I pull back, already squirming in an attempt to get him to put me down.
“I’m sorry. I—”
He drops my legs, but loops that arm around my waist too, keeping me up and against him, my toes still off the floor. I don’t look up at him and he says, “Kalli.”
His voice. It’s so smooth and warm, and I just want him to keep talking to me. I could forget everything about tonight, ignore it all to listen to his voice.
“You’re really sober?” he asks.
He must take my scowl as truth enough because as soon as I open my mouth to reply, his lips slam into mine, hot and hard.
He pulls my bottom lip into his mouth, sucking and nibbling and driving me crazy. I thread my fingers through his hair like I’ve wanted to do since the first time I saw him. One of his hands slides up my side, grazing the curve of my breast before trailing up to my neck. A thumb runs along my jaw, and he tilts my head back, taking control.
Passion.
It comes from a Latin word that means to suffer. And that’s what the slick thrust of his tongue against mine is—a suffering so sweet that my head spins.
His mouth slants over mine, rough and possessive, and all I want is to be closer to him. Slipping a hand beneath the back of his shirt, I follow the slopes and valleys of his muscled back with my fingers. When he drops to my neck, grazing his teeth and then tongue over my pulse, I dig my fingers into his lower back. He groans, and the feel of his hot breath where my neck meets my shoulder pulls goose bumps across my skin. So, of course, I do it again, slipping my hand farther up and then dragging my nails down.
He says my name, and I say his back.
“Wilder.”
He traces two fingers over my swollen lips and groans. “This mouth has been driving me wild since the first time you smiled at me.”
I do just that, pulling my lips wide, and he kisses me, frenzied and so, so good. He takes a step forward, then another, moving toward a plain couch in the center of the living room. When we’re almost there, he finally lowers my feet to the floor, sliding his hands down to the curve of my ass. I stumble a bit and wince when a sensitive part of my foot drags across the carpet.
“Shit,” Wilder breathes, pulling away. “I forgot. I’m a jackass. Sorry.”
It takes me several long seconds to stop staring at his mouth. His lips are wet and swollen, and I know I have a matching pair. “It doesn’t hurt that bad. Really.”
He scoops me back up, and this time I don’t pay attention to my dress. I wrap my arms around Wilder and go to kiss him again. He shifts, placing a kiss on my cheek instead and says, “Feet first.”
“Look at you,” I say, dragging my mouth over his jaw. “Chivalry is alive and kicking apparently.”
He groans when I close my lips around his earlobe. “Alive, yes. But definitely in danger of being put aside for a better offer.”
He nudges open a door with his foot and says, “Light on the right.” I reach out and flip the switch. The bathroom is small and sparse, one of those where all the necessary items are crammed into as little space as possible. He has to turn sideways to get me through the door. There’s no bathtub, just a standup shower, so I’m not sure how he intends for me to wash my feet. The sink is tiny too, so there’s no perching up there.
Carefully, he sets me down in front of the shower. “It’s cramped, I know.”
I open the glass door, and then laugh. “Handheld showerhead, huh? Well, isn’t that … helpful.”
His eyes fix on me, and I swear I can almost see what he’s picturing. Mostly because I’m picturing it, too. He takes two steps back, putting him out of reach and out of the bathroom. “You’re single-handedly trying to kill off what’s left of my control.”
I shed his jacket and hang it up on an open hook on the wall.
“Maybe control isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
Stepping inside the shower, I leave the door open so I can see him slide down the wall to take a seat in the hallway. His broad body and long limbs look so good posed there. If I were in the business of making art, rather than prompting it, I wouldn’t hesitate to snap his picture, to capture that look he’s giving me. As I reach for the showerhead, he says, “So your name is Kalli. You’re twenty-one. You’re not intoxicated. You have an incredible knowledge of mythology even though you despise it. You have a sweet tooth, and a tendency to misplace your footwear. What else should I know about you, Cinderella?”
“Not drunk. Sweet tooth. Hates mythology. That’s about the gist of it.”
I turn on the water, and jump at the first spray of ice-cold water. I adjust the heat, directing the nozzle at the wall while I wait. I look back at him, and my stomach clenches. I want him. Badly. I can’t explain why it’s happening or why it’s him, but my body knows even if my mind doesn’t. But now that there’s distance between us, and warm water stings against my abused feet, my mind is firmly in the driver’s seat.
This guy isn’t my type. Or at least, he shouldn’t be. In my head, I keep seeing that guy from the grocery store. He looked all business. And typically that kind of man isn’t exactly open to artistic expression. That doesn’t mean I can’t influence him, but it does mean that his reaction to me would be unpredictable. The more ordered and analytical the mind, the more likely that my abilities will cause adverse effects.
So for all intents and purposes, I should be nowhere near this guy. I should clean up my feet, maybe borrow a pair of flip-flops or something, and get the hell out of here.
But I’m not thinking of him like one of my artists.
No, he’s something altogether different. Not to mention his appearance tonight has left me questioning all the assumptions I’d made in that grocery store. I was already wrong about him being Gwen’s father. What else am I wrong about?
I don’t like being wrong. Not about people. My ability to read them and analyze them is a skill I need in order to maintain the line … that damn line that I cannot cross again.
“You’re in school?” he asks.
I nod, leaning over to get a better angle on my feet. “You?”
“Yeah.”
“You graduating this semester?”
He rubs at the back of his neck, a nervous habit of his. I want to replace his hand with mine, soothing whatever thoughts have him troubled.
“No. I got started late. I’m in my second year now.”
Hmm. Maybe that explains the tattoos. Perhaps they came before all-business-Wilder.
“I figured you were already out. Don’t see many college guys wearing ties.”
“That’s just for work.”
“Where do you work?”
“An office that would bore you to tears. I work part-time for a friend of the family. Accountant.”
“Accountant? And is that what you’re planning to do after school?”
He shrugs and instead turns the question back on me. “What about you? What’s your major?”
I smile and switch to my other foot. “Undecided.”
He stands and steps into the bathroom. He pulls open a medicine cabinet and removes a box of band-aids, setting them on the sink. “Is that because you don’t know what you want to do?”
If only things were that simple. I’ve had lifetimes to chase whatever career or hobby I wanted. Those wants are superficial though. They’re ornaments meant to pretty up existence. What I want … it goes far deeper than that. And it’s completely untouchable.
“Sometimes the last thing that matters is what we want to do.”
He crosses until he’s standing just outside the shower.
“I get that. I used to think I could do whatever I wanted as long as I wanted it bad enough.”
I stand up straight, holding the showerhead at my side.
“What changed?”
He shakes his head, tangling his fingers in his hair for a moment.
“Everything changed. All of it.”
I don’t like the way the lines of his face transform, turn defe
ated. Now I see Atlas in him. I don’t know what it is he’s holding up or how long he’s been at it, but I can see the fatigue. It’s a feeling I know like the back of my hand. I want his almost smile back.
I ask, “Do you ever just want to say fuck it all? Screw common sense and go after what you want anyway?”
If possible, his expression grows even darker. Defeat overlaid with guilt.
“Every single day.”
All I want to do is wash that away. I can inspire genius works of art, moving music, writing that pricks the soul of humanity. I can elevate a person to the kind of success of which they’ve never even dreamed. But at the moment, I feel like none of that means anything if I can’t make him smile.
I reach out my hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, he takes it. Then I hold tight and turn the showerhead on him.
Chapter Six
The shocked look on his face as the water sprays up his chest draws a laugh from my throat. I'm not completely psycho, so I don't turn the water on his face, but he wastes no time taking advantage of my hesitation.
He steps right into the shower with me, and I jump back, slamming into the tile wall. In my surprise I get a little wild with the water and end up catching him in the face anyway. I cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from laughing, and he takes hold of my other wrist, using my own hand to spray the water back on me. It hits me in the neck first, then as I try to pull away, sprays down my chest. I gasp as the water soaks through my dress, and if he didn't notice my lack of bra earlier, it won't take much for him to notice now.
I fight back, trying to regain control of the nozzle, and instead I end up pointing the stream of water straight up and it splashes down on both our heads. I squeal, and try to squeeze around him, thinking maybe I can get out of the door. My feet slip on the wet floor, and he catches me around the waist, laughing. “Oh, no you don't. You started this.”
Another jet of water comes toward my face, and I manage to turn just in time so that it only catches my hair and neck. I look down, and can't control my laughter any longer. He'd stepped in still wearing his shoes, and they're soaked now. As are his jeans and the bottom of my dress. We probably look ridiculous.
In my complete and utter delirium, I forget about keeping a tight hold on the showerhead, and Wilder succeeds in wrestling it away from me.
“I've got you now.”
He steps back, lifts his arm to aim, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I raise my hands to cover my face, but the spray doesn't come. Hesitantly, I peek out from between my fingers to find him staring at me, his eyes dark and piercing. I'm aware then of just the way his soaked shirt clings to his toned body, and I have no doubt that my own clothes are plastered to my wet skin. Heat pools between my thighs, and I squeeze them together to ease the sudden ache there.
He moves in close, and I catch my breath. He circles one arm around me, and greedily I pull my own arms up to loop around his neck. But he doesn't come in for a kiss like I expect. Instead he turns the knob behind me, shutting off the water and returning the showerhead to where it belongs. I'd thought to make him smile, but the look he gives me now is all hard angles and dark, serious eyes. I look past his shoulder to see that we'd left the door of the shower open, and water has collected in a puddle on the floor outside.
I swallow.
Shit. This was not at all a good idea. I made a giant mess and probably pissed him off, and I really, really need to just get out of here. This is what happens when I'm not thinking strategically. Normally, with an artist, I'm able to keep my head. I play on their emotions, while keeping mine rigidly in check. I read them, trying to decipher what they want and need before they ever tell me. It's my job to be their ideal woman, the one who'll motivate them and make passion burn so hot in their blood that it spills over into their art. But I don't need to be Wilder's ideal woman. I don't want that. I just want to be me.
The hand that had held the showerhead smoothes over my damp hair and down until he pushes the wet mess off my shoulder.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
“That I'm an idiot.”
A slight curve curls across his mouth.
“Because you started a fight you couldn't win?”
“Because I just am. For so many reasons.”
His fingers trail from my shoulder down to the arc of my collarbone.
“God, do you have any idea how fucking gorgeous you are?”
I swallow and don't answer because I'll sound like a complete and total bitch if I say the truth. Beauty is the only attribute of mine that never changes, regardless of whatever guy I'm with. And it’s a compliment to which I’ve grown callous.
“Kalli, I—” He stops and closes his eyes.
I reach up and run my thumb across a drop of water trailing over his cheek.
He releases a heavy breath and turns his face into my hand.
“What do you want?” he asks. “Give me the truth.”
In a perfect world?
“You.”
His hand curls around the back of my neck and he jerks me forward to meet him halfway. His kiss is wet and brutal, and I feel boneless in his arms. Incorporeal. Like the only the thing holding me together, the only thing tethering me to this existence is the drag and crush of his mouth against mine.
My back presses against cold tile, and his hand bunches up the wet skirt of my dress until he manages to peel enough of it away to slide a large hand against the bare skin of my thigh. His fingers are slick against my leg, and my breath catches in my throat.
He breaks away from our kiss, and his mouth plays over my shoulder, dragging down the strap of my dress with his teeth until it falls to my elbow. The hand on my leg slips higher as his tongue teases at my collarbone. Then he moves lower to the drooping neckline of my dress. His fingers brush up against the edge of my underwear, and I can't stop the moan of anticipation that escapes my lips.
He hesitates then, pulling back slightly just before his hand or his mouth reach the places I really want him.
But I don't want him to slow down. I don't want him to think.
Because then I'll have to think too.
“Please,” I whisper.
“Please what?”
I reach for him, plucking at the hem of his soaked shirt and pulling it up and away from a slim, toned stomach. When I keep pulling, he lets me tug it over his head. It slaps provocatively against the floor, and my body clenches in response.
“Please touch me.”
He seems to war with himself for a few seconds longer, but when I trail one long finger down between his pectoral muscles, the indecision disappears. He wraps an arm low around my waist and pulls me up against him.
“You could tempt a saint.”
“Are you a saint?”
He slides a hand down to cup my ass, pulling me forward against the hard ridge of his arousal and answers, “Not by a long shot.”
Stepping out of the shower, his feet slap against the puddle on the floor. I wrap my legs around his waist to be closer to him, but then he has to angle us sideways just to fit us through his narrow bathroom door. I drop my head to his shoulder and laugh, and his own chuckle sends shivers racing across my skin.
He walks us down to a door at the end of a hallway. The bed is big and neatly made, and the room looks comfortable. Nothing fancy or expensive, but it's well taken care of, well decorated, and well lived-in. There's a window air-conditioning unit, and he must keep it turned down low because the room temperature is cooler than the rest of the house.
He leans back against the door, closing it behind him, and captures my lips once again. I don't know whether it's the drop in temperature or the change in his kiss that has me shivering. Gone is the frenzy, and in its place is a slow, steady exploration that kindles an already burning need at the juncture of my thighs. When his tongue has touched every corner of my mouth, he breaks away, resting his forehead on mine as we both struggle to catch our breath.
He crosses the room, and set
s me on the edge of his bed. I remember my soaked clothes and protest, “I'm wet.”
That draws another lazy chuckle from him and with a kiss to my forehead, he says, “I hope so.”
I hide a grin, and then poke him in the chest. “Dirty.”
He leans over me, until I have to lie back on my elbows to see his face. He braces his arms just outside my shoulders and lowers his mouth toward mine.
“Damn right. If you could see the way that dress is clinging to your body, you wouldn't blame me. Hell, even before the dress was wet, all I could think about was getting you out of it.”
“Then why am I still in it?”
“Truth?” he asks, and I nod. He trails one hand over my waist and down to my hip, and his warm touch burns through the wet fabric. He says, “Now that I'm back home, I've been trying to clean up my act. Be more responsible. Do things right.”
“And I'm wrong?”
“No. Jesus, no. You're … Fuck, I don't even have the words to describe you. And if you knew me, you'd know how rare that is.”
“But we don't know each other.”
We couldn't. He could never really know me.
“I'd like to know you.”
Gods, I wish things were that simple. It's too easy to imagine myself with him. Imagine lazy days in bed. Discovering other ways to make him laugh. What I wouldn't give to be able to be with someone. No thoughts to my ability and how long is too long to stay. No lies about my past or what I am. If I could be normal, live like a normal person, I think Wilder would be a pretty perfect choice.
But I don't get normal.
And it’s one thing to ignore that in the heat of the moment with his body flush against mine, but with him holding back? Not even I’m that reckless.
I place a hand on his chest to push him back so I can stand. “Maybe …” I don’t even want to say the words, but I force myself. “Maybe this is a mistake.”
I slip around him toward his door even though I don’t have the slightest clue where I’ll go or what I’ll do. As soon as I touch the doorknob, I feel him behind me. He places a hand on the door, holding it shut.
“Tell me why first.” He looms behind me, his body tempting and his breath teasing at the nape of my neck.