“Now what did I say about rummaging through my kitchen like a field mouse?”
I gasp, startled at Mrs. Tottingham’s voice and whirling from the open refrigerator I’ve had my head buried in. I grin sheepishly around the sliver of day-old quiche in my mouth.
It’s midnight, but the gurgling in my stomach mixed with my rattled nerves about this whole thing with Bastian’s inheritance has me creeping through the kitchen in my pajamas.
Mrs. Tottingham - also in pajamas and a bathrobe - sighs, her hands planted on her hips as she shakes her head at me.
“Out!” She shoos me away, making me giggle as she swats at me, shutting the huge door to the Subzero fridge and planting herself in front of it, like a guard.
“If you’re hungry, you just give me a call, Ana.”
I roll my eyes, swallowing the last bite of quiche.
“Emily, I’m not ten anymore. I can feed myself.”
“Well, I don’t know what they do out in California, but here, we don’t eat out of refrigerators like savages.”
She winks at me.
“Now, what are we having?”
“Seriously, it’s late. I can just grab a bowl of cereal.”
She makes a face. “Cereal’s for breakfast, dear.”
“Yeah, but breakfast food is delicious.”
Mrs. Tottingham grins mischievously before she turns, opens the fridge, and starts pulling out milk and eggs and butter. She turns back and waves a hand at the tall chairs on the far side of the huge kitchen island.
“Sit, sit!”
I’m about to ask what she’s up to when she opens a cupboard and pulls down the big, old, waffle iron.
“Breakfast food it is. But we’re not having cereal.”
I never ate them in this house, but memories of Mrs. Tottingham’s waffles are something I’ll never forget. My stomach rumbles loudly as she starts to mix up the batter, sprinkling in her own little secret ingredients as she beats the mix into submission.
“I didn’t wake you, did I?”
I suddenly frown, realizing how late it is.
“Not at all, dear. I was on the phone with my niece, Charlotte. She works so much that mornings for her is the best time to ring her, and I don’t mind staying up late to chat and catch up, what with the time difference.”
“Charlotte Charlotte? Who came to visit that time?”
She nods, turning to spread butter over the warming waffle iron.
“That’s the one.”
Emily’s niece spent a week here way back when I was eleven, during which time we bonded pretty hard over “The Little Mermaid” and agreeing that the nasty boy who her mother worked for was a big jerk.
“Still in London?”
“Tuffnell Park, just outside.” The waffle iron sizzles as she pours on the first batch of batter.
“How is she?”
My memory of Charlotte is a sweet, charmingly English, tow-headed little eight-year-old. But who knows, she could be a gothy, angsty woman with facial piercings now since people do tend to change from who they were at ten.
Or they stay exactly the same. Bastian is a prime reminder of that.
“Oh, sweet as ever.” She frowns. “Too sweet, really. Her boyfriend just left her, actually. Left her, after she’s the one who found him with some other girl and forgave him.”
The waffle iron snaps shut.
“Can you even believe that?”
I make a face. “Guys are assholes. Sorry to hear that.” I sigh. “Here I was thinking English men were all classy and charming.”
Mrs. Tottingham barks out a laugh. “Oh, allow me to burst that bubble, dear.”
“So much for my immigration plans.”
She laughs. “Steering wheels on the other side, better tea, colder rain.” She cracks an egg on the side of the mixing bowl.
“Same asshole men.”
She uses a fork to pull out the tasty-looking, golden waffle and put it on a plate before she slathers it with a tab of butter and douses it with the perfect amount of rich-looking maple syrup.
She pauses, glancing up at me with that mischievous look on her face.
“Shall we make these Belgians?”
“That’s just a nice way of saying we should put ice cream on top, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely.”
I laugh. “Screw it, why not. Only if you’re joining me.”
“Oh you better believe I am,” she says with a prim square of her shoulders.
The scoop of vanilla melts enticingly over the top of the waffle as she slides the plate my way. I groan in anticipation, slicing up a bite, and bringing it to my lips.
“Oh God yes.”
Mrs. Tottingham beams, pouring more batter onto the iron for herself before plucking up a spoon and scooping a small bite of vanilla out of the carton.
“Men, honestly.”
“Preach it, sister,” I mumble through an insanely delicious bite. “Sorry to hear about Charlotte.”
She nods, taking another bite of ice cream. “Her and you, Ana.”
I shrug. “Eh, I’m fine.”
“A girl like you? Single?” she sighs. “I don’t know what this world is coming to. Those California boys are crazy for not scooping you up.”
I roll my eyes. “Mostly just crazy. Full stop.”
She grins.
“Well, how about you? No gentlemen callers banging down the Crown Estate kitchen door?”
Mrs. Tottingham’s cheeks go pink as she quickly turns to the waffle iron and opens it up.
My jaw drops.
“Mrs. Tottingham!”
“Oh what!” She turns, her face glowing and a little grin on her lips as she pours syrup over her waffle and heaps it with ice cream.
“Well, don’t hold out on me!”
She sits across from me, primly laying out her silverware and putting a napkin on her lap.
“His name is Earl, and we’re keeping things casual.”
I hoot out a laugh. “Well well well! Emily Tottingham playing the field!”
She grins sheepishly, taking a big bite of waffle.
“And you met where exactly?”
“Tinder.”
I crack up, the thought of Bastian’s sixty-five-year old chef and housekeeper swiping left or right on her phone bringing a huge grin to my face.
“He’s quite charming, actually. And very handsome. Plus he owns his own business.”
“Sounds like a package deal.” I wink at her. “Cool car?”
“Motorcycle.”
I lose it, giggling hysterically until my sides hurt.
“Oh now don’t be jealous, Ana,” she teases. “He’s got a brother who’s single you know. I’d be quite happy to set you up.”
I grin. “And the brother is how old?”
“Seventy-five. Four times divorced.”
I slap my palm on the counter. “Done. Set it up.”
We’re both cracking up, hooting and laughing, when the kitchen door bangs open.
“People do tend to try and sleep at night, ladies.”
We both turn to the door, and immediately start laughing even harder at Carl, standing there in polka-dot pajamas and freaking bear slippers.
“Carl!” Mrs. Tottingham rises. “Come on in. We’re having waffles.”
He frowns. “Mrs. Tottingham, Ms. Bell, it is one o’clock in the morning.”
“Waffles with ice cream, Carl,” I nod at the carton.
His frown drops, and his bushy grey eyebrows arch. “Ice cream you say.”
Mrs. Tottingham laughs as she starts the iron back up again. “Oh sit down, Carl. I’ll make you one.”
He smiles as he stiffly takes a seat.
“Carl, we’re talking love lives.” I grin at him. “Any women in your life you’d care to share?”
“I prefer men, actually.”
Mrs. Tottingham snorts out a laugh at the look on my face. “How on earth didn’t you know that? Lord, the reputation this old flirt has with—”
Carl coughs. “That’ll be enough of that, Emily.” He’s looking down, but there’s a sly little grin on his face.
“Well shit, Carl!” I laugh, passing him the syrup and butter as Mrs. Tottingham puts a plate in front of him. “Anyone special?”
The stoic, demure, seventy-year-old Crown family butler of thirty plus years sits tall in his chair, delicately cutting his waffle, pinkies out.
“I much prefer to keep my options open.”
More laughter fills the room, followed by more waffles, and more laughter, until my sides hurt and my stomach’s full.
Maybe this old house is capable of being a home after all.
* * *
“Feel better?”
I smile as I help Mrs. Tottingham put the clean dishes away after waffles.
Carl is long back in bed.
“Much. Delicious, as always.”
“Waffles are good for the soul.”
I nod, closing the silverware drawer with my hip before glancing back at her. She’s peering right at me.
“What?”
Mrs. Tottingham shrugs, raising a sharp, knowing brow at me as she turns away to wipe. “Nothing that’s any of my business.”
“Emily.”
She waves me off, her back still to me. “I’m just hoping they took your mind off of…” she trails off. “Well, whatever might be weighing it down.”
I shrug. “I mean, yeah, between my dad, and the music, and being back here at this house and everything, I guess I’ve got—”
“And the people who live in it.”
“What?”
“This house, I mean.” Mrs. Tottingham raises a brow. “Or at least person.”
I freeze, my mouth going tight.
“Ana, honey,” she smiles at me, “contrary to popular opinion, I didn’t spend the nine years I basically raised that boy blind and deaf. I knew what went on,” she makes a face. “I knew far too much about what went on, quite honestly. But, I also knew I wasn’t his mother.”
She scowls at a spot she’s missed on the immaculate kitchen countertop, giving it a quick wipe with her towel.
“I could help him with his homework, and I could feed him, and wash his clothes, and love him as best as I could, but,” she shakes her head. “I wasn’t his mother and I was never going to be.”
“Where are you going with this,” I say quietly.
“All I’m saying is, you back here, with him—”
“There’s no me and him, Emily.”
“Of course not, dear.”
“There’s not.”
“Well, one less thing to worry about then, now isn’t it?”
“Agreed,” I say quickly.
She smiles that motherly, knowing look at me.
“I do love that boy, you know. But he’s damaged. Something’s broken inside.”
“I know.”
I look at my hands.
“I know you do, dear.”
* * *
“Jesus Christ, has hell frozen over?”
I glance up from my Kindle to see Bastian glowering that non-smiling smile at me from the doorway to the office in the east wing. I shiver, acutely aware that not twenty-four hours ago, in this very room, he was kissing me - basically exactly in the spot he’s standing right now, right across from where I’m sitting in the high-backed chair by the window, my legs tucked under me.
I feel the heat creep up my neck, quickly attempting to hide it beneath a scowl.
“Excuse me?”
“You, Anastasia Bell, are reading on a Kindle.”
Well, looks like we won’t be discussing the kiss.
…Which works just fine for me.
“Is there a point to this, Bastian?”
I pull at the hem of my skirt, stretching it down over my knees as if covering more of myself keeps him from piercing his way inside.
“You always had this neo-Luddite thing going on.”
“Pardon me?”
“You’re anti-technology.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever you say.”
“Oh, please, the vinyl collection instead of CDs, or hell, mp3s? The big clunky vintage headphones instead of ear buds. I seem to remember you having a fucking flip-phone in high school instead of an iPhone like literally everyone else.”
I give him a look. “I was poor, Bastian. I couldn’t afford an iPhone.”
He scowls.
“Well, you reading a Kindle instead of what I can only assume would be a leather bound first edition is surprising.”
“Well, thank you for your unsolicited observations.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I glance back at my Kindle.
He stays.
“Can I do something for you, Bastian?” I say thinly, without looking up.
“You really want me to answer that or are you just looking for an excuse to call me a pig.”
I blush.
“What do you want.”
“Come with me.”
I look up. “Where?”
“No, I mean I want you to come with me.”
I roll my eyes again as the heat flushes through me. His lips pull into a thin, wicked smile.
“No, but for real, come.”
He beckons, crooking his finger.
“I’m not a puppy.”
“I’m sure I can find a collar if you’d like.”
The heat in my cheeks only deepens as I try and fix him with a frosty glare that comes off far lamer than intended.
“C’mon. Let’s go.”
“I’d rather—”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, you’re actually going to like this.”
“Doubt it,” I mumble as I put my Kindle down and get up to follow him out of the room.
We wander through the huge old house, down guided hallways, huge cavernous rooms that no one’s used in close to two decades, and enormous windows with the shades pulled over them. Up one flight of curved, flying staircases, down another hallway, and then another staircase, up to the third floor, which I’ve definitely never been up to.
“I sort of forgot this place had a third floor.”
He shrugs, walking in front of me.
“Same. Mostly just my dad’s office and shit like that.”
“Might be nice to make it your office, you know.”
“I’m not my dad,” he says sharply.
No shit.
Eventually, down one last ornate hallway, we come to a stop in front of a door.
“And we are…?”
Bastian nods. “Open it.”
“If this turns out to be some sort of gross BDSM thing—”
“Trust me I wouldn’t need a fancy room painted red in order to tie you up and make you beg for more.”
I shiver, my eyes going wide as I whip my head around to stare at him.
He grins.
“Open the fucking door.”
My hand closes on the knob. I twist, and the big oak door swings open.
My jaw drops.
Holy. Shit.
Of all the things I could have imagined to find behind some old door down a forgotten hallway in Bastian’s enormous house, this would’ve been filling out the bottom.
It’s a music room.
There’s really no other way to put it. The first thing I see is the absolutely gorgeous, black and gleaming Steinway grand piano to one side. Next to it, sitting polished, perfect, and posed, are an array of jaw-droppingly beautiful vintage electric guitars on stands, and even from here, I can tell they’re the real deal. A ’76 Gibson Les Paul, a la The Who. The Fender Esquire off the cover of Bruce Springsteen’s Born To Run, and a pristine white, left-handed guitar that looks strikingly like something out of a Jimi Hendrix concert.
What, I’m a music nerd.
I’m walking toward the instruments on autopilot like I’m in a trance. And it’s not until my hand is poised over the Fender that I stop, shaking myself from my reverie and turning back to Bastian.
He shrugs. “You can touch them, they’re not going to bite.”
I turn back, letting my fingers brush the strings of the guitar.
“It’s exactly like the one from—”
“The cover of Born to Run?”
I glance back at him, nodding.
“Yeah, that’s cause it is the one from the cover of Born to Run.”
My hand recoils like it’s been shocked.
“Are you kidding me?”
His look tells me he’s obviously not.
I turn, my eyes bugging out of my head as I take in the rest of the room, more instruments - including a pearl-white drum set - to one side, with one whole wall covered in wall-to-wall shelves absolutely filled with vinyl records. I walk toward that, fingertips and eyes scanning the ridiculously amazing collection.
“Holy shit.”
I stop at a pristine copy of the Beatles’ White Album facing outward on one of the shelves, my eyes landing on the little print date above the edition number.
“Is this a first-pressing?”
“Yep.”
My jaw drops. “This is worth like—”
“Yep.”
I shake my head, swallowing thickly as I turn back to Bastian, still standing in the doorway.
“What is this?”
“It’s for you.”
What.
He snorts.
“Relax, I don’t mean it’s for you. I didn’t like, go out and fucking build this. My dad put this together. He was a music nut.”
I nod, remembering the years when music poured out of this house before the airplane crash and the record scratch put an end to it.
“I just mean it’s for you to use, while you’re here. Since you’re going to be getting back into music and all once I get you back in with Tom Westing at Luminous.”
Why.
There’s always a tit-for-tat with Bastian, and I know this has a price tag.
“Why?”
“You know not everything’s a trick.”
“With you? Yes, it is. A trick, or a deal, or just a lie.”
“So negative, Texas.”
“It’s a Pavlovian response to being around you.”
He smiles.
“Still pretending to be that bent out of shape about a kiss, huh?”
My eyes smolder at him. Not in the good way.
Bastian just smirks.
“Just answer me this, and that’s it. No tricks, no bullshit. One question and the place is yours to use.”
“I’m on pins and needles.”
Something fierce flashes across his eyes, and I swallow as he moves from the doorway and slinks across the room toward me. I swallow thickly, muscles tensing and body tingling almost like an unconscious response to his presence suddenly being closer to me.
I take a step back, but he only keeps coming. I step back again, and I gasp this time as my back hits the wall of records. Bastian doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of me - not touching me but right past the line of personal space. One muscled arm props against the shelves above and behind me as he leans close, his lips curling wickedly, his eyes sparking something forbidden.
“No lying. That’s the deal. You have to answer absolutely truthfully.”
“Okay, I get it.”
“I’ll know.”
He would.
“Is there a question here?”
I say it defiantly like I’m ready to let whatever he says roll right off me, even if I know there’s a distinct possibility it’ll slice right through my skin.
“Patience, Tex—”
“What’s the question, Bastian?”
He smiles one of those smiles - the one that’s half smug grin and half defensive scowl at the same time.
“Last night.”
I stiffen, my breath coming staggered and my pulse coming quick as I nervously wet my lips.
Bastian’s eyes land right on the movement. His jaw twitches.
“What about last night,” I say testily, my hands at my sides, my palm rubbing the spines of the records behind me. I look him right in the eye, as much as I want to look away - as much as I know how dangerous looking into Sebastian Crown’s eyes can be.
“I’m curious,” he purrs, his voice low and growling.
He moves closer.
I take a shaky breath, his scent and his heat curling around me.
“When you left that room…”
His eyes pierce right into mine, holding them captive and sending a tremor through me.
“How wet were you.”
My face burns red hot as I quickly tear my eyes from his, looking away.
“Jesus, Bastian.”
“Answer the question,” he says, his voice firm.
“I’m not answering that. You’re just being disgusting.”
“Then no music room.”
“You are such a jerk, you know that?”
“Answer the question.”
I swallow, feeling my pulse skipping at double speed. I’m still not meeting his eyes.
He moves closer, and I shiver, my breath actually catching as the heat of his brushes across my neck.
I close my eyes as the dizzying feeling washes over me - his ability to render me speechless and turn me into a puddle.
“I like you like this,” he growls in my ear.
“Like what,” I manage to choke out, my breath shaky.
“Twisting on the line.”
“You are such an ass—”
I groan as his lips move to my collarbone, brushing over the skin.
“Answer the fucking question, Ana.”
“I- I wasn’t.”
“Lies,” he growls, the deep sound of his voice vibrating through me. His hand moves to my hip, sliding down the front of my thigh.
I don’t move it. I don’t shake it off, or push him away.
“One more chance to be a good girl and tell the damn truth.”
I whimper, panting, and he moves against me - pressing me into the shelves of records at my back. The hand teases the hem of my skirt, just running across it like a filthy little promise.
“Bastian—”
“Anastasia,” he purrs back.
“How. Wet. Was. Your. Tight. Little. Pus—”
“Very,” I gasp, the sound like a dam breaking as the truth comes pouring out.
“Good girl.”
I gasp as his fingers tug at the bottom of my skirt, lifting up my leg.
And I let him.
His hand moves higher, and I let him. Against every single warning bell, every single piece of history, and every single voice screaming inside, I’m spreading my legs, willingly and eagerly, for Bastian Crown.
I’ve gone off the deep end.
His hand cups my slit through the soaking wet cotton, and I whimper, shuddering. His finger presses into me through the fabric, stroking between my lips.
I moan.
“You’re even more wet now than you were last night, aren’t you.”
“Why are you such a jerk?” I hiss through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the feelings pulsing between my legs.
“Why are you so wet for me when I am one?
It’s actually a great question. It’s also a question I don’t give a single shit about even thinking about right now.
“We- we can’t,” I choke out. “Not here.”
“Why not.”
“We can’t.”
“Why not.”
“Because…” I mumble lamely, trying to will my hips not to rock against his hand.
“You’ve gotta do better than that,” he purrs.
His thumb hooks into the waist of my panties as his fingers rub up and down my slit. He pulls, and I finally lose the ability to keep my hands to myself. They unclench from my sides and grab at his forearm as if stopping him.
My last sense of sensibility telling me to stop this before it’s too late.
His arm freezes, his fingers under my panties and just shy of touching my slick opening. I gather my wits as I look up into those eyes, and I know I could stop this.
…But we both know I won’t.
Because I’m weak with him. Because Bastian Crown makes me lose all sense of my sensibilities.
Because I’m addicted to the way he can break me so sweetly, apparently.
My hands tighten on his forearm, and instead of pushing him away, I pull.
He fucking grins.
“Good girl,” Bastian growls.
He slips two fingers against my opening, and my jaw goes slack with a moan as he pushes them deep inside.
“And how many times have you touched yourself just like this, thinking of me and wishing it was me with my fingers deep inside of you. I’m betting lots of times.”
“You’re delusional,” I whimper.
“And right.”
“And arrogant.”
“And yet here we are.”
His fingers start to curl inside as they stroke in and out. His thumb brushes over my clit, and my mind goes into a blank space. My body arches off the record shelves, my hips eager to meet his fingers. I moan as I feel his thick erection pulsing against my legs through his dark denim - his need for me throbbing with his pulse.
He moves faster, deeper. His lips find my collarbone, biting sharply and making me cry out. I’m falling, the blankness around the corners of my mind slowly melting over me as I start to crash, and just as I’m about to lose it completely, he crushes his lips to mine.
I scream into the kiss, letting him swallow it whole as his tongue claims mine. He growls, his fingers dancing over my clit and making me shudder through the aftershocks before he finally slows and relents.
He pulls away, leaving me panting and shaking - sagging against the record collection behind me with my panties around my thighs.
“I’ll save you the trouble of trying to come up with a lame excuse to leave this time.”
He smirks that dark, edged smile at me as he turns. “Enjoy the room, relax.”
Relax, right.
I just let Bastian Crown finger-fuck me to orgasm. Heroin would not relax me right now.
He pauses in the doorway, turning.
“Make some music or whatever.”
He brings his fingers up, wraps his lips around them as my jaw drops, and sucks them clean.
“Sweet, sweet music.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me panting, tingling, and wondering how the hell I’ve gotten pulled in so deep with him.
Again.