CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mira had bathed lazily, letting the tension from her travels ease out of each limb into the hot, sweet smelling water. She hoped Tarquin would come back to the room before she finished, she admitted to herself, hoped he would see her nude and reach for her and demand to fuck her. Then they could get back to the usual, comfortable routine of hating and fucking, instead of whatever that… conversation had been downstairs. It bothered her how well he seemed to know her; it was hardly fair, she never seemed to have an inkling of what went through his ridiculous head.
He stayed away, though, so when the hot water cooled to warm and then temperate she rose from her bath and dried off, pausing nude in front of the mirror— just in case. She mused to herself that the only time she felt naked around him was when she was fully dressed. Mira the whore— that was easy to be, easy to lose herself and forget her insecurities and worries and frustrations. Mira, just Mira— that was much worse, and what he’d said downstairs had cut straight into her so well that it shook her to her soul.
He couldn’t do it again. So she dressed in just a shirt to ward the chill from her shoulders, leaving her legs and bottom bare. When he came to bed, if he came to bed, it would be easy to just seduce him and then ignore him.
She pulled the heavy blanket to her chest and closed her eyes, hoping to be asleep before he returned— that would be easiest of all. Sleep wouldn’t come, though, no matter how long she slowed her breaths or counted them or thought about every single thing in her life that she’d ever done. So she laid still, eyes shut, resigned to pretending.
At least an hour had passed when he returned. She was surprised at the amount of noise someone who seemed so graceful was capable of making as he crashed around in the bathroom, and she wondered several times if she should pretend to wake. She didn’t, though, didn’t even crack her eyes to peek at him. The candles were blown out a minute later, and she held her breath as he climbed into the bed beside her. If he reached for her— fine, she would fuck him and be done with it. If he kept to his side of the bed— so much the better.
He did reach for her, but she didn’t respond right away, not wanting to give away the fact that she only pretended to sleep. His big hand grazed her side, gently, and she waited with bated breath for him to move his fingers up, under her shirt and over her breast, or down to the apex of her thighs. He did neither, though, just splayed his hand across her belly, positioning himself behind her. His other arm slid under her neck, resting her head on his hard bicep, then curled around her front to rest on her shoulder. His fingertips pressed into her, holding her tightly, and Mira tried to control her breathing, tried to guess where he’d touch next. Nowhere, though, she resigned herself to after a minute. Because he was behind her, holding her close to him, and he made no other move.
This was the worst option of all, she thought, as she laid in his arms and tried to ignore the fluttering in her belly, the fluttering that she’d never felt before in all of the times they’d come together.
“Mira,” he breathed into her hair and then pressed what could only be a kiss there.
She froze, waiting for more, waiting for him to lick her ear or bite her neck or press his length against her ass, but there was nothing else. His breathing evened soon after. Hers was hurried for most of the night, trying to figure out how to maneuver out of his grasp and wondering why she didn’t want to.
“Tell me about Cyrus,” Mira said, using the name she’d heard Tarquin say the night before. “He’s the man we’re going to meet?” She sat on the bed, wearing what she’d slept in, watching Tarquin dress for the day.
“I don’t know what to tell,” he said. “He’s… unusual. I’ve met him a few times, and he’s been very different each time that I have. You’ll understand when you meet him.”
“Is he dangerous?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I wouldn’t bring you if he was. He can be… infuriating, but he’s not dangerous.”
“I didn’t know I was coming with you. What should I do?” she asked.
“You don’t have to, I assumed you’d be bored here.” He shrugged.
“I would be bored,” she said. “I want to come.”
“Good,” he said. “Then just be you. He’ll try to intimidate you, but don’t let him. I don’t think you’ll have any problems.”
She didn’t think so either. The only person who was currently capable of intimidating her stood in front of her, buttoning his shirt.
“What do you need from him?” she asked.
“Information,” he said.
“And what will he want from you?”
“I suspect—” he said, pushing his hair back from his face, “—that what he’ll want in return is our company. That’s what he usually demands.”
“Will that be so bad?” she asked. “You seem annoyed at the prospect.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said. “He lives in luxury and he treats his guests well. I just easily tire of the games he plays.”
“And that’s how you’re dressed to go meet this man who loves finery?” she asked, looking over his traveling clothes and still-muddy boots.
“I hardly think it matters,” he said. “I’m just going to go… talk to him.”
She pursed her lips and looked him over. “Can I fix your hair, at least?”
The look he gave her was strange. Hopeful.
She ignored it, rummaged through her bag for a minute, then crossed the room to where he stood, her shirt brushing the tops of her bare thighs. She stood facing him, noticing the way his hair became wavy at the ends, to brush against the stubble on his jaw. She found herself staring, and when she chanced a look up at him, he was staring back. She ordered him to stay still and moved around behind him, then brushed her fingers through his hair, carefully. She heard him sigh, but ignored that too and gathered his hair at the base of his neck, then tied it with the length of cord she’d retrieved. She brushed her fingers over the back of his neck, and she wasn’t sure why, but when she heard his sharp intake of breath, she didn’t regret it. He was frozen in front of her, massive and sturdy and lovely, and when the desire to also kiss his neck overwhelmed her, she put her hands on his shoulders from behind and stood on her toes and pressed her lips there. His repressed shudder encouraged her, so she kissed his neck again, and then lowered herself on her feet and wrapped her arms around him, her hands on his chest, and pressed her cheek against his back.
“Mira,” he murmured, but she didn’t want to acknowledge what she’d just done, so she came around to his front and curled her lips into a smile.
“There,” she said, touching the hair along his jaw that was too short to be tied, “you look… exactly the same. I like it, though.”
He grinned at her. “I guess that’s my cue to cut it all off, then?”
She rolled her eyes and pushed at his shoulder. “Help me figure out what the hell to wear.”