*There are two options when the world feels like it’s exploding around you: throw a pity party and cry yourself to sleep, or call up your girlfriends and booze the night away. I choose the latter option. I call up Morgan and practically beg her to go out for drinks. Fortunately, her fiancé Mark is working late tonight, so she’s more than willing to help me drown my frustrations in some whiskey. I give her only one condition: that we talk about neither work nor men all night.
I end up getting sloshed, of course.
I leave my car at the bar and take a cab home, and even then it’s a miracle I make it up the two flights of stairs to my apartment. I fumble with my keys at the door, dropping them twice before I manage to get the damned thing unlocked.
Trying to get undressed is an adventure in and of itself. I finally collapse half-clothed on the bed, and it’s only because I land awkwardly on my purse that I remember I promised Morgan I’d call her as soon as I was safely indoors.
It takes some searching to find my cell phone in my bag. I’m briefly distracted by a tube of orangey lipstick I thought I lost months ago, and I swear, the number of receipts I’ve shoved down into my purse has multiplied overnight. But my fingers do, eventually, land on the phone, and I yank it out, all too eager to go to bed and sleep off the topsy-turvy feeling in my skull.
But when I go to pull up Morgan’s number, I find my thumb hovering over Calder’s name instead.
Don’t call him, says the logical, sensible part of my brain. You need to move on with your life.
But he still wants you, whispers the dark, drunk, emotional part. You know he does. He needs you.
He’s an asshole, the first voice reminds me. You’re better off without him. You’re better off forgetting him completely.
I throw down my phone and wobble over to my laptop. The web browser is still open to the last gossip blog I was reading. I need to stop torturing myself with these tabloid sites. They’re trash, and they only end up pissing me off.
I’m about to click away from the screen when I notice a headline I hadn’t seen before: “What will happen to the Cunningham estate?”
Don’t click on it, the sensible part of my mind begs. But the drunk part is the one in charge now.
The following article suggests that Edward Carolson, the new owner of the estate, is hoping to open the grounds and house to the public.
“This property is too beautiful to keep hidden away,” Carolson is quoted as saying. He goes on to talk about his plans: opening the stables, building a couple of crafts cottages to “give people the experience of life on the estate before the turn of the century,” even refinishing an entire wing of rooms so people can stay on the property.
Oh my God, I realize. He wants to make it a freaking tourist attraction.
But this is a gossip site. Maybe they made all of this up. I hadn’t even realized the sale of the estate was official yet.
An internet search quickly proves me wrong. The news broke only this morning, when Carolson officially filed a petition to rezone the property.
I’m going to be sick.
It’s one thing for an arts center to rent out its gallery—our entire mission involves bringing people together around the arts—but it’s an entirely different thing to turn someone’s family home into a friggin’ theme park. Calder was so proud of his home—and of the name it represented. The Cunninghams have guarded the estate’s secrets across generations. No doubt people will come flocking the moment it’s open to the public. The recent rumors will only fuel ticket sales, I’m sure. It’s the ultimate humiliation.
And he’s dealing with it all alone.
My phone is in my hand, but I don’t remember how it got there. I stumble back to my bed and collapse on the sheets.
Just a text, I tell myself. Just to make sure he’s okay.
It’s late. I should probably wait until tomorrow. I must have had more whiskey than I thought because I can’t tell if the clock on my phone reads 11:20 or 1:20. Or is that 12:00?
Fuck it. I don’t care.
I’m not sure what to say. I have enough trouble comforting him when I’m sober, and right now my brain feels like a bowl of oatmeal. But I can’t stop the images that keep flashing through my mind: visions of him in some dark and desperate place, angry and alone and defeated. I’ll do anything to draw him back.
In the end, I turn to the only tool I have. The one thing that my intoxicated mind believes might save him from himself.
We never finished our game, I text. Does that mean you forfeit?
It’s not until after I send it off that I realize I typed “fonoshrd” instead of “finished” and “frfeeit” instead of “forfeit,” but I’m sure he’ll figure it out.
I close my eyes and lean my head back on my pillow as I wait for his response. I’m still seething over this news about the estate, and I wish there was something real, something substantial I could do. Maybe I could stage a protest. At the very least, I could contact the county and…
My phone beeps. I roll over and open Calder’s text.
What? Are you all right?
Yess, I text back. Are yu going to playor nott? The words don’t look right, even to me, but I’m too foggy-headed to bother to fix them.
I’ve only just sent the message on when my phone rings.
“Lily? What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” I insist. “You’re not playing the game right.”
There’s a brief pause. “Are you drunk?”
“I had… some drinks.”
“How many?”
Why won’t he just shut up and play? I’m trying to help him! “That, Mr. Cunningham, is none of your business. Are we playing or not?”
“You’re slurring, Lily. I really don’t think you—”
“Ugh, don’t patronize me. If you don’t want to play, then just—” Something shifts in my stomach, surges upward…
Oh no.
I throw down the phone and bolt for the bathroom. I only just make it through the door before I’m sick. Everywhere.
Needless to say, it’s not a pretty night. I don’t know how long I kneel there praying to the Porcelain Goddess, but every time I think I’m done, my stomach heaves again. You think I would have gotten the whole drink-until-you-puke thing out of my system back in college, but apparently not. In one of my more lucid moments I yank a towel down from the rack and try to clean myself—and the bathroom—as best I can, but as soon as I’ve wiped the worst of it down, my stomach roils again and I have to dive once more for the toilet. By the time I’ve finally emptied my stomach, I’m exhausted and trembling. I curl up next to the toilet in the fetal position.
Somebody kill me now.
I’m deep in a groggy haze when I hear the steps behind me, feel the cool hands on my skin. I’m being pulled to a sitting position and my hair is pushed back from my face. And then I’m staring up into Calder’s dark, gorgeous eyes.
Wait. Calder?
“What are you doing here?” I say—or try to say.
“We were talking on the phone, and then you were gone.” He frowns. “I tried calling you again, but you wouldn’t answer. I got worried.”
What’s that look in his eyes? Pity? Disappointment? Disgust? Ugh, I probably look and smell completely horrible right now.
“So you just showed up?” I try to pull out of his arms. “How’d you even get in, you creeper?” It’s supposed to be a joke, but my voice sounds harsh, even to me.
Why won’t he stop looking at me like that?
“You left your keys in the door,” he says. His own voice is cold, even.
I don’t blame him for his tone. I’m a mess right now.
“I’m—I’m okay,” I tell him, trying once more to escape his arms. I grab the towel rack and pull myself awkwardly to my feet.
Calder rises too. He reaches around me, into the shower, and cranks on the water.
“In,” he says.
I want to argue, just for the sake of my pride, but honestly, what dignity do I have left at this point? I’m drunk and covered in vomit. I reach for my shirt, but then I remember that was one of the few things I managed to pull off before tumbling into bed. The sudden realization that I’m half naked only makes my situation that much worse. I can’t even bring myself to look at him as I reach around to unclasp my bra. The motion knocks me off-balance, but Calder’s hand shoots out to steady me.
He doesn’t say anything. But after I struggle for another moment he reaches behind me and unhooks my bra. Slides the straps off my shoulders. Drops the bra on the ground. His hands move to my skirt next. He undoes the zipper, slips the skirt down my legs. My panties, too. His hands are steady, his touch almost clinical. He skims right past the places he used to linger. He hardly seems to notice I’m naked at all.
When my clothes are nothing more than a puddle around my ankles, he leans over, pushes the shower curtain aside, and runs his hand through the water to test the temperature. Then he helps me inside.
The water is cold. It’s a shock to my liquor-warmed body, and I gasp. But it’s a good feeling, this coolness running down my skin. For a moment, a brief moment, I start to feel better.
And then I notice Calder is taking off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“You can hardly stand. And I’m not getting my clothes wet.” He drops his shirt. I expect him to lean over then, support me and my poor wobbly legs. But he reaches for his pants next, pulls those off too. And then he’s stepping into the shower beside me.
“What are you doing?” I ask again.
He doesn’t reply. Instead he reaches down and grabs my soap. One hand holds me by the waist, steadying me, while the other brings the soap up to my shoulder. He moves it gently across my skin. Over my collarbone, down my arm. My chest next. The suds slide down across my nipples, but his fingers avoid the sensitive pink nubs. He moves the soap across my stomach next, then lower. Something clenches inside of me as he moves toward the crest between my legs, but once again he refrains from any overtly sexual touch.
Suddenly he’s crouching, and I have to reach out and steady myself on his shoulders. He slides the soap down one leg, then the other.
“Turn around,” he says.
I obey. This time I have to lean my hands against the wall for support. The tile is cold beneath my fingers.
Calder cleans the back of my legs before rising again. He’s a wall of heat at my back, a stark contrast to the cool water pouring down over our heads. The soap glides over my lower back, up my spine. Across my shoulder blades. He’s not touching me at all anymore. He keeps the soap between us.
I want to say something. To apologize for being such a mess. To beg him to forgive me. But my tongue is thick in my mouth. I’m not sure he even wants to hear it. He hasn’t even looked me in the eye since he threw me in here. Not that I blame him. He has every right to be pissed at me. I never meant for him to see me like this.
The soap moves up my neck and down again. And then it’s gone. I hear him set it back on the ceramic dish.
He still doesn’t touch me.
I lean forward and press my forehead against the tile. The water helped clear my mind at first, but now everything’s clouding over again. I’m dizzy, and my stomach hasn’t quite settled yet.
And Calder just stands there, still and silent behind me.
“Are you mad?” I hear myself saying. It’s hardly audible above the water.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t move. He probably didn’t hear me.
And then suddenly his arms are around my waist, his chest against my back, his mouth in my hair.
“No,” he murmurs. “No, of course not.”
He releases me suddenly, then leans over and grabs some shampoo.
Right. There’s probably still vomit in my hair.
He takes his time washing my hair. It’s still not sexual, but his touch is soothing. His fingers move in slow circles against my scalp. I want him to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just washes my hair, and when he’s done he reaches around me and turns off the water.
I’m shivering. Calder leans out of the shower and grabs the one clean towel still hanging on the rack. He wraps it around me and rubs me dry.
“I drank a little too much.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s already obvious. But I don’t like the silence.
“I wasn’t—wasn’t paying attention,” I continue. “I wasn’t trying to get dr—to get drunk. I’ve just had a crappy week.”
But he knows that already. He doesn’t say anything.
This wasn’t why I contacted him. I had an awful week, but he’s had an awful year. How did I manage to twist this around, to make it about me? I wanted to make things better for him. I look up at him, and for the first time Calder is looking back at me, and in the light of his beautiful eyes my problems seem so, so stupid.
I really am pathetic.
“What about you?” I say. “Are you okay?”
Something flickers behind his eyes. Pain? Despair? I’m still drunk, but I know I’m not imagining it.
“I’m fine,” he says.
He’s not. I know he’s not. But he’s kissing me on the forehead, leading me out of the shower, toward the door.
“Wait.” I plant my feet next to the sink. My skin might be clean, but I need to get the sour taste out of my mouth. I brush my teeth, leaning against the counter for support, while Calder takes the chance to dry himself off. Afterward he rifles through my medicine cabinet and forces me to swallow a couple of aspirin.
After that he leads me to the bed. This is the first time he’s ever seen my bedroom, and I inwardly cringe at the way this scene has played out. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. We should have stumbled in here after our first date, laughing and tearing our clothes off. We should have tumbled onto the bed and lost ourselves in each other.
Instead, Calder carefully peels back my sheets and helps me slide beneath the covers.
“You’re staying, aren’t you?” I ask as he tucks the comforter around me. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
His hands pause. “I might say the same of you right now.”
It’s the first time tonight that I’ve heard even a hint of amusement in his voice. It gives me hope.
“Stay,” I tell him. When he doesn’t answer immediately, I add, “Are you going to make me beg?”
He lets out a small chuckle. “Maybe. I think I’d like that, hearing you beg me.”
He reaches up and brushes my hair away from my face. There’s a smile in his eyes now, but it doesn’t completely eclipse whatever other dark emotions dwell just beneath his surface. Still, he doesn’t make any more arguments. He pulls back the sheets and climbs in beside me.
I shift toward him. He turns off the lamp, plunging us into darkness, and then he lies back on the pillow with a sigh. I don’t dare move closer, not when I can’t gauge his true emotions. After a few minutes, though, he reaches out and wraps his arm around me, pulling me against him, my back flush against his warm chest. His body curls around mine, and his mouth is by my ear. I can feel his breath in my hair. His heartbeat thrums steadily against my spine.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” I repeat, even as my fatigue threatens to pull me under. I’m fading fast, now that I’m lying down. The shock of the shower has dulled completely, and I’m left with sheer exhaustion.
Calder finds my hand, threads his fingers through mine.
I’m asleep before I hear his reply.
*
I wake sometime in the night. The room is still pitch black, and it takes me a moment to recognize the source of the heat wrapped around me. When I do—when I remember that Calder is here and recall the circumstances of his arrival—the emotions hit me in waves: my initial pleasure at his nearness is followed quickly by shame and utter disgust with myself.
I’m an idiot.
I acted like some sort of bratty, immature teenager. And for what? There’s no way this evening fixed anything between me and Calder. And it certainly didn’t make things any easier for him. I’d be shocked if it didn’t make things worse.
But maybe I’m sobering up a little because the reasonable part of my mind seems to be regaining some traction.
So you had a few too many drinks, it reminds me. So what? Yeah, so you drunk-texted your ex. You got sick all over the bathroom. You’re not the first person to get sloshed and stupid, and you won’t be the last. Tomorrow you’ll get up, pop a couple more aspirin, and laugh it off.
Easier said than done, of course.
I roll over so that I’m face to face with Calder. The movement makes my head spin, but I ignore the throbbing in my temples. I want to look at him.
I’ve never just slept with him—literally slept, I mean. Once, back at his estate, we spent the night in his bed, but we didn’t really do much sleeping. Somehow, this feels more intimate.
He’s beautiful when he sleeps. There’s just enough moonlight peeking in around the curtain for me to make out his features—his strong jaw, his square chin, his straight nose. He looks peaceful, but even in his slumber there’s still tension around his mouth. I reach out and touch him gently at the corner where his lips meet, wishing I could just massage it all away.
He stirs, making a small sound. Without waking, he draws me closer, holds me against his chest. It’s too hot, and I can hardly breathe, but I don’t care. I press my lips against his heated skin, turn my face so my ear is right over his heart. His dusting of chest hair tickles my cheek, but I reach my arm around him and hold myself there. My fingers trace his spine, and I allow myself to breathe him in.
After a time, he moves again. He’s no longer asleep, I realize suddenly, but I have no idea when he woke. He reaches up and threads his fingers through my hair. I didn’t brush it after the shower, so it’s probably full of tangles, but he doesn’t seem to care. He doesn’t say anything. He just strokes my hair, again and again, until I fall back to sleep.
*
The next time I wake, it’s dawn.
The gray light is leaking in through the window, and somewhere in the distance birds have started chirping.
I scrabble in the dark for my phone, and when I find it I hit a random button to bring it to life. The light from the screen sends a spear of pain through my head, but I manage to read the time. It’s only 6:32 AM.
I snuggle back against Calder, and he mumbles something in his sleep. I smile. I could get used to this, waking up in his arms.
But I’m only teasing myself. This is an illusion. When he wakes up, when he remembers the events of yesterday, he’ll walk right out of my door again. I don’t blame him. He told me he needed time, and what did I do? I got drunk and texted him.
He’s still breathing steadily, deep in sleep, but a certain part of his anatomy is already awake. His hard length presses against the curve of my ass, and heat pools between my legs. I want to press back against him, to shift slightly so that his cock slips down to where my thighs meet. It would be so easy, if he were awake, for him to take me. For him to grab me and bury himself inside of me. I need him. I need him, and he needs me, whether he wants to admit it or not.
I’m throbbing between my legs now, and I know that I’ll go crazy if I don’t do something. I try to wiggle out of his grip, move away from his warm, tempting body, but the movement wakes him. I hear his breath hitch as he snaps out of sleep.
For a moment we both lie there, perfectly still. I wait for him to remember why he’s here, to remember what happened last night. The moment he does, he’ll pull away and climb out of bed. There’s no reason for him to stay.
But he doesn’t move away. He keeps his arm around me, even closes the distance between us again. His hard length is pressed against me once more, and by the way his heartbeat quickens against my back, I know he’s just as turned on as I am.
As long as we stay like this, locked together, we can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist. We don’t have to talk about last night or last week or anything that came before. We don’t have to talk about anything at all. If we just remain like this, we can let our bodies pretend that everything is perfect between us.
But I don’t want to just lie here. I want more.
I press back against his body, against his arousal. He sucks in a breath and his grip tightens on my waist. I take that as an encouraging sign. I might not be able to fix everything between us, but at the very least, I can make up for my idiocy last night.
I sit up, pulling out of his arms, and then I move down the bed. He tries to follow, but I reach out and push him back down. I pull the sheet away from his body, exposing him in all his glory. In the early morning light, he looks soft and vulnerable, but I know when I touch him I’ll find hard muscle beneath my hand.
I let my fingers drift across his stomach, down the trail of dark hair leading toward my true goal. When I reach his arousal, I slide my fingers up and down the hard length. He gives a soft groan and makes no move to stop me.
Leaning forward, I part my lips. My tongue flicks across the tip of his cock. In all of our sexual encounters, I’ve never had the chance to taste him. Now I find myself eager to know him in this way too, if only this once.
I bend closer, sliding my tongue down his entire length and back up again. When I return to the tip, I spread my lips and take the end of him in my mouth.
Calder moans. I smile and get to work, taking him deeper in my mouth, sliding my tongue along the bottom of his shaft. My hand grips the base of him as my lips move. I love the taste of him. It’s familiar—this clean, earthy flavor of his skin—only it’s muskier and saltier down here.
He’s moving now, shifting on the bed as I work him with my mouth. His hands fly up and tangle in my hair, holding me against him.
“Lily,” he moans, lifting his hips.
I continue my attention to his cock as he digs his fingers into my scalp. His reaction excites me. I want to touch myself, but I refuse to divide my attention from the task at hand.
Calder’s losing control. I can tell by the way his body writhes, by the way his hands twist and tighten in my hair, by the sounds he’s trying—and failing—to strangle. But I want to make this last. I draw him slowly from my mouth, leaving the tip just within reach of my lips. He raises his hips, but I pull back.
“Impatient, aren’t we, Mr. Cunningham?”
I slide my tongue across him, circling him once, twice.
He moans again. “You filthy little tease.”
I spare a glance up at him. His eyes are closed, his head thrown back on the pillow. His jaw is clenched so tight than I’m surprised he hasn’t cracked any teeth. The sight of him so close to the edge sends my desire into overdrive.
I lean down and give him another gentle flick with my tongue. It’s the final straw for him. He shoots up, nearly knocking me off the bed, and stares down at me with wild eyes. His hands are still in my hair, my face still near his hard length. For a breathless moment I think he’s going to force me down on him again, but instead he releases me.
“On your back,” he growls. “Now.”
I don’t have the will to resist that tone, even if I wanted to. I crawl up the bed and roll back onto the pillows. He climbs up after me, looming over me, and I can’t breathe anymore. I need to feel his weight on me, need to feel his naked, heated flesh against my own. My entire body aches for it.
I reach up and let my fingers skim across his collarbone. He catches me by the wrists before I can pull him down on me.
“Not yet,” he says, his voice husky. He holds my wrists in one hand and reaches out with the other, down beside the bed. The shirt I discarded last night is still on the floor, and he grabs it and twists it up like a rope.
I like where this is going.
He yanks my wrists over my head and proceeds to tie them to the nearest bedpost. The hunger in his eyes is unmistakable.
“Are you going to punish me for waking you up?” I ask him playfully.
He doesn’t respond. He’s too busy focusing on the knots he’s tying. I wriggle a little, playing along, and it’s clear he knows what he’s doing. I couldn’t escape this bondage if I tried. That knowledge only increases my arousal, and I writhe again, just to brush my skin against his once more.
“I didn’t know you were into this sort of thing,” I say.
Still he says nothing. But he sits back, finished with my wrists, and stares down at my naked body. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded. He looks like he’s about to devour me. His hand reaches out, touches me lightly on the stomach. I shiver beneath that caress. His fingers dance across my skin, tracing my belly, the swell of my hip, the curve of my thigh. His hand floats inward, nudges my thighs apart. I’m already wet—soaking.
He leans down, moving his face between my legs. His hot breath rushes over me, and goose bumps ripple across my skin. I shift my hips, echoing his own impatient movements from a minute ago, but his hands press down on my thighs and he holds me against the bed.
I nudge him with my knee. “Now who’s the tease?”
He leans down again, closer this time, and a whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it. I want him to taste me, as I tasted him.
But he’s withdrawing again, and this time he’s looking down at me with amusement in his eyes.
“We agreed that we wouldn’t have sex,” he says, straightening.
I blink at him. What?
“I think we’re past that,” I say. “Besides, this isn’t sex.” Okay, maybe I was hoping it would lead to sex, but that’s different.
“Oral sex? It has ‘sex’ in the name.”
I blink. “Are you really going to argue about this right now?”
“You’re the one who wanted to continue our little game,” he replies. “Shouldn’t the same rules apply?”
I don’t believe this. I don’t fucking believe this. “You tied me to the bed!”
“To keep you from trying anything else. I wasn’t expecting a sneak attack while I was still half-asleep.”
“You seemed to enjoy it well enough.”
“I’m a man, after all,” he says, leaning close and catching me beneath the chin. “And you, my dear, sweet Lily, are quite an enticing woman. And quite the handful, if I’m being honest.”
His face is only a few inches away from mine.
“What are you going to do about it?” I breathe.
He smiles and straightens once more. “I’m going to get dressed.”
“What?”
But he doesn’t answer. He turns and walks back to the bathroom to retrieve the clothes he left there last night.
“What the hell, Calder!” I say, struggling against my bonds.
My annoyance doesn’t seem to bother him. He returns a moment later, his pants already on and his shirt in his hand. He slips it over his shoulders as I watch.
“This is just a sick joke, isn’t it?” I say. “Another one of your lessons?”
Calder is now fully clothed. He sits down on the bed, looking down at me with that smug smile of his. If I could move, I’d slap it right off, but I guess he was thinking ahead.
“Is this payback for last night?” I ask. “I didn’t make you come over, you know. I would’ve been fine.”
The question seems to knock a little of the wind out of his sails. His smile drops slightly and his eyebrows shift toward each other.
“You shouldn’t have had so much to drink,” he says finally.
“So you’re going to lecture me now? I don’t want to hear it.”
He sighs. “Do you have any idea how worried I—”
“Oh, no,” I say. “You’re not pulling that overprotective crap on me. I drank too much and got a little sick. It’s not like I’ve never done that before.”
“I’m not being overprotective. I think I’m showing an appropriate amount of concern.”
“For what? Me having a few too many? If I hadn’t texted you last night, what’s the worst that would’ve happened? I’d have woken up this morning with a bad headache and a desperate need for a shower. That’s it. There’s no need to be patronizing.”
“I’m not being patronizing.” His shoulders are rigid, and he won’t look me in the eye. He stands up and moves away from the bed, jerking a hand through his hair.
“When you dropped that call, I—I feared the worst. I don’t know why. I tried calling you, multiple times, and then I decided to drive over here. But I didn’t see your car in the parking lot. I didn’t know where you were, and my calls still weren’t going through. I—I drove by the Center, just in case. And then I started driving from bar to bar, until finally I spotted your car at Bar Zero down the street. I had to talk to a dozen people before I found a waitress who remembered you. She told me you called a cab to pick you up, and so I came back here and actually walked up to your door this time. You know the rest.”
And… now I feel like complete shit. He was worried about me. So worried that he went into a panic trying to find me.
“I didn’t know,” I say, my voice no more than a whisper.
Calder steps closer to the bed. “I’m not trying to manipulate you into an apology. It’s not your fault I jumped to the wrong conclusions. I just—I just had these images of you lying in a ditch somewhere, or kidnapped by that jackass ex of yours.”
“Garrett? He won’t violate the restraining order. His career means too much to him.”
He shakes his head. “That’s exactly the attitude that scares me. You can’t know what he’ll do. Neither of us does. Did you expect him to show up at my estate looking for you? He broke onto my property, for God’s sake.”
“I broke onto your property, too.”
“That’s precisely my point. Garrett’s just a piece of it. You don’t—you don’t ever just stop to think. You’re brash. Impulsive. You act without thinking and then just trust that everything will work itself out. But life doesn’t always work like that. Sometimes there are consequences. And sometimes other people have to deal with those consequences.”
“So, what? You blame me for Garrett’s actions? I suppose it’s my fault that he attacked me in the first place?”
“No! No of course not,” he says. “That’s not what I meant. God, this is coming out all wrong.”
He stands up again, and he looks so distressed that I’d feel sorry for him if I weren’t so pissed.
“I didn’t ask you to come here,” I remind him again. “I didn’t ask you to deal with any ‘consequences’ of my stupid, brash decision.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He rubs his hand across his face. “I’m not saying this right.”
At this point, I’m not sure I care what he’s trying to say.
“Calder,” I say to his back. “Untie me.”
He turns slowly, as if he doesn’t want to look at me. I can hardly blame him. If he thinks of me as some impulsive kid, why does he even bother?
I stare up at the ceiling as he approaches. I can’t bear to look at his face. He stops next to the bed, and I wait for the pressure on my wrists to release, but it doesn’t. Instead he’s there, suddenly, cupping my face, pulling it to his, kissing me like a madman. He doesn’t give me a chance to breathe, to react, to think. His mouth is desperate, pleading, like he wants to erase these past few minutes with his lips and his tongue.
“I was worried,” he murmurs against my mouth. “I was so worried.”
I’m worried, too. Worried about him. Worried that this thing, whatever it is, is falling apart around us, that he and I are struggling against something we can’t see.
“Calder,” I say, my voice breaking.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, as if he might taste my very soul. After a moment he pulls back, just enough so that I can look up into his eyes.
“I believe it’s your turn,” he says softly. “Which will it be? Truth or dare?”
Only a few minutes ago, I would have arched my naked body up against him and teased and tempted and dared him to resist me. But that doesn’t feel right. Not in this moment.
“Truth.”
He stares down at me for a minute, and I can only guess at the thoughts dancing in the shadows of his eyes. His hand sneaks up and caresses my face, his thumb brushing across my lips. He starts to reach for the shirt around my wrists, but I shake my head.
“Leave it.”
He obeys, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Tell me about your week,” he says.
I blink. “Are you insane? How the hell do you think it was?”
The look of shock on his face is only mildly satisfying. His thumb pauses in the groove beneath my lower lip.
“I know I’m at fault,” he says softly.
“You think?” I shake my head. “What, do you get some sort of sick pleasure out of hearing me talk about how upset I was?”
“No. No, not at all,” he says. His eyes burn into me. “I ask because I want to know exactly what I put you through. I want to feel pain for every moment of pain I’ve caused you. But most of all, I want to know how much I need to do to make it up to you.”
“So that’s it, then?” I say. “You think you can apologize and make all of it go away?”
He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to make it go away. I know I hurt you, and I won’t brush it off like it never happened.”
He sounds sincere, but I don’t know what to think.
“What is this?” I whisper. “What are we doing?”
He doesn’t answer, and the rage boils up inside of me.
“What’s going on, Calder? Do you want me in your life or not?”
“I want you,” he says. “I’ve never stopped wanting you in my life.”
The emotion in his voice is so raw that it makes my heart flutter. If I could move my arms, I’d reach out and touch his face.
Instead, Calder brushes his finger up and down my jaw.
“I’ve been worried about you,” I say, my own voice cracking. “I don’t know what to do, how to help…”
He shakes his head. “You don’t have to do anything.”
“But I keep reading all these things on the news and—”
His hand freezes on my cheek. He doesn’t want to talk about this, I know, but I want to be honest. I’ll be his distraction, any time he asks it, but he needs more than that, even if he isn’t willing to admit it.
He’s looking at me as if I’ve just torn out his heart. The guilt I saw there a moment ago disappears as his eyes cloud over. He jerks away from me.
“It’s not true. None of it’s true.”
He stands and begins pacing next to the bed.
“They don’t know anything. Any of them,” he growls. “They just make up lies and more lies and eventually no one even cares if it’s true or not. It’s like poison. They’ve even gotten you.”
“They didn’t ‘get’ me,” I assure him. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
But my words don’t pacify him. It’s worse than I thought. He continues to pace the room, and his eyes are wild and dark.
“They won’t listen,” he says. “None of them are even interested in the truth. They all want interviews, but I know better than that. It doesn’t matter what I say. They’ll twist my words and it will just keep the cycle going.”
Calder is scaring me, and I don’t know what to say, what to do to pull him out of this.
“It feeds on itself,” he says. “Over and over until it self-destructs.”
“Calder,” I say. “Calder, please, come back to bed.”
He does. He turns and strides over, then leans down and kisses me again. It’s more desperate than the last time, and though it sends a surge through my belly, it still terrifies me. He bites at my bottom lip before pulling away.
“Let’s keep playing,” he says. “Ask me.”
I’m not sure what else to do, so I whisper, “Truth or dare?”
There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes me shiver. “Dare.”
His hand is already slinking down my bare belly, toward the place where my body still throbs.
“Don’t go easy on me,” he rasps.
My heartbeat quickens in my chest, fluttering up to my throat. His fingers are slipping between my legs, gliding across the wetness there. I don’t know if he’s teasing me again, or if he’s merely changed his mind about sex in a burst of madness. Part of me knows that I should stop this, but then he’s sliding his finger inside of me. I whimper. It’s like my body’s been waiting for him, and I don’t have the strength to tell him no.
“Is this what you want?” he asks.
I can only nod. My eyes are closed, my head thrown back.
“Are you sure?” he says. “Or would you rather I licked you?”
Just the mention of that word makes my body contract around his finger, and he chuckles.
“I guess we have our answer.” He leans close, his warm breath dancing across my cheek. “Well? Are you going to dare me to do it?”
I force my eyes open. I’m still not sure this is a good idea.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask. “You’re upset.”
In response he slides a second finger in with the first. I gasp and writhe beneath him. My wrists strain against their bindings.
He moves—slowly, so he doesn’t interrupt the movements of his fingers—until he’s kneeling between my legs. And then he leans down until, once more, I can feel his breath upon me. This time he isn’t just teasing me. Before I can even utter the words of the dare, his breath is replaced by the hot, wet pressure of his tongue.
I moan. Whatever arguments I might have had slip completely out of my mind.
Calder moves his tongue across my clit, then down to where his fingers still pump in and out of me, then back up to my sensitive nub. He licks and sucks and nibbles, and my hips rise to meet his mouth. The bedpost creaks as I strain against it, and I clench and unclench my fingers in time with his wet strokes. The pleasure is building fast, and I’m catapulting toward the edge. My entire body is quivering beneath the skilled dance of his tongue.
“Calder, please,” I beg. “Please.” I’m so close there are tears in my eyes.
He withdraws his fingers and clamps a hand down on either one of my thighs, forcing them farther apart. When he dips his head again, he slides his tongue down between my lips and drives it inside of me.
That’s all it takes. I explode, crying out and pulling so hard against the shirt-rope that I hear the stitches rip. Calder never even pauses. He continues to attack me with his tongue, and I can only fall apart around him.
I’m too far gone to notice when he finally stops. After a moment, though, he crawls back up my body and lies down next to me. He leans over and kisses me, lets me taste myself on his lips.
“I didn’t even have to dare you,” I say, still breathless.
“I got a little carried away.” He runs a hand across my throat. “I like you like this—completely at my mercy.”
“Are you going to keep me prisoner here?”
“A tempting thought. Shut you away for a few days, keep you all to myself.”
And forget about the rest of the world, I think, but I don’t have to tell Calder that. I can see that thought in his eyes already.
But we can’t hide away forever.
“I have to go back to work eventually,” I say.
He nods. The lusty, sexual haze in his eyes has already started to dim. He sits up and begins tugging at the knots in the shirt around my wrists. It takes him several minutes to get them undone, and when he finally manages to pull the fabric away, he curses.
“Shit, Lily, I’m sorry.”
I sit up to examine the damage. There are reddish rings around each of my wrists, and they’ll be full-on bruises in a couple of hours.
“Shit,” Calder says again, taking my hands in his and massaging them. “I didn’t realize it was so tight.”
I hadn’t even noticed my fingers were numb. They tingle as the blood returns.
“I’m all right,” I assure him. “It doesn’t hurt.”
He raises each of my wrists to his lips in turn, kissing the darkening red bands across my skin.
“What kind of man does it make me,” he says, “if I like that I left these marks on you?”
His words send a thrill through me. I want him to leave a thousand marks on my skin.
His hands roam over my body as if he can’t bear to let me go.
“I hope you don’t have any plans today,” he says as his hand sweeps across my breast.
“Why?”
He closes two fingers around my nipple. “Because I plan on making up for lost time.”