It was a reasonable question. And I was buggered if I knew the answer. As far as I could tell, there was nothing about me that would attract—let alone hold—the attention of someone like Caspian Hart.
Capacity for happiness notwithstanding.
And, yes, I did remember every nice thing he’d ever said to me. Squirreling them away like string and marbles in a kid’s keepsake box.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “But I like it.”
He frowned, the pained line I so wished to soothe away appearing between his brows. “I don’t like it. I don’t want to want this. But I can’t stop.”
Way to bring me back to earth with a bump. “Pro tip. When you’re attempting to negotiate a short-term, preapproved sexual encounter with somebody, maybe don’t tell them how much you’re resenting it?”
He released me and sprang to his feet, leaving me sprawled and disheveled on the carpet like a virgin sacrifice. Well, except for the virgin bit, obviously. I sat up, hugging my knees and trying to protect what little was left of my modesty while Caspian paced.
He looked irritatingly gorgeous. Those long, lean lines of his and his natural grace, the flow of muscles beneath fabric far too suggestive of the way they might shift and tighten against me when we moved together.
If.
If we ever moved together.
Which was looking unlikely if he continued with the sub-Darcy “in vain I have struggled” crap.
“I’m sorry, Arden.” He swept around and gazed at me with a kind of bewildered anguish that was as heartbreaking as it was frustrating. “I don’t mean to insult you. I’ve just never…”
He seemed to run out of steam, so I tried to help out. “You’ve never fancied someone before?”
“I’ve never been consumed by it before. Never taken beyond reason. Never allowed it to distract me.”
“Sometimes I don’t know whether I want to hug you or punch you.”
His lips curled into a wry, wary smile. “I wouldn’t advocate punching. Clearly there’s an art to it.”
Goddamn him. The gorgeous impossible contradictory bastard.
Refusing to smile back, though everything in me wanted to, I scrambled to my feet and curled up on the edge of the sofa. “Right. Well. We both want to shag. What are we negotiating here, exactly?”
After a second or two, he sat down next to me. It was probably the most normal moment of togetherness we’d ever had, and at first, I didn’t know how to handle it. It said something about your relationship with someone when you were more freaked out by sharing the same piece of furniture than wanking for them down the phone.
“I don’t want you to have any false expectations about what I expect from you,” he said. “And about what I can give you.”
“Really? Because after that opening, I’m expecting a proposal any second now.” I gave him my most coquettish, under-the-lashes look. “For the record, I’m planning to say yes.”
He pulled away. “This was a mistake.”
Fuck. Fuck.
“Nononono. It wasn’t. Tell me how it would work. Please. I’m listening.”
“I’m not precisely experienced in this area myself.”
“And what area would that be? The short-term, preapproved sexual-encounter area?”
He was quiet a moment. “Arden, I’m not trying to hurt you or insult you. I want you. I want you very much indeed. But I am simply not accustomed to…to feeling like this.” I was about to make some crack about how we experienced emotions sometimes on planet Earth, but he went on gently. “And I’m not going to lie to you. I won’t pretend I enjoy being at the mercy of my inclinations. I won’t claim I’m not hoping that we can do this and then I will be free of it.”
“You mean free of me.”
He nodded.
“So let me get this straight. You want to bang me silly until I’m out of your system and you can get on with your life?”
Another nod.
“Well, while that’s very flattering, I’m not entirely sure what’s in it for me?”
His fingers curled lightly over my wrist. It was probably the closest he had ever come to a touch that wasn’t sexual and I didn’t know what it meant. Only that I liked it: the play of his skin against my own. “You get me out of your system too.”
I stared stupidly at his hand on mine as if I was expecting a magic show, all rainbow light and sparkles of happiness flowing between us. Hastily looking up, I met his eyes instead. They were cool and composed again, just like he was. “But what if I don’t want you out of my system?”
“You should. You will. I won’t be good for you.”
By accident or design, his thumb was resting against my pulse point, the gathering heat its own caress. I heard myself make a shameless, gaspy noise. “I think that’s for me to decide.”
“God, Arden.” He let out a harsh breath. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“So responsive.”
It was a complicated question. Without going all Xtube about it, I didn’t see the point of not being responsive. Otherwise where was the fun? Having sex and not responding would be like going on a roller coaster and not screaming. But, no, I didn’t usually swoon when somebody touched my arm. “Um, maybe, but it’s…it’s different with you,” I admitted. “Maybe it’s a pheromone thing?”
“What?”
“I read in a magazine once that there’s something about…how people smell. Like if somebody smells delicious to you, you’re probably more than usually sexually compatible.” I leaned in a little and inhaled the fading traces of his cologne, that old-worldy mix of wood and spice and cocoa, and the clean, masculine scent of his skin. “And you always smell amazing.”
He shuddered, eyes half closing in what could only have been pleasure, the promise of sensuality softening his loveliness like shadow. “Can we please restrict ourselves to the topic at hand?”
“This is the topic at hand. What if you get me out of your system before I get you out of mine? What if I’m cyanide and you’re arsenic?”
“Then we’d both be dead.”
“Yes, but you’d be dead quickly and I’d linger in confused agony. I don’t want to linger in confused agony.”
His lips twitched. “No, I can understand that. Which is why I believe we should agree on an end date.”
“I don’t think we’ve even agreed on a start.”
“We haven’t agreed on anything,” he said sharply, “because you keep interrupting.”
I could have pointed out that he nearly kissed me. But I just apologized meekly—though probably not entirely convincingly—and waited for him to continue.
“Do you have plans now that you’ve finished your degree?”
“Um, you’ve met me, right?”
“I assume that’s a no. In which case, why don’t you stay in London? In one of my apartments.”
For a negotiated prearranged wossname, that seemed kind of intense. “You want me to live with you?”
“No, in one of my apartments.”
And that wasn’t much better. “Like your…your…mistress?”
“No.” He sighed. “Like someone who is staying in the apartment of someone he knows.”
“But I should pay you rent or something, right?”
“Arden, believe me, you could not afford the rent. I’m simply offering you somewhere to stay so you don’t have to worry about accommodation or living expenses while you apply for jobs or internships and decide what you want to do with your life. Something I expect you would find difficult from Kinlochbervie.”
I smiled at him helplessly, warmed, charmed, as touched as I had been the first time he recalled some minor detail about my life. “You remembered.”
“You knew I would.”
I swallowed. What he was offering seemed…I had no idea. How were you supposed to think about something like that? And it wasn’t exactly like I could phone a friend. Nik would probably tell me I was nuts for giving the guy the time of day after he’d had me peremptorily chauffeured out of London.
But I liked him and I wanted him. And he’d come for me when I’d needed someone. Needed him. Looked after me when he could have, well, not done that.
“And this is the plan?” I asked. “I live in your place and you…uh…we…uh…and after a set time we stop?”
He nodded. “I’m aware it’s probably not…not what is commonly done.”
I could have responded with the you think he deserved, but he looked so uncertain I didn’t have the heart.
“But,” he went on, “I’m afraid it’s what I can offer. I’ve tried to make it practically appealing for you. And I’d be very willing to provide additional financial support, although I suspect that would offend you. I assure you, however, it would be compensation for inconvenience rather than compensation for…services.”
There were way too many things wrong with this. But, for some reason, what struck me just then was how seriously he was underselling himself. “Look, if I do this, it’ll be because of you, not because of what you can do for me.”
He glanced away, blushing a little, hand tightening on my wrist. “I believe you. But I…I’m afraid I have some particularities—some limitations, perhaps—upon which I cannot compromise.”
“Well.” I twisted my fingers back to brush against his. “I’m pretty sure that’s what being human is like.”
“You know,” he said softly, “you could sell this story.”
“Oh don’t start that again. First off, nobody would believe me. Second off, I’d look like a complete dick.”
He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of my wrist. And while I was busy dying and melting and catching fire and stuff, he murmured, “Truth has no place in journalism. You really don’t have any notion how the world works, do you?”
“Your world, where people only have sex in exchange for stuff and constantly think of selling shit to the papers, no.” It sounded good in my head, but unfortunately my voice came out all wobbly. Because I could feel the texture of his lips and the warmth of his breath against the very softest places of my skin.
“I considered trying to intimidate you with a nonsensical NDA. But I could never have held you to it.”
“I’m not a— Oh God that’s…” His tongue. Tracing the vein. “I’m n-not an idiot. You couldn’t…like sue me for breach of sexual contract.”
“No.” His eyes met mine over my captured hand. “I have to trust you.”
Desire was a powerful thing on its own terms, but mixed with tenderness it was almost overwhelming. What an extraordinary and unexpected gift: trust from a man who clearly didn’t offer it often. “You’re safe with me, Caspian. I promise.”
He laughed. “I’m not safe. Not even a little bit. But thank you.”
There he went again with the doomy pronouncements. But I didn’t really mind. It just made me more determined to prove to him that he could have all this with me. Normal, everyday things. Loyalty and happiness and sex. Maybe the loss of them was the price of everything else he had. But what was the point of having so much if it cost you so dearly? “Tell me these non-negotiable conditions.”
I was kind of, not braced exactly because it didn’t require bracing, but at the very least waiting for him to disclose the shocker that he was more than a little bit kinky.
Which I’d definitely already noticed. What with having two eyes and a clue.
And the memory of sore nipples.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that I must insist upon a certain logistical inequality.”
I’d been indulging an exciting little fantasy involving handcuffs, a peacock feather, and one of those jeweled butt plugs I’d seen on the Internet. I stopped. “You what?”
“I’m a very busy man. And my schedule is both restrictive and inflexible. It’s not something I can change, and I’m afraid—selfish as it may be—I don’t want to be troubled by any disappointment or frustration that may cause you.”
“You mean, when you want me, you expect me to be available and you don’t want to have to worry about my feelings?”
He had the grace to look embarrassed. “I…yes.”
I thought about it. On the surface it sounded pretty unappealing but, then, in most of my attempted relationships, I’d usually been left feeling smothered and impatient by my partner’s apparent insistence that I live in their goddamn pocket. So maybe an arrangement like this would suit me better. And, looking at it purely rationally, it made a degree of sense. Maybe when I was a billionaire instead of a graduate, then we could live to my schedule. “Sure.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yeah, it seems fair. It’s not like I’m going to be busy. What’s next?” I grinned.
Okay, now tell me all the terrible, wicked, shocking, wonderful things you want to do with me.
“I expect our arrangement to be exclusive.”
“That’s fine. Next?”
To my surprise, he didn’t seem entirely pleased by my answer. “At least think a moment, Arden.”
“What’s there to think about?”
“Do you understand what I’m asking?”
“Yes. You don’t want me to fuck around while I’m fucking you, which is no concession at all because, frankly, if I’m going to be fucking you, I can’t imagine wanting to fuck anyone else.”
“And you’ll need to take the full battery of sexual health tests.”
Okay, that was going a bit too far. “What the hell are you implying? Yes, I’ve slept around but I’m not Alexander Fleming’s petri dish.”
“It’s nothing personal. I’ll be doing the same.”
“Or, alternatively, we could not perpetuate the stereotype that—”
“I have no intention of using a condom when I take you, Arden.”
Well, that was different. Exciting. And shiver-inducingly intimate in a way I wouldn’t have expected. I’d never…well, nobody had ever…it had never come up before.
His voice had turned husky, edging toward that growl I loved inspiring. “You’ll be mine, and I will not countenance even a scrap of latex between us.”
And oh good God. I was painfully hard, dripping into a hotel dressing gown on promises alone. I didn’t trust myself to sound even a little bit not desperately aroused, so I nodded. Yes. That.
“Then I believe the matter is settled.”
Was it? But what about the…the other stuff? Or did he just assume I’d be up for it? Which, considering I’d spent last night presenting my arse like a clay pigeon for him to take potshots at, was entirely reasonable.
I wondered if I should have been volunteering the fact that, barring a few not entirely successful experiments, my enthusiasm far outstripped my experience in this particular area. But I didn’t know what to say or how to ask him: Sooo, Caspian, are you just into pinning my wrists and roughing me up or will I be crawling on the floor and calling you master?
“What…um…what about the end date?” Okay, I wussed it.
“I would suggest six months. You’ll probably have something else to do at that point anyway.”
He probably meant a job.
Well, I could hope.
It’d be nearly Christmas by then, and it seemed like forever and yet, somehow, no time at all. I couldn’t even imagine what it might be like or how I’d feel afterward. For a moment, or a lot of moments, I couldn’t tell; I just sat there, horny and confused and hopeful and anxious, torn between feeling wanted and feeling handled.
But, seriously, what was I going to say? No, I won’t live in your house for free and be your logistically unequal prenegotiated sex partner. No, I’d rather have nothing than six months with you on your terms. No, I don’t want to be yours.
He was very still beside me.
“Okay,” I said. “I’m in.”
It was probably a really stupid idea.
But then he smiled at me and for this brief, uninhibited second, he looked so happy that I was sure I’d done the right thing.
That everything was worth it for the power to give Caspian Hart just a little bit of joy.