Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(28)
Lenny drags a finger over the black-and-white granite kitchen island, not responding.
“Don’t worry, though,” I rush out, needing to fill the silence all of a sudden. “She didn’t die here, or anything.”
Glancing at me, Lenny lifts a shoulder, letting the neckline of her oversized T-shirt expose some of the smooth skin of her collarbone. “Doesn’t need a ghost to be haunted.”
I suppose she has a point, though I’m positive the only one my mum’s haunting is me.
Grabbing her luggage, I take it upstairs and into the master suite. Lenny follows, pausing with raised eyebrows as she enters the room.
“Was your mom a psychiatric patient at any point?” she asks, walking to the canopy bed.
“Bloody well should’ve been.” I’ve already told her too much about the woman, but I can’t seem to stop.
Her fingers wrap around one of the metal posts, twisting the sheer fabric draped over the frame, and I consider Alistair’s comment about bedding her.
Frankly, it was tempting before this, and now that she’s standing inches away from a mattress and we’re all alone, the idea of pressing her into the surface until the springs squeal from our weight is becoming vastly more appealing.
Sure, it might complicate things, but what about our situation isn’t already?
My footsteps are slow. They carry me to her in an almost deliberate fashion, stopping just behind her as she looks at the covered windows.
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.