Chapter Eight
His tongue sought hers out, impatient and demanding. She gave it to him. When had she parted her lips? Who cared? The liquid need flooding her made the question null and void.
She whimpered into his mouth, tangling her fingers in his hair, as she met his hunger.
Every part of her, every goddamn part, wanted it. Wanted his lips on hers, his tongue against hers. Every part of her wanted more. She shifted on the chair, leaning up toward him, drawing their bodies closer.
Her heart raced as he spread her thighs and filled the empty space he’d created between them with his lower body. A hot, hard bulge pressed the juncture of her thighs, and she whimpered again, head spinning.
Stop. Stop. Remember who he is! Remember what he did to you. To your career.
She pulled away, tearing her lips from his. Breath ragged, she scrunched up her eyes and shook her head, pressing her hands to his chest. His heart hammered beneath her palm, as fast as her pulse pounded in her throat.
“Damn it.”
His low growl flayed at her. Swallowing, she inched back into the armchair, away from him more. Hate him. She did. Hate him. She had to remember that. She was only here with him because of the laptops. And maybe a future article. Maybe…
Really? That’s so deceptive and dishonest.
“I shouldn’t have done that.” He slid his hands off her legs. The words were a rough breath. “Just after I agreed to our arrangement being platonic.”
She shook her head. “I should have stopped you before it got too carried away. I’m not…I’m not a tease. And I’m not…I’m not for sale…sexually.”
He pulled away, sitting back on his haunches, his nostrils flaring. “I know. That’s not what I thought. I promise. I just…” Swiping at his mouth, he shoved himself to his feet and stormed out of the living room.
Breath little more than shallow pants, Mila slumped back in the armchair. Okay, so that couldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. She should have stopped him the second he kissed her.
When? Just now, or last night?
“Damn it.” She squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to stop the roaring in her head and the thrumming in her body.
“Damn it,” she repeated, burying her face in her hands. “Get a grip of yourself, woman. Get a—”
A wriggling, warm little furry body jumped up onto her lap, a hot, wet tongue licking at the backs of her fingers.
Laughing—albeit weakly—she lowered her hands and snagged Reaper in a hug. “Okay, okay. I appreciate the affection. The thing is, your master kind of does it better.”
Reaper wriggled some more in her arms, tail whacking against her hip, as he went in for another lick.
Settling him as well as she could, she closed her eyes again. “What do I do next, little guy?”
She could leave. Never come back.
Her stomach clenched at the idea, and she scowled. While that might be the most logical course of action, she didn’t like it.
She could pretend it never happened, wait until Thomas came back from wherever he’d gone and suggest a game of paintball.
Another weak laugh hiccupped from her. Could either of them cope with a game of paintball after that?
She could go find Thomas, tell him who she was—who she really was—and watch any hint of sexual desire vanish from his face.
Her stomach didn’t just clench at that idea, it roiled, knotted, churned, and turned inside out.
So not an option. Not because she wanted to stop him being sexually attracted to her. The fact that he was gave her a surreal, somewhat ego-stroking sense of strength. Guys like Thomas St. Clair—highly successful, ridiculously good-looking guys—weren’t normally attracted to her. She was too short, too curvy, too serious, too…too…plain. But the obvious fact he wanted her had nothing to do with how crappy she felt at telling him who she was.
She didn’t want the confrontation. She didn’t do well with confrontation. Besides, she’d set herself a mission, a goal—get laptops for her underprivileged students—and he was not going to destroy another one of her life goals. She wouldn’t let him.
Which left her where?
Sitting in his house, turned on more than she’d ever been, confused beyond belief, and scared. With a dog on her lap.
She gave Reaper a scratch behind the ears. “What do I do, boy?”
“Okay.” Thomas strode into the room. He’d changed into a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt with an image of Jack Nicholson from The Shining printed on it. “I’m back. Let’s go.”
She blinked at him. “Go where?”
He looked at her. “Paintball.”
“Are you kidding?”
A dark light flickered in his eyes. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Mila, if we don’t walk out of this house right now, I will plead with you to let me strip those clothes from your body and worship every damn inch of skin I reveal. Even if it means I can’t ever write a single word again because you storm from my house and never return, that’s what I will do. If we don’t leave now. Do you understand?”
Mouth dry, she nodded. “I do. Which means I should leave. I can’t be here. Not with you. Knowing you want to have sex with me. I can’t do that.”
Because as much as I despise you, I’d say yes.
Damn it, she would say yes. And hate herself for it later.
His jaw bunched. “I won’t apologize for wanting you, Mila. I won’t. Not because I’m an arrogant prick, but because my gut tells me you feel the same about me.”
A tight flutter burst into life in her stomach at his statement. Damn it, why did he have to be so perceptive?
“But I will apologize for rushing you.” His chest rose and fell with a shaky sigh. “I promise I won’t initiate anything sexual from now on. When it happens, it’ll be on your terms. For now, you’re just the platonic muse who’s going to play paintball with me. Deal?”
Reaper wriggled on her lap. She resisted the urge to pet him, to hug him tighter. He wasn’t her dog, just like his owner wasn’t her…her anything.
“I—”
“Just two strangers,” he cut her off, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips. “Getting to know each other during a paintball game.”
An itchy heat crawled over her scalp. Two strangers. If only he knew the truth.
“Please?”
“Paintball.” She nodded. Oh boy, she was a glutton for trouble. “Nothing more.”
“Paintball. Nothing more. I promise.” A dark tension fell over his face. His eyes held hers. “But every time I watch your lips form words, I’m going to be remembering how incredible they felt against mine. Every time I draw in a breath, I’m going to be wishing it’s your perfume I’m taking in. Every sound you make, I’m going to be remembering the sounds you made when I kissed you. Do you understand?”
Her breath trapped in her throat. Laptops. Think of laptops. Not how incredible sex with him might be. Think of laptops. And what he did years ago. “I understand.”
He studied her. She swallowed again. She understood all right. Understood she was treading in dangerous territory of her own free will.
“It seems my muse magic is working after all. You really know how to use your words, don’t you?”
A slow, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That knowledge has made me a billionaire, Mila. Now, let’s go play.”
It took him less than ten minutes to arrange a car and get Reaper settled with a chew treat. Mila sat, head reeling, body thrumming.
“Okay.” He came striding back into the room, patting down the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve got my wallet, my keys, my notebook, and pen. Let’s go.”
Her heart skipped over itself at the smile he gave her. Playful, friendly, almost mischievous.
I don’t have time to fall in lust. Stop it.
Besides, falling in lust with Thomas St. Clair was, as she’d already acknowledged, kamikaze insanity.
Straightening to her feet, she hitched her bag up onto her shoulder. “Have you even booked a paintball session somewhere?”
“Never worry about things like that. If we get to one and they can’t fit us in, I’ll pull the old don’t-you-know-who-I-am routine.”
She gaped at him. Now this was the St. Clair she remembered. “Are you serious?”
He chuckled. “No. If they can’t fit us in, we’ll find something else to do. Don’t you ever live life on impulse?”
“No.”
He blinked at the vehemence in her answer. And then laughed. “Then I am going to make it my mission to show you that impulsive, unplanned chaos can be amazing.”
She shuddered at the idea. “Good luck with—”
The doorbell chimed, sending Reaper barking and scurrying into the foyer on high alert.
“It’s okay, Reap.” Thomas crossed the living room into the foyer and scooped up his dog. “It’s only the driver.” Tossing her a smile, he opened the door.
A bulky man stood on the other side, dressed in a simple grey suit and sunglasses. “Your car, Mr. St. Clair.”
“Thanks, Javier. Think Mila and I might just go it alone today.”
Dark eyebrows rose above Javier’s sunglasses. “As you wish.”
Thomas laughed. “I’ll let Mila drive. What did you bring me?”
“The Jag.”
Mila couldn’t help but snort. The surreal life and conversations of the rich.
The Jag, as it turned out, was the most luxurious car she’d ever been in. And damn, it was a dream to drive, even in the busy Manhattan traffic.
“So once again,” he said, sitting in the passenger seat, “we’re back in a car.” She felt him studying her profile and fought with the desire to make eye contact with him. “Which means it’s Q and A time. I’ll go first. Did you have a nickname growing up?”
“Moose.”
He laughed at her answer. “Moose? Really? Why?”
She turned when he indicated she do so and then flicked him a quick look. “Because I was stubborn. My parents wanted me to study ballet when I was six, but I insisted I was born to be an archer instead. No matter how much they tried to bribe me with things I wanted, I refused to attend ballet classes. Finally, they conceded and allowed me to join a kids’ archery group.”
“What happened?”
“I shot the instructor on my first lesson. Sent the arrow straight through his calf muscle. As far as I know, he’s still walking with a limp.”
His laughter filled the car, far too infectious for her peace of mind. Why had she told him about that little moment in her life? It wasn’t like he needed to know. Few of her close friends knew about the archery incident, so why let him in on it?
“Did you go back?”
She smiled. “Of course. And I trained. And trained. Until I was the best archer in the group. I’ve been accused more than once of being a high achiever. When you set your mind to something, give yourself a goal, you achieve it, no matter the effort involved.”
Okay, that was way more than she’d intended to share. What was wrong with her?
“So you really do have issues with being impulsive?”
She let out a wry grunt. “I plan. And then I plan again.”
“And when plans don’t go the way you want them to? When life throws a brick in the works and you can’t achieve those plans?”
A lump filled her throat. Sitting beside her was the biggest brick of her life, and yet if it weren’t for him, she’d never have become a teacher, would never have discovered the simple, wonderful joy of seeing a kid blossoming, growing, learning, and knowing she’d helped.
“I adapt,” she answered. “And focus on the new plan.”
“I used to plan.” A wistful tone threaded through his statement. “I was a planner as a kid. Family vacations, weekend adventures. And then life threw the proverbial brick, and I realized the futility of it.”
She looked over at him. He was staring out the window, his focus on something she suspected wasn’t there. The digging she’d done on his family life had unearthed some truly disturbing things—accusations by his mother that his father had been molesting him since he was a baby, insinuations by his father that his mother had sex with his math tutor while he was in the next room, screaming matches in the street over whose place he was meant to be staying, and how many minutes had passed the allocated time of visits. Horrific behavior from two people who’d once loved each other, all to damage the other party, to hurt them as much as possible. What must it have been like, watching your parents wage war on each other at such a young age? And with no other siblings to go to for comfort?
A sour taste bubbled up at the back of her throat. She hadn’t been interested in the emotional damage the young Thomas had no doubt sustained when she’d been writing her article for the New York Times. Back then, all she’d been focused on was the writer who’d taken the world by storm and kept brushing her off every time they were meant to meet.
“Do you plan your books?”
It was a question asked of him in almost every interview he’d given since his first book hit the New York Times bestseller list. To the best of her knowledge, he’d yet to ever answer it seriously.
She risked another quick glance at him.
Dragging in a slow breath, he turned to her. “Only one. My second, Hell’s Cage. But I never finished it.”
“Why not?”
His chuckle was dry. Sardonic. “That journalist I mentioned last night? The article on me and my family was published while I was working on it. That…that messed me up a little. I couldn’t focus on Hell’s Cage anymore. So I wrote Still Water Creek instead. It just poured out of me. To this day, I think it’s the book I’m the most proud of…and most disturbed by.”
Mila swallowed. Her stomach churned. It seemed she’d been his muse once before. Why did she now feel so sick about it?
“Mila, I need to ask you a question.”
Her heart slammed into her throat. She couldn’t look at him. If she did, he’d see the guilt in her eyes. “Okay.”
“After I type ‘the end’ on Blood Angel, will you let me take you to dinner? Not as author and muse, but as two consenting adults interested in each other?”
Had she thought her heart was thumping fast before? “I’m interested in you?”
He chuckled at her put-down. “Yes. You are.”
Heat filled her cheeks. “Let’s get to the-end part first and reassess the situation then.”
“What if I beat you at paintball?”
She arched an eyebrow at his question. “Do you remember what I said about being a high achiever?”
“Are you going to tell me you’re a paintball champion?”
“No. But you should be warned I don’t ever go into anything with the intent to lose.”
She flicked a glance at him, her breath catching at the intensity of his gaze. A smile curled his lips. “Neither do I.”
Oh God.
“Turn here.”
Jerking her attention back to the road, she frowned. Their destination loomed on the right.
“Well,” she murmured. “There you go.”
“You didn’t trust me?” He laughed. “Ouch.”
Pulling the sports car into an empty parking space, she drew a slow breath. “I should let you know, I’m not available tomorrow.”
Silence greeted her statement, all the more loud for the fact she’d turned the car engine off.
“Why?” Displeasure rumbled in his voice like distant thunder.
“I have other commitments. Every day this week, in fact.”
“Change them. Cancel them.”
“No.”
His jaw bunched.
She raised her eyebrows. “Tell me, do you always get what you want?”
His gaze dropped to her lips, lips she suddenly needed to lick more than she needed to draw breath.
“Yes,” he said without a hint of his usual flippant tone.
Every fiber of her body was far too aware of the energy sparking between them.
“I need to tell you something. Clear something up.”
He frowned. A little. “Okay.”
A hot lump filled her throat. Oh boy. “I’m not who you think I am. Last night…arriving at your door… I wasn’t there as your date. No one arranged for me to go to dinner with you, to…do other things with you. I was on my way to a thing with my sister, which is why I looked the way I did, and Reaper ran out in front of my car. I stopped and found him in the bushes and your address was on his tag, so I brought him back to you. That’s why I came to your place; to give you back Reaper. Not to be your date.”
Tension fell over his face. “Why didn’t you correct my mistake last night?”
She sighed. Her cheeks grew hot. She couldn’t tell him her first instincts were to write a secret article on him. And honestly, the thought of doing so even then had seemed…wrong. Off. So why hadn’t she corrected his mistake?
Tell the truth.
“I…I got caught up in your energy.”
Well, that was one way of putting it.
The edges of his lips twitched. “Don’t you mean, you were instantly interested in me?”
“If that’s the way you want to interpret it, sure.”
He chuckled softly at her prickly comeback. “And you’re telling me this now because…”
“Because I don’t want you thinking I’m a…a…”
He waited, lips twitching again.
“A whatever you think I am. But I do need the money you’re offering.” She held up her hand when he opened his mouth. “For my own reasons that don’t concern you. Honest ones, nothing illegal or immoral, I assure you. So if you’d still like to pay me to be your muse…” Saying it aloud sounded so silly, and yet at the word, Thomas drew a slow breath. “I will…do that. Be that.”
“My muse.” His lips curled some more.
“Yes.” She swallowed, the lump in her throat thicker. “If that’s what you still want.”
He drew another breath, his gaze never leaving hers. “Mila, most writers tend to be a little superstitious. We tend to have…quirks. One of mine is I believe in fate. Make that Fate with a capital F. Fate brought you to me when I needed you. The writing gods brought you to me when I needed you. So, yeah, that’s very much what I still want.”
Something dangerously like relief rushed through her, pooling in her belly. She shouldn’t be this happy he’d asked her to stay. Not when their past history still shrouded them, even if he didn’t know it.
She shouldn’t be.
But she was. Damn it.
“Okay. Then let’s do this. But no sex.”
Even if I want to strip you naked and—
“No sex. I’m writing a horror story, after all.”
She forced out a dry laugh at his answer. “You are.”
He studied her, and it didn’t matter how much she tried, she couldn’t deny what she saw in his eyes. Couldn’t deny she felt the same way.
Honest feels good. So why don’t I tell him all of it?
Her stomach knotted. Her chest tightened. I’m M. E. Elderkin.
The words formed in her head. She had to tell him. It was the right thing to do. She had to tell him. Didn’t she?
“Thomas—”
“The last thing a horror writer should be thinking about,” he went on, “is slowly undressing the sexiest woman he’s ever seen.”
A shard of raw desire speared into her, made her dizzy. “The very last thing.”
His gaze dropped to her lips.
The urge to lick them crashed through her.
Instead, she flung open her door. “Let’s play paintball.”
His answering chuckle was as strained as her voice. “Let’s play paintball.”