Chapter 11
Eleven
Cora
The afternoon light shifts and I'm at the counter again, leaning over my sketchbook, adding details to the composition. The sweater has slipped off my shoulder again and I haven't fixed it. My elbows are tucked in close, my shoulders curved forward, my body folding in against the marble.
I don't catch myself doing it until his voice cuts through the silence.
"Stop that."
I look up. He's standing across the counter, water glass in hand, watching me with an expression I can't read.
"Stop what?"
"Making yourself smaller." He sets the glass down and moves around the counter. He stands behind me close enough that his body heat presses against my back through the sweater. "You do it when you're uncertain. You fold in. Contract as if you take up less space you won’t be bothering anyone."
“It’s a habit I haven’t broken since dating your son. He didn’t like it when I took up too much space.”
“That is not something I taught him.”
I tilt my head to the side. “I didn’t think you did.” I cup the side of his face and take comfort from the warmth. “What he is doing is not on you. You know that, right?”
Guilt consumes his eyes. It’s there swimming in the pools of blue and then it’s gone in a blink.
His hands find my elbows. Gently, he pushes them outward, forcing my shoulders to expand, my chest to open. The sweater shifts against my breasts with the movement and the cool air of the compound hits newly exposed skin.
"Never make yourself small for anyone ever again," he says against my hair, his breath warm on the crown of my head. "Never feel shy about the space you take up. Own it and fuck everyone else."
The command in his voice straightens my spine before my brain gives permission. My shoulders roll back. My chin lifts. The contraction I didn't know I was performing releases, and the difference is immediate. More space in my lungs. More air to breathe.
His hands stay on my elbows for a beat longer than necessary. Then they slide down my arms, tracing the skin to my wrists, and the touch leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake. His thumbs brush the insides of my wrists where my pulse hammers fast enough for him to count.
"Better," he murmurs.
He doesn't move away.
I don't want him to.
"The kiss," I say. "Earlier. Do you really think it was a mistake?"
His hands find my hips. The sweater is so thin that every finger presses through, every callus, the cold ring of silver against my hip bone.
He turns me around to face him and my back presses against the edge of the counter.
The marble is cool through the fabric and his body is a wall of heat in front of me.
"It was a mistake because now that I’ve had another taste, I’m more likely to do it again. And again."
The longer he speaks the closer his lips get to mine. "And what is so terrible about that?"
The question hangs between us. His jaw tightens. His eyes drop to my mouth, then lower, to the shoulder the sweater has slipped from, to the bare skin beneath the knit fabric, to the hem that barely covers my thighs where the black lace peeks out.
"You don't know what you're asking."
"I know exactly what I'm asking." I reach up and touch his jaw.
The stubble is rough against my palm and the muscle beneath it ticks under my fingers.
"You told me you love me last night. You held me while I slept.
You called me your sunshine this morning.
You showed me just how much you crave me.
" I hold his gaze and let him see every ounce of what I'm asking for.
"I want the rest, Rowan. All of it. Stop protecting me from the one thing I'm not afraid of. "
He kisses me again. Harder this time. His hands grip my hips and lift me onto the counter and my legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer.
The position puts us eye to eye, mouth to mouth, and the sweater rides up to my waist. The black lace of the panties that were supposed to break his control presses against the front of his slacks and the hard length beneath them.
The panties are doing their job.
He groans into my mouth. The sound vibrates through me, low and raw and desperate, and I swallow it. Take it in. Keep it.
"The things I want to do to you," he says against my lips.
"Show me."
He pulls back. Looks at me with those ice-blue eyes gone dark with want. Then he drops to his knees.
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing the sweater higher, exposing the black lace he picked out himself.
He hooks his fingers in the waistband and pulls the panties down my legs in one smooth motion.
They fall to the marble floor in a whisper of silk and his eyes stay locked on mine the entire time.
"Rowan."
His name comes out shaky. I'm trembling and he hasn't even touched me yet. My fingers grip the edge of the counter and the cold marble bites into my palms.
He looks up at me from his knees. This man runs an empire, holds the lives of countless people in his hands and he’s on his knees looking up at me like I'm the one with power here.
"Watch me," he says.
And I do.
His mouth finds the inside of my thigh first. Soft kisses that make my muscles jump beneath his lips. His beard scrapes against the sensitive skin and the contrast between the roughness and the softness of his mouth sends a shiver rolling through me.
His hands grip my hips and pull me forward to the edge of the counter, spreading my legs wider, opening me to him.
His breath is hot against my skin and the anticipation alone has my fingers white-knuckling the marble.
The first stroke of his tongue drags a moan from low in my belly that echoes off the stone walls and comes back to me like a stranger's voice.
"Oh my god." My head rolls side to side. The heat of his tongue tracing the inside of my pussy lips nearly sends me over the edge instantly. If that makes me weak, who the hell cares? Not me!
“Rowan, what are you doing to me?” I know what he is doing, but for real. What is this man doing to me that I can’t seem to think of anything else but climaxing all over his face, his dick and anywhere else he wants me.
His response is a low, warm chuckle and then he does it again. And again.
His mouth is hot and wet, his tongue moving with a patience that borders on cruelty. He slowly strokes his tongue through my slick fold. Pressure builds, but the man is intent on not giving me any relief. My fingers find his hair and grip hard.
"Rowan. Please."
He pulls back just enough to speak against me, his breath warm on sensitive skin. "Please what?"
"More. I need more."
He gives me more. His tongue finds the spot that makes my vision blur and he focuses there, relentlessly.
His hands hold my hips in place when my body tries to arch off the counter.
The pressure builds in tightening waves, my thighs shaking against his shoulders.
My fingers tighten around locks of his hair.
Sounds tear from my mouth that I've never made before and can't stop making.
The marble is cold under my ass and his mouth is hot against me.
The contrast drives me higher until I can't tell where the cold ends and the heat begins.
"That's it," he murmurs against me. "Let go, malyshka. I've got you."
The orgasm crashes through me hard enough to steal my breath.
My whole body seizes, my thighs clamping around his head, and I'm coming against his mouth while he works me through it.
His tongue gentles but doesn't stop, drawing out every last wave until I'm boneless on his kitchen counter with my pulse hammering in my ears and the ceiling spinning above me in slow blue circles from the pool light.
He presses a kiss to the inside of my thigh. Then another. Then he rises from his knees, cups my face in both hands, and kisses my mouth.
I taste myself on his lips. The intimacy of it should shock me. Instead it sends a fresh wave of heat through my body. He tasted me on his finger on the terrace, licked it clean.
But this is different.
"Good girl," he says against my mouth, in a low growly purr.
Those two words wrap around my soul and settle in my heart. My whole body flushes with warmth that has nothing to do with the orgasm and everything to do with that voice saying those words while his hands hold my face. He makes me feel like I'm the most precious thing he's ever touched.
Slowly, he pulls away, his lips trailing down my jawline to my neck, making me cry out as his teeth rake the sensitive skin there.
He studies my face. Whatever he finds makes his expression soften in a way I haven't seen before, not even last night when he told me he loved me. This is quieter than that. Deeper.
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his thumb grazing the shell of it.
"Let that hold us both off.”
“For how long?” My whole body trembles with the need to have more. He’s achingly hard and in need too. I reach for the button of his slacks to pull him closer, but he gently takes my hands in his.
“You should rest." He helps me off the counter.
Weary blue eyes find mine. Pain glitters in those bottomless depths and I am not so sure it is all due to me or some past mistake he made.
He disappears down the hallway.
My body is still humming, still warm, still carrying the echo of his mouth and his hands and those two words.
Good girl.
I need to get my head together. I need to think about what just happened, what it means, where this is going. A man who loves me but won't let himself have me is a mystery that my brain can’t let go of.
I walk toward the bedroom. My boots are by the bed where I left them and so is that piece of folded paper. I haven't touched it since arriving. Every time I reached for it, Rowan or exhaustion or the terrace or my own cowardice pulled me in another direction.
Now the room is quiet. My body is sated, my mind is clear, and there's nothing left to hide behind.
I pull the paper from my boot.
I unfold the paper and scan the details.