Page 2 of These Family Ties
I swallow and nod, and for a split second after he gently pushes me, while my body hangs suspended in the air above the old brass-framed bed in my narrow room, I feel beautiful. I bounce once, but my hands do not come up to smooth my hair. I say nothing as he hitches up the plum satin of my mini dress. The small squeak from behind my pressed lips is the only sound in the room as he breaks the sides of my Fleur of England panties. His mouth parts, his bright turquoise eyes boring into my soul as he descends over my sex. He halts, but only to inhale, his eyelids fluttering shut and his expression becoming rapturous as he breathes my scent into his body.
My heart clenches with anticipation as his mouth descends upon my inner thighs. Nipping and biting his way up, he knows exactly how to use pain and pleasure to tip me over the edge of where I’m at. His mouth drives me out of the hell we live in and into a place where no one but us can reach.
No one knows my heart—or my body—like Webber. And I intend for things to stay that way. Not even our vicious, controlling, all-seeing ‘mother’ knows how we really feel for each other. I’ll end her before she ever sets her foul sights on the pureness of the love between Webber and me.
Chapter Three
Cleo
A fine tremor, cold and premonitory, gusts over my skin, no doubt the result of the primal warning.
The dark-haired man sits across from me, nursing his drink, his posture so relaxed that if he were common, I’d say he was slouching. But there is nothing ordinary about the man.
He’s wearing a fucking Brioni suit. At least I think he is. The way his table had the only seat open in the club felt like more than coincidence. But that would be impossible. He dips his head, inviting me to sit.
As soon as I slide into the seat, a waiter slips a Negroni in front of me. Perhaps it’s what ladies in this club drink. Maybe it’s the preferred drink of his wife, or mother. Perhaps he’s a Game of Thrones fan.
There is no way he could know it’s my favorite.
Picking up the glass, I meet his assessing gaze. His eyes are a hypnotic hazel; a swirling kaleidoscope of green, amber, and gold probes my icy blue orbs. The eyes my mother swears are too pale and cold to draw in a man of worth and substance. She criticizes them as if they’re just another one of the million pieces of me that don’t live up to her exacting standards. Webber says my eyes are flawless as the ice in Greenland and reflect the purity of my soul. I wonder what the enigmatic man in front of me sees.
Whatever it is, he seems to be in no hurry to divulge what he’s found. Picking up my glass, I study the perfectly curled, thin slice of orange rind and wonder what else, besides gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari, is about to dazzle my tastebuds.
He certainly doesn’t appear to be the kind of man who needs to drug his conquests, so I tamp down my trepidation and sit back against my chair, letting the drink sweat between my fingers. A part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and drink it down, allowing the burn of alcohol to add to the scorching, desperate pain inside of me.
“Twenty-five K for the night,” he murmurs.
“Fifty.” My eyes trail up and down him once, then wander to the bar.
He chuckles, drawing my attention back to him. Offering neither acquiescence nor denial, the grin he flashes makes me feel like a scout who’s just boldly asked him to buy my entire quota of cookies.
Motherfucker.
“One hundred thousand, and your dick stays in your pants. If you can make me come three times, I’ll come back tomorrow with a friend of my choosing. You’ll pay the same amount before we begin, and when you’re conscious, you’ll pay double.” I counter, for a split-second longing to feel the shame I felt the first time I had this conversation. But that was a past life and I was another girl. He blinks, his eyes tightening, and throws his head back, laughing loudly. His laugh echoes through me, quickening my pulse, filling an empty place inside of me with the thrill of his approval.
He raises an eyebrow, elegantly snorting through the ghost of a smile that touches his lips. “Do you know who I am?” The question is curious. There is no pomp or arrogance in it. Instinct tells me he asks because he needs the answer to decide.
“I have no idea who you are. Or what your net worth is. I have no idea if you murdered the owner of that suit or purchased it.” I take a sip of my drink, deliberately lowering my eyes. Jesus fuck Mary, Cleo are you flirting with him? Bitter liquid slides down my throat, followed by a teasing touch of sweetness and notes of a wild beauty that cares nothing for wealth. A metaphorical taste of the prison I endure and the wild freedom I long for. I swallow the beverage without blinking, without hesitation, my throat working as elegantly and gracefully as I do when Mother feeds me her lies.
He leans forward, setting his tumbler down. His elbows drop to the table, one hand curling into an elegant fist as perfectly trimmed nails and elegantly slender fingers slide over the white scars of his knuckles. “But you name your price so quickly. Has nothing that calculating gaze taken in given you pause?” he asks, not batting a single eye at my almost half-a-million-dollar price tag. Again, his tone is honestly curious. Plainly seeking more information with a simply stated fact and straight-forward question. His lack of condemnation pricks at my eyes.
This is not a man to be fucked with. Whatever he is, whatever he’s done to make his money, he’s done it well enough that he still retains at least a shred of humanity. To be here, in this place that reeks of privilege, and still be openly curious, interested in what I think and feel…fuck, that kind of inquisitiveness is heady. His gaze roves over me intently as his head tilts, and try as I might, I cannot convince myself that his question is an act. His desire for my answer burns bright in the oxygen between us. My lips part and I’ve leaned forward before my brain catches up to my body.
I want to answer him.
Steadily, I inhale, bringing one hand up to tap my nails against the crystal tumbler. I expect a subtle, expensive cologne to waft up my nasal passages, but all I smell is understated power. My tongue freezes as all of Mother’s training malfunctions. He doesn’t add up. My instincts, so finely honed, are sending information that does not coincide with the carefully crafted balance sheet she’s drilled into my head.
Could he be the one?
I set my drink down. Every bone in my body wants to push him further. The body that Brioni is expertly tailored for is mouthwatering. Broad shoulders, tapering to a trim waist. I have no doubt when he stands, his thighs will curve out over his knees and those tailored pants will cling tightly to a perfectly honed ass. My brain leaps ahead, glossing over the distasteful transaction. The leather under my legs suddenly feels dirty, sticky with spilled drinks and sweat, nothing like the way they’ll feel sliding over the cool, buttery European crust in whatever top-of-the-line vehicle is awaiting him. My nipples harden as my breasts become heavy. Heat rushes to my face as my cunt clenches, begging me to let him in and do what he will.
For a split second, I consider tossing the transaction to the wind and taking him for my own pleasure. I could make the choice and have him because I want him. But I cannot. I use up my allotment of selfishness before I cross the threshold of our home and I won’t put what Webber and I have at risk by taking more than the universe deems I deserve.
Maybe somewhere, in a parallel universe, there is a Cleo who piques the interest of this stranger because she wants to. For herself. Simply because she fancies him. A Cleo whose mother is nothing like mine.
I blink, harder than I should, to clear away such rambling, aberrant fantasies. Webber’s angelic face hovers in the back of my mind. “Focus, Cleo,” he whispers. “Finish this and come home to me.”
I sneak a glance at his face. His hair is dark, his temples shot with silver, artfully styled into a tousled mess. A bit wide set, those warm, curious eyes sit over a straight, narrow nose. His mouth is a bit thin, and there’s a small scar puckering the right side of his upper lip. Slightly too long to qualify for the golden ratio, especially with a hint of dark stubble, his countenance is an odd combination of aristocrat and rough.