone involved, the contract brought me.”
Sienna’s fingers tightened around her glass.
The peach dress shifted with the movement, one shoulder tie slipping a fraction along her skin.
It was offensive, really. A man came here with intentions.
Avoidance strategy. Cabin imprisonment, tasteful of course.
Then she walked downstairs in that dress, and suddenly I was expected to consider other people’s feelings.
Terrible system.
“My father will think you’re making a statement,” she said.
“I am making several.”
“Jamison.”
“Sienna.”
Her cheeks warmed. I watched it happen and felt my mood improve in a deeply unbecoming way. She lowered the glass to the side table, then folded her arms, which did nothing helpful to that dress. The neckline pulled tighter over her chest, and my gaze dropped before manners could intercept it.
No bra.
Her nipples stood out beneath the pale fabric.
My body delivered its opinion with enthusiasm.
Good girl, I thought. A thought that belonged in a darker room with her closer and my mouth at her ear.
One day, when she was fully mine, when she had my rules she had agreed to with those clear, stubborn eyes, I might make that a private rule.
No bra in our house. No bra in our bed. No bra beneath soft dresses tied at the shoulders, because if she walked around wrapped in little bows, I deserved the right to open them.
I dragged smoke into my lungs and looked toward the storm before the fantasy became visible on my face.
“I’m staying,” I said.
She went quiet.
“I came to work on us,” I added, because apparently I was speaking in emotional sentences now and no one had the decency to shoot me.
Reeves set dinner on the table with the controlled calm of a man trying not to look directly at either of us. Smart. He understood survival.
“I will attend every lake cult activity you attend.”
She shook her head, but the smile stayed longer this time.
We ate in the lounge instead of at the table because Sienna curled on the couch with her legs tucked beneath her and I lacked the discipline to move her into a more formal arrangement.
Reeves delivered plates, removed plates, pretended not to observe the full collapse of my personality, and finally retreated right his house under the excuse of reviewing the estate’s security dampeners.
The storm softened after ten. Thunder moved farther away.
Rain ran steady over the windows, silver in the reflected light.
House Alder turned quiet in that expensive way cottages did when rich families tried to manufacture simplicity with hidden climate systems, and sheets worth more than a decent car.
“I can sleep downstairs.” Sienna gathered the leather activity folder to her chest and stood, glancing toward the loft bedroom.
“No.”
“It’s a good couch.”
Her fingers pressed into the folder. “There’s only one bed.”
“Excellent observation.”
“I mean—”
“I know what you mean.” I put out my cigarette. “We’ll share.” I stood before I did something stupid. “Come on. Bed.”
The loft bedroom sat open to the bathroom with no wall between them, because Bellemeres apparently believed privacy was a weakness.
The shower was set behind a panel of smoked glass that hid nothing useful.
The freestanding tub faced the rain-dark windows.
The vanity ran along one side beneath a long mirror.
The bed occupied the other half of the open room, wide and pale, already turned down.
No doors.
No corners.
Sienna went to the dresser first, moving with the careful grace of someone trained to make even exhaustion pretty. I turned toward my bag. Heroic. Historic. Evidence of moral greatness. Then fabric dropped, and the mirror betrayed everything.
The dress slid down her body.
I saw her back first. Smooth skin. Dark hair falling over one shoulder. The delicate line of her waist. Then the peach fabric slipped past her hips, and I caught one savage glimpse of tight black panties disappearing between her ass cheeks.
Her ass was barely covered.
Barely.
A disgraceful little scrap of fabric. A direct insult. A deliberate attack on a man who had already endured weather ethics, family obligation, near death, and emotional conversation in one day.
Honestly, at this state, sainthood was overfucking rated.
I had always enjoyed being a sinner more.
Crows weren’t born saints. We were born with blood under the floorboards, violence in the family crest, and enough inherited darkness to make priests check the locks twice.
But I would worship the fuck out of her.
That was the problem. The reverence. If I ever got Sienna Bellemere naked beneath me by her own choice, I would make religion out of every inch.
She reached for her sleep top on the bed.
It wasn’t there.
It sat on the dresser.
Near me.
Her eyes found it, then me, in the mirror.
She froze, one arm crossing over her chest.
A sweet, useless mistake, because the motion only shifted her body and made the black panties ride higher over that perfect, tight ass.
“Your top is here,” I said.
Her face went scarlet. “I see that.”
“I can bring it to you.”
“No.”
“Then come get it.”
She looked at me as though I had personally ruined her.
I had not.
I appreciated the opportunity, though.
Her chin lifted. Brave. Furious in the smallest possible way. She walked past me with her arm across her breasts and making dignity out of near nakedness because Sienna Bellemere had spent her life surviving rooms by refusing to let them see how much they cost her.
I watched.
Naturally.
She had a perfect ass. Tight. Soft and disciplined from years of ballet, almost entirely swallowed by black lace. My hand twitched with the urge to see how it would fit beneath my palm.
I behaved.
Wasn’t I a fucking saint?
She snatched the top from the dresser and pulled it over herself so quickly she nearly tangled in it. Pale silk fell to the top of her thighs, covering the worst of the damage and somehow creating new problems. Her cheeks stayed bright as she crossed to the bed and slid beneath the sheet.
“Don’t say anything,” she said.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking loudly.”
“My thoughts are private.”
She turned her head away, but the corner of her mouth moved.
Good.
Keep talking, baby.
I reached for my shirt buttons. Her gaze found me again before the first one opened.
Caught.
She looked away, then back. The movement was small and careful, but my body noticed with humiliating speed.
I unbuttoned the shirt slower than necessary.
If Sienna wanted to watch, I was not a cruel man tonight. Not to her.
One button. Then another. Black fabric opening over my chest, ink appearing in pieces. Crow script down my ribs. Dark work over my shoulders. Blade marks crossed by newer designs. Old scars tucked beneath shadows and letters. I shrugged the shirt off and let it fall over the chair.
Her eyes followed.
Curiosity. Heat. Something shy and hungry that made my mouth go dry.
I moved to my belt.
Her attention dropped so fast my ego stood up and applauded.
Good girl.
Watch Daddy.
One day, I’d hold her chin and make her watch without hiding. One day, when she understood what she was asking for with those eyes, I’d tell her exactly how much I liked her attention on my hands.
Tonight, I slid the belt free.
“Enjoying yourself?” I asked.
Her gaze snapped to mine. “I was looking at your tattoos.”
“On my belt?”
“No.”
“So you were looking lower.”
Her blush became magnificent.
“Don’t make it sound awful. I noticed your tattoos first.”
“And then?”
She lifted her chin. “Your body is covered.”
“Think of my body much, baby?”
She rolled her eyes before she could stop herself.
My eyebrows rose.
Her eyes widened a fraction, as if she had surprised herself more than me. There it was. Spirit. The tiny spark under all that sweetness.
“Careful,” I said, voice low but amused. “Keep rolling your eyes at me and I’ll start believing you’re comfortable.”
“I am comfortable.”
“Liar.”
Her mouth opened, then closed.
I smiled faintly.
She looked at my chest again, and this time she took longer. “How much do you work out to keep that body?”
For one shining second, the world became a better place. My ego, neglected by apologies and emotional growth, lifted its head and purred.
“That body?” I asked.
She groaned and dropped back against the pillow. “I regret asking.”
“You shouldn’t. It was one of your finest contributions to the evening.”
“You’re going to be impossible now.”
“I was impossible before. Now I’m appreciated.”
“I didn’t say appreciated.”
“You said that body. Tone did the rest.”
She hid her face behind one hand.
I loved it.
Fuck.
I loved her talking to me again.
That was the dangerous part. The flirting was manageable, mostly.
The dress, the panties, the soft little blushes, all survivable with effort and possibly prayer.
But her voice? Her asking questions because she wanted the answers?
That went deeper. It made me want to sit in this room all night and earn another sentence.
Don’t screw it up, Crow.