Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(31)

“You weren’t trying to sneak out, were you?”

“No, I was coming to find you actually. Probably a good thing I didn’t get far. Chances are I would get lost.”

He laughs. “Then I think it’s time for a tour. I didn’t have a chance to show you around earlier.”

“Maybe we can fit in a lesson on art interpretation too. You know, things like ambiguous pointing toes?”

He laughs again. “I may have to examine those pointing toes.”

The toes in question curl at the prospect. For a moment, I wonder whether I should press the art lecture but my eyes fly to the clock on the wall. Sixteen hours and fifteen minutes of embargo left.

His index finger comes under my chin. “No clocks today,” he whispers and wraps his hands around my waist, bending his seraphic face to mine.

The kiss is gentle and slow. His tongue traces my lips, once, twice, three times, four. He does not rush. My mouth parts in response and only then, his tongue comes in. His hands clutch my waist tightly. Suddenly the slow pace is not enough for me. I take his lower lip between my teeth and bite it like I have wanted to do since the flood in the painting room. He moans and fists his hand in my hair, arching my head all the way back.

He lowers his lips to the base of my throat. “This is the first part of you I saw in your painting,” he whispers. “I wanted nothing else but to kiss it.”

His lips flutter over my skin. I’m on fire. That warm pulse between my legs throbs until the rest of me is vibrating, inside out.

He pulls back and takes my hand. “Let’s finish that tour.”

He strides to the clock on the wall and flips off the switch. Then, he unplugs the microwave, the stove, the sound system. All the clocks. We stroll through the rooms, and wherever he sees a clock, he turns it off and kisses me. Hard kiss, soft kiss, long, short, bites, nibbles, blows, until the only thing that keeps me from slumping to the hardwood floor is his primal hold around my waist.

In the end, we enter his library. It rivals Reed’s Rare Books Collection. Mahogany floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, holding hundreds, perhaps thousands, of books. A hand-carved chessboard is set out in the corner. If I were not burning and the clock were not ticking, I’d sit here all night. He smiles at the awe that must show on my face.

“What are men to books and libraries,” he chuckles, modifying Elizabeth Bennett’s quote from Pride and Prejudice. So bloody clever!

“In vain they struggle. It will not do.” I spoil Mr. Darcy’s words.

He laughs and pulls me tightly to him. “In vain, indeed,” he says, kissing me in front of Austen and all.

On our way out of the library, I notice a calligraphy quill with a long, black-and-white feather on a shelf. A beautiful Amherst.

He notices my gaze. “A gift from my mother. She seems to think this is a manly pen. She bought one for me and one for my father when they were in Europe.” He rolls his eyes, but there is a tender ache there when he talks about his mother.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, thinking of my mum’s quill on my dresser. Like a last warning to step away from more loss. I push the thought aside and pick up the quill. It quivers like me. I caress his cheek with it, pausing at his scar. He takes it from me and runs it over my lips, my jawline, my neck and my collarbones. My breathing becomes shallow.

Feather in hand, he leads me out of the library and down the hall, finally to his bedroom. He unplugs his alarm and takes off his Audemars, pulls out the crown and shoves it in his dresser. His eyes are liquid fire. He saunters toward me with single-minded focus.

Every muscle in my body is coiled and tensed. The bottom of my belly is clenching with a dark, addictive ache. I am ready. I want this. He caresses my face, looking at me questioningly for permission. I can only nod and reach for my dad’s watch. I have not taken it off in four years but tonight is past-free. My hand shakes as I undo the clasp. Aiden wraps his hand around mine. I thought it would feel like my skin was being flayed but with Aiden’s touch, my wrist feels lighter.

When the watch comes off, we don’t stop it. He sets it gently in the dresser next to his Audemars. Then, he looks at me with a pure smile.

“Let the time stand still, Elisa.”





Chapter Nineteen





Masterpiece


The light of his bedroom is muted. No sound but the night and my loud breathing. He is close, very close. I smell sandalwood. Cinnamon. Aiden. I see nothing but him. And he has turned part beast, part man. The molten blue of his eyes stirs, melts, whirlpools, freezes and revives all over again, in some inner battle.

He caresses my cheek with the backs of his fingers, along my jawline, until he reaches my lips. He traces my lower lip with his thumb and the edge of his nail scrapes my skin lightly, back and forth, back and forth. My eyes close, my head lolls to the side.

Then, both his hands frame my face.

“Open your eyes,” he whispers. I do, but my eyelids are heavy.

“Elisa, have you done this before?” His voice is low, almost part of the night. I can only shake my head.

“La virgen,” he mouths. “Are you sure you want this?”

This, yes. What’s coming later, no. I nod. Apparently the powers of speech have deserted me. His lips hover over mine. I feel his hot breath on my mouth.

“I should stop you, but I won’t. Because every day, every hour—awake or asleep —since I saw your first painting, you have haunted me.” His voice is on a tight leash, and the fire in his eyes rages brighter. One of his hands leaves my face and splays at the small of my back. He presses me against his body. Hardened, coiled. For me. He brings his mouth to my ear.