“You’re giving me a massage.” The inflection of his words was impossible to read.
“That’s what I said. Now, relax.” I kept my voice as low and soothing as possible as I smoothed my palms over his neck and shoulders. His muscles bunched further, which defeated the entire purpose of the exercise. “The other kind of relaxing.”
I loved getting massages, but I enjoyed giving them almost as much. There was something so satisfying about feeling the tension melt beneath my hands and knowing that I’d helped someone feel better, if only temporarily.
It took a while for Christian to relax, but he gradually sank into the couch and tipped his head back, eyes closed.
The air hummed with awareness and the mingled sounds of our soft, even breaths.
I tried to focus on my movements and not on the powerful masculine form draped insouciantly beneath me, like a panther at rest after a long hunt.
Christian’s muscles were sleek and sculpted, all sinuous lines and coiled strength.
Like everything else about him, his body was a lethal, perfectly honed machine.
My eyes drifted up to his face and the dark sweep of his lashes against bronzed cheeks.
Firm, sensual lips, chiseled cheekbones, a straight blade of a nose, and a jaw so perfectly cut Michelangelo must’ve sculpted it himself.
It should be illegal for anyone to possess a face like that.
A lock of thick, dark hair brushed his forehead. Unable to help myself, I smoothed it back and luxuriated in the soft strands as I gently massaged his scalp. Christian’s hair was the perfect length—short enough for easy maintenance, long enough for a woman to run her hands through it while…
Stop. Focus.
I swallowed past the dryness in the throat and the renewed ache in my lower belly.
Below me, the rhythm of Christian’s breathing changed to something harsher, more primal.
I slid my palms down his neck and over his shoulder—
A small gasp sliced through the silence when his hand closed over mine, halting its movements. The iron grip branded my skin with so much heat I felt it in my bones.
“Enough.”
Rough restraint and whiskey glares.
He’d opened his eyes, and I was already getting consumed by them when I latched onto my tiny, remaining shred of self-survival and dragged myself out.
I pulled my hand out from underneath his and stepped back, heart in my throat, pulse racing with pure adrenaline.
“You’re right. That should be enough. I hope it helped.” Cool, calm, collected. “Anyway, I—I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night.”
For the second time that week, I fled to my room and locked the door behind me. I closed my eyes and leaned against the cool wood until my heartbeats slowed to a normal pace.
What was wrong with me? I’d never gotten so worked up over a guy before. I even visited a sex therapist once in case my low libido was cause for concern, but she’d reassured me it was normal. Not everyone experienced sexual attraction all the time or in the same way.
Unless, apparently, they lived with Christian Harper. I couldn’t pinpoint what had changed.
I’d always thought he was attractive, but my reactions to him hadn’t been this intense or frequent until he found me after the first note. Sure, the night of the gala had been intense, but I thought that’d been a fluke.
Maybe my brain was confused and thought our fake relationship was real? Or maybe I was mistaking gratitude for something deeper.
Whatever the reason, I wished the strange feelings would go away.
I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, but sleep remained elusive thanks to the persistent, throbbing ache in my core.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I slipped my hand between my legs, and my mouth parted in a silent gasp at the first brush of my fingers over my clit.
I didn’t need sexual release often, but that one touch ignited months of pent-up frustration until the only thing that mattered was chasing sweet, heady relief.
My back arched off the mattress as I played with my clit with one hand and my nipple with the other. I was hypersensitive after not touching myself for so long, and sparks of pleasure raced through my body, lighting every nerve ending on fire.
Small whimpers mingled with the slippery sounds of my fingers against my clit while a familiar erotic film unfolded in my mind.
Me tied up, the rough scratch of ropes abrading my skin while a faceless stranger had his way with me.
Hands collaring my throat, bites on my skin, and a hard, relentless rhythm that wrenched inhibited screams from my throat.
Dark fantasies I only indulged in beneath the cover of night.
I’d never disclosed them to previous lovers because I’d been too nervous to share them and because I didn’t trust them to carry out the scenarios the way I wanted.
Ironically, in my fantasies, it was never about the man. My phantom lover had remained faceless all these years, an amorphous figure who didn’t require an identity to provide me with what I wanted—the safe loss of control and an off switch for the ceaseless worries plaguing my brain. Nothing but the sharp stings of pleasure and adjacent pain.
But as wetness soaked my fingers and the pressure built between my thighs, the faceless figure came into focus for the first time since my fantasies started.
Golden brown eyes. Lethally soft smile. A heated brush of lips against mine and a ruthless grip that dug into my skin with just enough pressure to make my head swim.
The knot of pressure exploded with such force I didn’t have time to scream before I tumbled over the edge, swept up in wave after wave of orgasmic bliss with nothing to hold on to except visions of whiskey, rough hands, and a man I shouldn’t want but couldn’t help crave.
20
STELLA
I avoided Christian with the determination of an escaped convict fleeing the FBI in the week leading up to New York.
It was surprisingly easy, given how early he left in the morning and how late he returned at night. I suspected he might be avoiding me as well, and I half expected him to back out of accompanying me to the shoot.
No such luck.
The morning of my Delamonte shoot, I found myself thirty-five thousand feet in the air, sitting across from a man who seemed as hellbent on ignoring me as I did him.
Except for a courteous exchange of good mornings, we hadn’t spoken to each other since we left the house.
I sipped my lemon water and snuck a peek at Christian. He was working on his laptop, his brow furrowed with concentration. His jacket lay on the seat next to him, and he’d pushed his shirtsleeves up to reveal his watch and tanned, muscular forearms.
How had I not realized how sexy forearms were until now?
I stared at where his Patek Philippe glinted against his bronzed skin. Jules was right. There was something about men wearing watches…
“Something on your mind?” Christian didn’t look up from his computer.
I hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but my heartbeats collided like he’d caught me stealing.
“Just thinking about the shoot,” I lied. I took another sip of water.
Between the tension on the plane and my Delamonte shoot that afternoon, I was surprised I could keep anything, even liquids, down.
“What are you going to do while I’m on set?” I asked. “Go into the New York office?”