Читать книгу Mistresses: After Hours With The Boss: Her Little White Lie / Their Most Forbidden Fling / An Inescapable Temptation - Maisey Yates - Страница 16

HE heard crying. He moved to a sitting position in bed and swung his legs over the side, his feet planted on the carpet.

Ana was crying.

He stood and walked out of his room, striding down the hall. He opened the door to the nursery, casting a sliver of light into the room. He saw Paige, sitting in the rocking chair, holding Ana, rocking her, patting her back. Ana was crying still. And so was Paige. Glittery tracks down her cheeks.

His first instinct was to turn away. To walk away from the scene as quickly as possible, go back to bed. Shut down the strange emotions that were rising up, pressing on his throat.

“Is everything okay?”

“No,” Paige said thickly. “She’s been crying for an hour and she won’t stop. I’ve tried everything. I fed her, I changed her. I’m holding her. I turned the light on, I turned it off. I don’t know what else to do.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing you’re doing wrong.”

“What if it is?” she whispered, despair lacing her voice.

He took a step into the room, ignoring the tightness in his chest. “Babies cry, for no reason sometimes.”

He’d heard that said, though he wasn’t sure where.

“But Ana doesn’t, usually.”

“Does she have a fever?” That seemed a logical question.

Paige put her cheek down on Ana’s head. “I don’t think so.” She smoothed her hands over the baby’s brow. “She doesn’t feel warm to me. Does she feel warm to you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. She was a tiny creature, fragile. Small-boned. Delicate. He didn’t want to put his hands on her.

“I don’t think she’s warm,” he said.

Paige put her hand on the baby’s forehead. “No, you’re right. I don’t think she is. Could you sing to her?”

“Sing?” he asked.

“A lullaby.”

His breath stalled in his throat, got trapped there. “I don’t know any lullabies,” he lied.

“Oh … that’s okay.” She patted Ana on the back. “I tried to sing and she just cried harder so I thought maybe you could …”

“Sorry,” he said, curling his fingers into fists, fighting the urge to run from the room.

For that reason alone he had to stay. Dante Romani did not run. He would not.

Ana hiccuped, her tiny shoulders jerking with the motion. Her cries slowed, quieted, until they became muffled, sporadic whimpers.

He watched her for a few moments, silence settling between them as Paige continued to rock Ana until the whimpering ceased altogether.

“See, she was just crying,” he said, trying to sound certain. Trying to feel some control over the situation when the simple fact was, he had none. There was a nursery in his home. There was a baby here. A woman. She had her things in his closet.

No, nothing was in his control anymore.

“I guess she was,” Paige whispered.

She got up from the chair and walked over to the crib, placing Ana gingerly onto the mattress, then straightening, freezing for a second while she waited to see if the baby would wake up.

The room stayed silent.

“She seems like she’s asleep now,” Paige whispered.

“You should sleep, too,” he said. She looked tired. Sad.

She wrapped her robe around herself, a little tremor shaking her body. “No. I don’t … I don’t think I could sleep right now.”

The desolation in her tone did something to him. Made his stomach feel tight.

“Hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not really. But do you have chocolate?”

He let out a long, slow breath. Paige was upset, obviously, and while he would usually walk away and get back in bed without a twinge of guilt, he couldn’t do that now. He wasn’t going to take the time to analyze why. “We’ll have to go raid the cupboards and find out. I’m not certain.”

“How can you not be sure if you have chocolate?” They walked out of the nursery and left the door open so they could hear Ana if she woke.

“I’m not accustomed to raiding my kitchen at odd hours.”

“I guess that’s why you have washboard abs and I don’t.” Her eyes were trained meaningfully on his bare torso. Her complete lack of guile amused him, and aroused him. She didn’t try to hide her open appraisal of him. And yet, it was different than the sort of open gazes he was used to seeing. There was no extra motive with Paige, only admiration.

He looked back at her, treating her to the same, intense study she’d treated him to. Her T-shirt molded to her breasts, her pajama pants sitting low on her hips. Too baggy for his taste. He wanted to see the curves beneath. “I have no complaints about your figure.”

She stopped and turned sharply. “Oh, really?”

He shouldn’t have said that. There was no point in fostering the attraction between Paige and himself. It wasn’t good for either of them. She did something to him. Tested him in ways he’d never been tested before.

Detachment was normally simple for him. This time, not so much. But he couldn’t pull the compliment back now. He wasn’t the sort of man to lie to a woman, or charm her to get her into bed, but he still knew enough to know that this was a subject to tread carefully with. Could sense that the wrong words could break her, or lead her to believe he could give things he simply could not.

“Every inch of you is beautiful,” he said. It was the truth, not flattery. Though why he was compelled to speak it in that way, he wasn’t certain.

She flushed scarlet. “You haven’t seen every inch of me.”

“Yet,” he said, the word escaping without his permission and hanging between them, heavy and, he realized in that moment, stating the inevitable.

“No,” she said, turning away from him and continuing down the stairs and into the kitchen.

“No?”

“You and I both know it would be a very bad idea.”

“Why is that, Paige?” he asked. “What harm could come from a bit of fun?” There was so much wrong with that sentence. He knew exactly what harm resulted from sex and passion. Which was precisely why his sexual encounters were void of passion. Passion wasn’t required for release. It was perfunctory. The right contact in the right place and his partners found their pleasure, then he was free to take his. Find a moment of blinding oblivion. But it had very little to do with the woman he was with, and even less to do with feeling.

And fun was a word he wasn’t sure he put any stock in. He wasn’t sure if he ever had any.

“Quite a few bits of harm, I think,” she said, crossing to the stainless-steel refrigerator and opening the freezer, rummaging through the contents. “What ho! Chocolate ice cream!”

She pulled the carton out and held it high like a frozen trophy before setting in on the granite countertop. “Get spoons,” she said. “And bowls.”

“And the previous discussion is closed?”

“Yep.”

He complied with her order and produced bowls and spoons. He set them out and scooped them both some ice cream. He pulled up on the edge of the counter and sat, and Paige did the same on the counter across from him.

“Maybe I won’t be such a terrible mother,” she said, eating a spoonful of ice cream.

“You won’t be. But what has led you to the conclusion?”

“I used my stern voice and got you to change the subject and dish my ice cream,” she said, her grin impish. But the impishness didn’t reach her eyes. She still looked sad. Scared.

“I want to tell you something,” he said. He lied. He didn’t want to tell her what he was about to say, but it seemed important. It was all he had to offer.

She nodded and took another bite of ice cream, her eyes trained on his.

“Do you know what I remember about my mother?” he asked.

She blinked hard, her eyes glistening. She set her bowl and spoon down on the counter beside her. “No.”

“I was six when she died. But I do remember her. How good it felt when she put her hand on my forehead before I fell asleep. The way her voice sounded, soothing, kind. The way she sang to me.” He cleared his throat. “It’s not about getting everything right. It’s about those things, those small things. That’s all that matters. You do that for Ana. You may make mistakes, but you’ll be the constant, comforting presence in her life. That’s what matters,” he repeated.

He remembered more about his mother. Her fear. When his father would come home from work in a dark mood. Her tucking him in, locking his door with a key. So he couldn’t get out and see. So his father couldn’t get in and cause him any harm.

And he remembered her lying on the floor, too still. Too pale. The sparkle gone from her eyes forever.

He remembered lying with her on the floor and singing her a lullaby until the police came. His hand on her head, stroking her hair, like she had always done for him.

Stella, Stellina. Star, little star.

He left that part out. If only he could leave it out of his mind. If only he could scrub the memory away. Hold on to the good, leave out the bad. But it wasn’t possible.

The good always came with bad. Always.

A tear slipped down Paige’s cheek. “She must have been wonderful.”

“She was,” he said.

“I have failed at so many things,” she said. “And I don’t know why. I don’t know why things are harder for me. I tried to do well in school … I just couldn’t. And my parents … I think they tried to be supportive of me, but I don’t think they really believed that I was trying. My brother and sister, they were extraordinary, and they worked for it. But I had to work for ordinary. I had to bust my butt just to be average. And that meant no college for me. In their minds … I suppose I was a failure. I mean, I had my art but art doesn’t translate to much, not to them.”

“And that’s why you moved.”

She nodded. “To find out what it would be like if I wasn’t surrounded by people who expected nothing from me. People who had given up on me. Shyla always believed in me. She said I was smart. No one ever said that. No one else. She encouraged me to go out for the position at Colson’s and I thought … I thought there was no way. I had no degree, no experience. But your hiring manager … she saw something in me, too. In my work. She took a chance on me, and the only reason I was brave enough to take a chance on myself was because of my friend. I can’t let her down,” she said, her voice shaky. “There is so much at stake here and I can’t fail. But failure is something I’m so good at, I’m afraid history will just repeat itself.”

“Tell me, are your bother and sister artists?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Your parents, are they artists?”

“No.”

“Could any of them imagine the window settings that you do? Not only that, could they find the materials, imagine the lighting, the colors, everything that you do, to make them a reality?”

“Probably not.”

“Then maybe you haven’t failed. You’ve simply succeeded in different areas. Areas that those other people couldn’t, and so don’t understand.”

“I …” She blinked rapidly. “You’re the first person who’s ever … said it like that.”

“It’s true, though. We can’t all be great at everything. I couldn’t design the windows for the store, so I hired you to do it.”

“Your hiring manager did.”

“Fine, but you get the idea. I don’t do everything. I don’t have the ability to do everything. Why should you?”

“It’s just that what I do has never been important to my family.”

“That’s their problem. You’re good at what counts. You stand firm when you’re needed. You’re coming through for Ana. Your instinct, when you were being interviewed by the social worker, was to protect her, to keep her with you no matter what. If that doesn’t prove that you’re strong enough to do this, nothing will.”

She slid down from the counter, her hands balled into fists at her sides. She took a sharp breath and crossed to him, standing in front of him, eye level to his chest. She reached up and put her hands on his cheeks, then tugged his face down as she drew up onto her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his.

He held on to the edge of the counter, letting her lead the kiss, letting her part his lips with her tongue. Letting her set the pace, the intensity.

He could taste the salt from her tears on her mouth, could feel the barely contained sadness in each shaking breath.

He ached to take control. To tug her up against him and to kiss her with every bit of pent-up passion, sorrow and pain that was buried inside of him. That was threatening to claw its way out through his chest if he didn’t find a way to release it.

But he couldn’t allow it.

This was for her, to have what she would. He would give it to her, and feel no sense of sacrifice. Whatever she wanted, she could have. As long as the true control belonged to him.

Paige pulled back from Dante, her heart thundering, her hands shaking. She didn’t know what she was thinking, if she was thinking. All she knew was that she wanted to feel something big. Something real and affirming. She wanted Dante’s actions to confirm his words.

She wanted to prove that she could want someone, and have them want her. That she wasn’t broken. That she wasn’t a joke. She wanted the unobtainable, beautiful man all for herself.

She didn’t want happily ever after from him. She didn’t want love. And she didn’t want to thank him. It was something else, a need so deep and raw that she could hardly understand it.

All she knew was that his touch would make things better. His kiss would heal so many wounds, be the confirmation for what he’d spoken.

To prove that she wasn’t a failure with men. That she wasn’t undesirable. That someone could want her.

She smoothed her hands over his chest, his muscles hot and hard beneath her palms, his chest hair crisp. So sexy and masculine. So different from her own body.

“I want you,” she said, her lips still pressed against his.

The silence that followed seemed to last forever. He might reject her. He probably would. But this was the first time she’d ever been willing to take the chance. It felt like a chain had been loosened on her, like she could move more freely.

He slid down from the counter, locking his arm around her waist and drawing her hard up against his body. “You want to kiss me? Or you want more?”

“M-more.”

“I have to hear you say it,” he said, his tone stretched, tortured.

“I want to … to sleep with you tonight.” A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to her, and her stomach sank to her toes. “Unless you don’t want to.” Why would he? He’d pulled away from every kiss they’d shared. He was a bronzed god of a man with a physique that looked too good to be real. A man with tons of sexual experience. A man who could have, and had had, any woman he wished. For a crazy moment she’d been convinced she could have this, could have him. But maybe she’d been fooling herself. Again.

He chuckled, rough and humorless. “How can you think I don’t want you?”

“I’m average, remember?”

He moved his hand up to her hair and pushed his fingers through it, tugging on a pink strand, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. “I have never seen anyone quite like you. Which means the description cannot be accurate.”

“You hate my hair.”

He shook his head. “It’s growing on me.”

He pressed his other hand against her lower back and brought her into closer contact with his body. With the evidence of his desire for her.

Her eyes widened. “You do want me.”

“I’m sorry it’s so hard for you to believe. But by the end of tonight, it won’t be.”

She wished she had a witty reply, something to defuse the tension. Something to loosen the knot in her stomach and lessen the ache between her thighs. To lessen the importance of the moment. But there was nothing. Her brain was too busy spinning around all the ways he could show her.

Never before had discovering what she’d been missing with sex been so important. Been so essential. But it was now.

He kissed her again, intensifying it. He moved his hand down to the waistband of her pajama pants and let his fingertips drift beneath the flannel fabric, and down low so that he was palming her butt, his touch hot and rough and perfect. He squeezed her and a shot of liquid, sexual heat poured through her, zipping straight to her core.

She arched into him, rubbing her breasts against his chest, looking for a way to dull the ache there, squirming as the one between her thighs intensified, the hand on her bottom so close to where she needed him, the nearness making it all the more frustrating.

“We have to find a bed,” she said, pulling away from him, her breath coming in out-of-control gasps.

“We don’t need a bed,” he growled, leaning in, kissing her neck.

“Oh. Oh …” Her mind went blank for a moment as his tongue swirled over the hollow in her throat. “Yes. We do. I don’t feel like … I don’t have the experience to.” She was not going to say virgin. She was going to avoid that word at all costs. “I’m remedial. At this. I need something standard. And soft. In case I fall or something.”

He stopped for a moment, his dark eyes searching hers. “I won’t let you fall.”

You might not be able to stop me. The words hovered on the edge of her lips, but she didn’t speak them. She didn’t dare. She wasn’t even sure what they meant. Only that they terrified her down to her bones.

“I know but … please?”

He nodded and swung her up into his arms. She squeaked and clung to his neck as he walked out of the kitchen and to the stairs, taking them two at a time. He didn’t put her down until they were in his room, at the foot of his bed.

“Will this bed do?”

She nodded, her throat dry. “Yes. Now come here and kiss me. I promise not to get glitter on you.”

He moved to her, cupping her cheek and brushing his thumb across her skin. “Your wish is my command.”

He kissed her, deeply, sensually, his hands roaming over her curves. He cupped her breast, teasing her nipple with light contact, making her ache for more. For his flesh on hers. His mouth on her body.

He tugged her shirt up over her head. The cold air hit her breasts, and she didn’t have any time to feel self-conscious about what he was seeing. He tugged her against him and she gasped as her breasts brushed against his chest, the heat of his skin warming her through her whole body, his chest hair abrading her sensitized nipples.

She moved her hands over his back, his muscles shifting and bunching beneath her fingertips.

He pushed her flannel pajamas and underwear down her hips, letting them pool at her feet. She was thankful he hadn’t paused to look at her panties. A sexual interlude had been the last thing on her mind when she’d selected the purple cotton garment after her shower that evening.

She wanted to take his clothes off him, but her hands felt heavy suddenly, clumsy. She wasn’t sure if it was her move or not. Or if he liked it when a woman undressed him. Or … anything.

He was so perfect, so beautiful, just like the moment. She didn’t want to do anything to mess it up.

Thankfully, he was more than ready and willing to discard his own clothes, and after he disappeared into the bathroom briefly, he returned, fully erect, more gorgeous than any man had a right to be, and carrying a box of condoms.

She couldn’t stop staring at him. At the thick erection that stood out from his body. She’d never seen a naked man in person before, and pictures of classical statues really didn’t do them justice. Or at least, they didn’t represent Dante.

“I want to touch you,” she said, shocked at her boldness. But for some reason, the moment he’d come back into the bedroom, all of her nerves had evaporated. She was standing there, naked, and he was there, naked. And they were about to share the most intimate connection two people could possibly share.

There was no room for fear. Or shame, or awkwardness. She was sure. It was such an unusual feeling for her. And yet, with him, in the moment, everything felt right.

“Feel free,” he said, his voice rough.

She moved to him, ran her fingers from his chest down to his abs, to the dark line of hair that led from there and to his hard, thick shaft. She wrapped her fingers around him, testing his weight.

“What do you like?” she asked, her heart thundering hard, her stomach quivering.

“This,” he said, his breath hissing through his teeth.

“Just me touching you?”

“Yes,” he said. His breathing increased, his chest rising and falling quickly.

“And this?” She squeezed him gently and was rewarded with a groan that bordered on tortured.

“Yes,” he bit out.

“Harder?”

He put his hand over hers and stilled her movements. “Only if you want me to come right now.”

She pulled her hand back. “No. Not yet. You aren’t allowed yet.”

“I thought not.” He captured her lips in a fierce kiss, bringing her down onto the bed with him.

She looped her thigh over his hip, opening herself to him. She moved against him, each brush of his arousal against the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs sending a streak of white heat through her.

He lowered his head and sucked her nipple deep into his mouth. A raw moan escaped her lips and she gripped his shoulders hard, her nails digging into his skin. He lifted his head, letting it fall back. She gripped him harder and he winced, his hold tightening on her back.

“Don’t stop,” she said.

And he obeyed, lowering his head to her breasts again, licking her, sucking her, bringing her to the edge and back with the sensual assault from his mouth. He moved his hand from her back, down to her waist, to her hips, holding her hard, kissing a path down her body until he came to the place that was wet and aching for him.

His tongue moved over her clitoris and she lifted her hips off the bed, sensation so deep, so intense hitting her that she couldn’t hold still. He held her, continuing as though she wasn’t whimpering beneath him, as though her body wasn’t trembling, her world crumbling inward, reducing to pleasure, to Dante.

She laced her fingers into his hair, holding him to her, so close now, so close to the peak that she had no desire to fight it. No desire to fight him.

He released his hold on her and his hand joined his mouth, one finger sliding deep inside of her as he flicked his tongue over her clitoris again. The world exploded behind her eyelids. Stars raining down on her, leaving her blanketed in heat and light.

She shook, her body trembling as each wave of release passed through her.

Dante lifted his head and kissed her hip, the space just beneath her belly button. Her stomach. Between her breasts. Then he settled between her thighs, his hardness probing the soft, wet entrance to her body.

He cursed and paused, reaching beside them and picking up the condom box. He fished inside of it for a moment, producing a small packet that he tore open quickly. He rolled the condom onto his length with deft efficiency, and she was grateful he hadn’t asked her to do it.

Then he was back over her, pressing into her. She felt a brief, searing pain as he pushed inside of her, her body stretching to accommodate him.

He paused for a moment, his dark eyes blazing, his expression pained.

She shook her head. And he didn’t speak. Instead, he thrust into her to the hilt, his body coming up hard against hers, making contact right where she needed it, pleasure erasing the pain, slowly, but oh so perfectly.

He retreated, thrusting home again, establishing a steady rhythm that built up tension inside of her again. It was deeper this time, reaching farther inside of her, calling up the need from somewhere new. It was shared desperation, shared need.

She met each thrust, working with him, moving with him, toward completion. Everything blurred, blending together, the room beyond Dante turning fuzzy, insubstantial.

His movements became erratic, evidence of his fraying control, and hers began to shred, too. Her grip on the world loosening. When they fell, they fell together, raw sounds of completion filling the room as they reached the peak.

She held on to him tightly, trying to keep from getting lost in it all. Anchoring him to her.

When his muscles stopped trembling, he let out a long, slow breath and pressed his forehead against her chest. She wrapped her arms around him and held him there. Held his body against hers, skin to skin, every inch of him against every inch of her.

She didn’t want to speak. She didn’t want to move. She didn’t want to face reality.

But she knew that they would have to.

But not yet.