I lift a hand, ignoring the way it trembles, and follow the outline of her spine beneath the cotton of her shirt.
“Now that you’re here,” I say, my voice so low that it feels more like a rumble in my chest, “I can’t very well allow you to leave.”
“Oh?” The single syllable is barely more than a whispered breath, and I wish I could taste its essence on my tongue. “Am I your prisoner now?”
Swallowing a groan, I shift forward, letting my thighs graze the backs of hers. Behind my zipper, my cock lengthens, throbbing with an intensity that’s almost painful. I move again, pressing my hips into the swell of her arse through her silk sleep shorts and trying not to blow just from the contact alone.
My fingers find the nape of her neck, sliding down and tracing the ridge of her collarbone. “Would you like to be?”
I hear her sharp intake of breath, and it sends a violent spiral of warmth throughout my body. Then she lets out a yawn, her hand coming up to stifle the moan she makes. I snap out of the haze of lust that her floral and vanilla scent sends me into, taking three massive steps in the opposite direction.
Sheepishly, she turns to face me, wrapping her arm around the bedpost and using it as a crutch. As she blinks, I notice for the first time just how tired she appears, and it sets something foreign in me ablaze.
It’s the exhaustion that’s been building, that carves itself into the purple bags under your eyes, and Lenny seems to be one yawn away from passing out.
Scrubbing at my beard, I rock back on my heels. “You should get some sleep. We’ll continue the tour in the morning.”
I can tell she wants to protest, but after a moment’s hesitation, she seems to think better of it.
She climbs in bed, shuffling down beneath the covers, and then rolls to face me. For some reason, I haven’t moved, even though my brain is begging me to retreat. To not fall for her pretty face and round tits when she’s the goddamn daughter of the man who orchestrated my father’s ruin and death.
Who’s to say what I witnessed back at the house wasn’t a staged coup meant to throw me off, so Tom can exact his own revenge on me now that his restraining order isn’t doing the trick?
She may be too bloody beautiful and wicked for her own good, but if I can’t trust her, I certainly can’t shag her.
Shoving Alistair’s suggestion to the back of my mind, I try to refocus on my original reason for agreeing to fake date her. Remind myself that I need the reputation boost—rather, Alistair needs it, and the whole point is to use the relationship with the Primrose family to help him climb the political ladder.
Pausing before I leave the room, my hand grips the doorframe. “You were going to kill him, weren’t you? The one manhandling you?”
Lenny presses her lips together. For a moment, she just stares, like she isn’t sure how to answer.
I don’t need an answer, though. I already know.
Saw the thirst in those soft, green eyes.
Pulling back the covers, she reveals a medium-sized paintbrush lying prone at her elbow.
“I wasn’t going down without trying,” she mutters, her words loud in the quiet room. They’re slow and focused, rolling off her tongue without preamble, and it makes me wonder how many bodies the little puppet has left behind.
Two weeks pass rather uneventfully, before I realize I’ve not a clue what to do with a fiancée, fake or not.
Unfortunately, my assertion about not dating was less of an attempt at deterring Lenny from pursuing me, and more of a confession.
I don’t date. Never quite understood the appeal of intertwining your fate with someone else’s, especially in the temporary sense that most relationships seem to exist within.
I’d like to think the aversion has nothing to do with my parents’ failed marriage, but in truth, I’m sure the majority of my issues can be traced back to them.
Still, with the terms of our agreement set in stone and centering around our relationship being known, it feels wrong that I’ve pretty much relegated the girl to the confines of the beach house.
Though, she certainly hasn’t complained. Not that I’ve seen much of her in the time since, unwilling to compromise my end goal for a single night spent between her thighs.
If I’m around her too much in the house, I know I’ll have no choice but to strip her bare and lick her raw. She’s always in these tiny sleep shorts or lacy, low-cut tops, feeding my depraved imagination with every little sigh or grunt of frustration.
One day, I get home from the pub late on account of having to take contractual business to the cellar. There’s a tear in my jacket and what feels like clumps of hair missing from my head because the bastard fought until I squeezed the last breaths out of him.
My bad for not restraining him beforehand, but I thought for sure a man double my age and half my size wouldn’t require such dramatics.
Lenny sits in front of the closed door to the office, where she’s set up some sort of makeshift craft studio. Tins of paint and canvases, blank and half finished, line every available surface in the room, while plastic tarps stretch over the two dark-gray cabriole sofas angled before the electric fireplace.
Since she isn’t allowed back at Primrose Manor currently, her older brothers dropped her belongings off, and her material possessions now fill the house.
I don’t particularly mind her making the space her own. Especially given that I’m rarely here, and she has quite literally nothing else.
What I mind, however, is the fact that she’s stark fucking naked. Sitting with a pillow under her knees, Lenny’s entire bare backside is plainly visible to me and the entire ocean, since the lights are on and the curtains are drawn.
“Bloody hell.” Averting my gaze out of courtesy, I stare at the marble mantel and try not to look up at the mirror hanging on the wall above it.
From my peripheral, I see her head turn to the side. “Oh. You’re back.”
“Do you often paint in the nude?”
“Yes. I find clothes restricting.”
Pulling my cheek between my teeth, I clamp down until the flesh breaks, flooding my mouth with the taste of copper. “Well, unless you want me to take that as some sort of invitation, I suggest not prancing around where other people might see you.”
She pushes to her feet, tossing a little black crayon into a bucket by the pillow. I feel her come nearer, and my body stiffens when she stops just in front of me.
Nostrils flaring, I let my gaze fall to hers, refusing to look farther down. The heat from her body emanates wildly, brushing the surface of my skin the way the sun warms the sky.
“I don’t mind if you look,” she tells me, lifting a brow. “My live-in fiancé should probably have a pretty intimate knowledge of my body, anyway.”
“Who’s going to ask about that?”
She snorts. “Clearly, you don’t know the paparazzi. And besides, it’s not about them asking. It’s about knowing your character.”
“So, what? You consider this research?” A lump lodges in my throat, and I struggle to swallow around it.
“Something like that. Trust me, I did ballet when I was younger. The performance goes better when there’s authenticity behind it.”
Considering this, I let my gaze dip. Just a fraction, slipping past her chin for a peek.