“You’re very brave.” Pride glimmers in his eyes. “I promise it’ll be worth it.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Emerson
It’s shadowed in the back of the SUV as we coast over the highway. Distant city lights play over her face, her little nose, her delicate chin. Daphne’s dark eyes catch every bit of that glow. They glimmer. She’s so proud of herself. She’s such a brave little painter. I meant what I said. I meant every word.
I keep myself on the opposite side of the SUV, in the darker shadows. The sweet, cold-air smell of her fills every breath I take. It’s shoving sensation into my face, into my skin. I have to push it away again and again. Turn it into art. In a frame. Trapped. Still. So what if I’m turning this moment into an approximation of canvas? I’m not afraid of Daphne, or kissing her, or fucking her. I’m staying in control.
I want to lunge on her, but I won’t. I’ve had years of practice with waiting.
Never mind the bristling feeling I’ve been living inside since my front door closed behind that bastard.
I don’t want to scare her.
Even if it is inevitable.
Because, of course, I don’t want a few stolen moments at a charity gala. A man doesn’t steal precious items, he acquires them. And then he keeps them very, very safe. He binds them to him by virtue of his protection and his ownership. With art, this happens with money. With contracts and certificates and records of provenance.
It will be different with Daphne. Protection and ownership, yes. But not with money. I am already aware of her provenance. I know where she came from. And I know where she’ll be, starting tonight. The process of binding—of breaking, perhaps—that will take longer.
I can be patient.
Despite the rush of blood in my head, in my veins, in my cock. Despite the pull to her. Like an undertow. Like a riptide. It’s almost painful to resist it, but I do. I will. For a little while longer. I flatten it out. Turn it to face the wall.
“Tell me something.”
“What?”
“How is it that I was the first man to lick your cunt?”
Daphne gasps, but she recovers quickly. She’d let her hand down from her collar but it flies back up to the soft sweater underneath her jacket. “I wasn’t lying about that.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
She becomes a silhouette edged in moonlight as we turn off the highway and toward the water. “I didn’t date anyone. Not like that. I let a couple of guys take me out, but I never went home with anyone. I never wanted things to get that far. Not in high school, and not in college.”
I like this about her, in a possessive, animal way. I like that no other man has ever touched her, or seen her sweet pussy. But concern prickles. “Because you’re not interested in sex?”
I doubt that very much. The way she came in my mouth was desperate and lovely. She wanted it.
“Because it seemed…” Daphne considers this carefully. “It seemed dangerous to get my heart broken. My friends would date. They’d fall in love and break up, and they were so devastated by all of it.”
“But not you.”
“My brother is very protective.”
Not her parents. My view of her family shifts again. In my experience with families like the Morellis, it’s usually the parents with an iron grip on the daughters. Daughters, after all, can be pressured into advantageous marriages. Families like Daphne’s aren’t consolidating property anymore, like in feudal England. They’re consolidating generational wealth.
“The brother you were staying with?”
“Yes. Leo.” Daphne folds her hands in her lap. “Once, when I was eleven, one of the boys from my class followed me to my locker. He said—” She makes a huffing sound, as if she still can’t quite believe it. “He said that all the Morellis were thieves and murderers, and everyone would be happier if I hurried up and went to hell.”
“What the fuck?”
“I’m not saying my family is perfect.” She watches me very carefully now, waiting to see how I’ll react. “But it was…a lot. And then he said that everyone hated my art. He said I’d only won the art contest that year because everyone was afraid of my father.”
“Fuck him.”
“I didn’t win because of him. My piece was good.” The note of confidence in her voice is the sexiest thing for how fleeting it is. “Anyway, I was too hurt to brush it off. Leo saw my face when I got home, and of course I told him everything. The next day he waited outside the school for that kid to come out, and he scared the shit out of him.” A stifled laugh. “That boy never looked at me again. I don’t know exactly what Leo said, but everyone was super nice to me after that. So…” Daphne sighs. “If somebody broke my heart—like, really broke it—I don’t even know what he’d do.”
Interesting. She’s not much for one-night stands, then. And the brother—I can understand protectiveness. I’d like to go back in time and break the bones of whoever would speak to Daphne that way. But I want more for her than that.
I want more from her.
She bites at her lip, excitement flickering into her eyes. “Are we going to the beach?”
My god. Daphne thinks we’re going on a little adventure. That she’s having a moment of rebellion that will be over by sunrise.
She doesn’t know I’m not going to give her back. I’m not going to let her go.
“Yes,” I say, because it’s the simple truth. “We’re going to the beach.”
Our first stop is, indeed, my beach. I take her to the lip of the water and let her breathe in the night air. Daphne stands close to me, shivering in her coat, her hands shoved into her pockets. Waves roll to shore, rippling in the moonlight. She studies each crest, each fall.
“My hands are shaking too much to paint,” she says softly. “It’s so cold.”
“You’ll be warm inside.” I put my hand on the small of her back and guide her across the sand to another staircase carved out of the retaining wall. This one leads to my house.
We crest the wall, and Daphne sucks in a surprised breath. From this vantage point the house is all light pouring from massive windows. All the curtains have been pushed back. I wanted it to look welcoming and safe. I can tell from the shine in her eyes that it does. I won’t be leading her into a dark, obscured space.
I take her in through a side door leading to an oversized entryway. My wetsuit hangs here, and three surfboards. There’s plenty of room left over for a changing bench. Daphne shivers happily in the heat. “That’s nice.”
“You won’t need this.” I slip her coat off her shoulders and feel her little tenses as my fingers make contact with her sweater. So close to her skin.
Daphne kicks her boots off and takes a tentative step toward the hall. She’ll find my den there, and if she goes further, my office. My dining room. The kitchen.
“Go,” I tell her. “Look around. I’m just going to hang up my coat.”
She pads away, excitement in her eyes. Daphne will be curious, and I want to give her a minute to acclimate herself without being watched. I take off my gloves. My coat. Hang them up.