Chapter Three
Erin’s first thought when a tall, grim woman opened the door: the Ice Queen. Her hair was a blonde so pale it was almost white, with no roots of course. She seemed naturally beautiful, effortlessly elegant, the kind of woman Erin had always envied. And her smile could put frost on the windows.
“You must be Erin,” she said, taking her hand between long, cold fingers.
Erin forced a smile. “So glad to meet you, Mrs. Morris.”
“I’m sure.”
Blake’s father wasn’t much better. His hair a light grey, his eyes almost silver. At least in his case she had seen pictures online. The lauded ex-senator. Board member for countless charities. Successful investor. He was rumored to be a personal friend of the president, back in their fraternity days, and still had his ear. Yes, this family was steeped in money, and as they sat for lemonade in the sunroom, she felt the privilege thick and sharp.
“How was the drive?” his father inquired.
Blake’s expression looked tense. Was he worried about what she would say? Or was he always this way around his parents? “Uneventful,” he said. “Though we got a later start than we’d originally planned.”
His mother made a tsking sound. “You’ve been away too long, and I don’t just mean this morning. What can I tell people?”
“You can tell them you saw me now, mother. And that I’m getting married.” With that, he gifted Erin a brief smile.
Unfortunately Mrs. Morris did not seem impressed with her. “I don’t ask for much from you, Blake. You know that.”
Well, that explained the tension. This had gone from awkward pleasantries to major parental guilt in the first fifteen minutes. She sent up thanks that her mother had only ever given love and support. She hadn’t grown up with a father or a trust fund, but her childhood had been a hell of a lot warmer than this.
Blake sighed. “Mother, not now.”
“When then?” She glanced at Erin, with something almost like a sneer on her face. But that would be ugly, and this woman had never been ugly a day in her life. Erin imagined her waking up just as pretty, just as remote. “If she’s going to be in this family, she should know the truth.”
Erin froze, discomfort a hard knot in her throat. She’d been trying to ignore the truth, trying to pretend there was nothing to be uncovered here. Trying to pretend her mother had never dusted that lamp or swept this floor.
That way she could pretend she hadn’t seen her mother crying, that she didn’t wonder what had really happened in this house. Her gaze snapped to Mr. Morris, whose expression was unreadable. Was he angry? Bored? If nothing else, his poker face was to be admired.
“Erin and I are going upstairs now,” Blake said, his voice and expression even. Had he learned that from his father? But it was clear he was upset. She could feel it in him as if they were connected. “We’ll rest for a few hours and see you at dinner.”
His mother sighed. “I’ll have the maid show you to your rooms.”
Erin was relieved at the prospect of leaving the house, even for a few minutes to get their bags from the car. But Blake followed a middle aged woman in a simple black uniform up the stairs.
She stood for a moment at the base of the wide, curving staircase. Somehow this felt like crossing a threshold when just coming inside hadn’t.
Blake paused, looking back. “You okay?” he asked softly.
“Coming,” she answered, because she didn’t feel okay. She didn’t feel not okay either. She couldn’t have described how she was feeling at all, so it was a relief when she took his hand and felt him squeeze.
They didn’t need words to understand each other, to provide comfort. Didn’t need words to take in the fact that they had been placed into separate bedrooms.
Apparently the word rooms had been plural on purpose.
“It’s just how she is,” Blake said after the housekeeper had gone. “Trying to exert control on what she can. We’ll just move into one.”
Erin surveyed the navy blue bedspread and classic baseball posters on the wall. It seemed impersonal and yet… it wouldn’t be an ordinary guest bedroom. Not with that neat line of trophies on the bookshelf. “Was this your bedroom?”
He coughed. “We can stay in the other one.”
“Oh no,” she said, laughing. “We’re definitely staying in this one.”
His cheeks looked definitely darker. “The other room probably has a queen mattress. Maybe king. We’ll have more room.”
And his only had a double bed, it looked like, but she wouldn’t have left for anything. Instead she wandered in, running her fingers along the smooth walnut desk and line of books. “What were you like as a kid?”
She was fascinated just thinking about it. He was so firmly adult in her mind, so experienced and even wise. This room did little to dispel that image. It was like something out of a catalog. Not lived in. Not his.
He snorted. “Selfish. Stupid. Like most kids in this neighborhood. Wait here and I’ll get the bags from the other room.”
The idea of a selfish Blake was as foreign to her as a young one. All kids were probably self-centered to some extent. Erin had been. That night her mother had come home crying had opened her eyes.
What had opened Blake’s? His time overseas? Or something before that?
Blake returned with half the bags and stacked them by the others near the closet. She briefly wondered if Mrs. Morris would get upset about them messing with her room assignments, but Blake seemed to handle her pretty well.
“What do you want to do?” he asked, closing the door, shutting them in.
She shrugged. “Are you tired? You drove all that way, and I got to nap.”
“A little. I could sleep, but only if you’re with me.”
The idea of sleeping in this bed together, in Blake’s bed where he had been a teenager, where he had turned into a man, gave her a sort of thrill. There was an emotional component for sure, being with him, knowing him this way. As if the fabric, the mattress, had his story printed on them—invisible but just as true.
And there was a physical component too. A little taboo but definitely hot.
“I could lie down,” she said, drawing her finger over the smooth bedding. “Though I wasn’t thinking of sleeping.”
Surprise flashed briefly through his eyes. “Here?”
She glanced back. Maybe smaller than their usual bed but definitely big enough for two. “Have you ever?”
He knew what she was asking—if he’d ever had sex here before. An expression of guilt and pride crossed his face. “Yes.”
She considered that, and what else she knew about teenage boys. “Where’s your stash?”
His expression became suddenly, carefully blank. “My what?”
“Your stash. You know, stash of porn. Every boy has one, right?”
“What makes you think I left one here?”
She shrugged. “Did you?”
“I’d never leave something where my parents could find it.”
“Oh.” She was a little disappointed, but she searched for something else to ask him. It was too delicious being here where he’d once been both horny and innocent. They’d had sex a hundred times, a hundred ways—each time more inventive than the last. Was he always this way? Was it something he’d become? And then she knew what she’d ask next. “Who was your first?”
Silence.
She was sure he wouldn’t answer. She’d crossed the line, gotten too personal.
And irrationally, she felt hurt. Weren’t they going to share their lives together? God, she’d shared everything with him. Was she supposed to hold back?
He never let her hold back.
And the smile that crossed his face made her heart speed up. It was no longer vague or even shy, this smile. It promised that he wouldn’t hold back either. When he reached back to lock the door, to lock them inside, she tensed. Because he wasn’t just going to answer her with words.
And maybe that was what she’d wanted.
Then again, maybe it was more personal than she was ready for.
He leaned back against the door. “You want to know about my first time?”
She clenched the bedspread in her hand, rumpling the clean fabric, breaking the smooth lines. “I won’t be jealous.”
One eyebrow rose. “I didn’t think you would be. No, I think you’ll enjoy this story very much.”
A shiver ran through her, her voice almost a whisper. “And why’s that?”
He crossed the room, his long strides covering the room, and then he was in front of her, standing over her, dominating her with just a look. She loved the way he could affect her—body and mind. She craved it. And here, where it was probably inappropriate, where his parents were in the same house, where his mother didn’t want them sleeping in the same bed much less fucking in the afternoon, she wanted it even more.
He lifted her chin. “We’ll put on a show, beautiful. One for just you and me.”
A show. She swallowed hard. Where he would play himself and she would play… this woman? This girl? This long ago memory who had once spread her legs for a cocky, selfish teenage boy upstairs in his room?
It was wrong to find this so hot, but her body clenched and tightened, ready to start, hungry for him.
When he bent his head to kiss her, she tilted up, meeting him halfway. Did the girl long ago do this? Was she as eager and as breathless as Erin felt now? And suddenly she had to know. She couldn’t guess anymore.
“What did you do to her?” she asked.
“Shh,” he said. “Lie back.”
She wasn’t sure whether he was going to answer or not, but she did as he asked anyway, reclining on top of the bedspread, kicking off her ballet flats as she went. She still had her clothes on—the same jeans and a t-shirt she’d worn on the drive over. She’d only had a chance to use the restroom and splash water on her face when she’d arrived. She was far from fresh. Far from sexy. But the way he looked at her left no doubt as to his desire. The way his gaze scanned her body, with thoughtfulness, as if wondering the best ways to position her, left no part of her untouched.
“Her name was Clarissa,” he said almost casually as he took his shirt off. In seconds the thin fabric was tossed to the floor, his broad chest bared to her. The lean slope of his abs took her breath away. Her gaze followed that line down, down—wanting to see more.
He didn’t disappoint. He made quick work of his jeans, shucking them off, kicking them aside. He was all efficiency now. This wasn’t a striptease, something slow and sensual. He was a man with a mission, and that made it even sexier to watch.
“She was a year older than me. A sophomore when I was a freshman. We went to the same prep school.” He put one knee on the bed, making the old springs groan and dip. “She’d done it with one other guy before me.”
She only had time to register that it was young to lose his virginity. Wasn’t it? But then she didn’t have a frame of reference. She’d helped her mother clean houses after class when she started high school. By the time she’d lost her virginity she’d been in college.
And then she was distracted by his hand on her knee. Just that. Almost innocent, that hand. He had put his fingers in her pussy and his tongue against her asshole. He had touched every part of her, but that hand on her knee just now, with them in his childhood bedroom, felt more illicit, more dangerous than anything that had come before.
He leaned down, his face just inches from hers. His eyes were large and dark—fathomless. She stared into them, losing herself.
Already lost.
“But you didn’t want to hear about her,” he whispered. “Not really.”
“Then what did I want?” she whispered back.
He skimmed his palm up her thigh and caught her T-shirt as he went, lifting the fabric, baring her stomach to the cool air. Her skin pebbled, her nipples tightened. He noticed, his gaze hot as he watched the fabric of her bra peak.
Instead his large palm came up and covered her breast, on top of the bra—claiming her. That was how it felt, his hand both heavy and strong. Like she was no longer herself, her own person, but his. Like he was no longer her employer, her teacher. Not even lover. Somewhere along the way he’d become her everything, and that scared her more than anything.
“This,” he said, locking his eyes on hers. “What you want is to know you can trust me, that I’m not this person. At least not anymore.”
Her heart caught in her throat, because she did want that. Everything in this world was foreign to her, from the designer fixtures to the society page spreads. She didn’t belong here.
And she was terrified he did.
“I don’t want you to settle,” she said, tears stinging her eyes.
* * *
Blake forced himself to close his eyes, to take deep breaths. Forced himself not to spread the beautiful legs beneath him and fuck Erin into the bed.
It was a strange impulse, but her words had that impact on him. That she could doubt herself that way, believe that she wasn’t good enough. That she could doubt him. It made him feel primitive, called to some deep beastly part of him that needed to fight, to fuck, to conquer her until she saw what he did.
But he would keep that part of him contained, well hidden. He couldn’t risk scaring her.
“Erin,” he said, his voice low, almost guttural. “You’re beautiful. You’re strong. You’re smart. Why the fuck would I be settling?”
She blinked rapidly. Jesus. So much for not scaring her.
He sat back on his heels and shoved a hand through his hair. Fuck, he was coming undone. Maybe it was coming home after so long. More likely it was the way Erin had looked at him ever since they’d gotten here, as if he were a stranger.
“Baby,” he said hoarsely. Because he couldn’t speak anymore. He could only show her how he felt.
Only give in to the dark impulses that had been riding him all this time.
He bent over her, nuzzling at her breast through the satin cloth. God, he didn’t even feel human now. More like an animal, acting on pure instinct and sensation, reveling in the softness and womanly scent of her. He used his teeth to drag the fabric aside, revealing her stiff nipple to the air. They were small nipples, delicate. He had to be careful with them. He couldn’t suck as hard as he wanted, couldn’t nip at her.
That was what he told himself, but one brush against his lips and he was lost, feasting on her, lips fastened on her breast and tongue tormenting her bud.
The sound she made was pain—a cry of shocked arousal and sharp desire.
He didn’t let go of her, just cocked his head to meet her eyes. Then slowly, like a dog with a goddamn bone, shook his head. Quiet, he told her. She wouldn’t want his parents or the staff to hear. There was no way to really hide what they were doing. In the end she’d make enough sounds for them to know. But he wouldn’t let her scream and keen the way she did at home. She’d only feel deeply embarrassed later.
So it was really a form of protection that when she yelped, he reached up to cover her mouth with his hand.
He’d bitten down, maybe too hard. He lightened up his hold on her sweet nipple, but he knew he would only be rougher with her. His control had gotten razor thin, almost a weapon in itself, something that could cut her even as he fought to keep her safe.
Her eyes grew wide with surprise. He’d never covered her mouth before. In his big house, far out in the rural wooded area, he’d never needed to.
Her breath was soft over his fingers as she breathed through her nose. She stared at him—bewildered, afraid. And turned on? Her breathing had sped up now, and he knew that she might be scared of him. Hell, she should be. But he also knew the rhythm of her body, the flush of her cheeks. He knew that being restrained, his hands on her wrists or his arm over her waist, could turn her on.
And it worked again, her hips pushing upward as her lips tested their newfound boundaries.
The sound she made was muffled.
He groaned, the sound hotter because he had controlled it. “That’s right, baby. Give in to it. I’ll make you feel good and I’ll keep you safe while I do it. That’s a goddamn promise.”
Her body relaxed slightly, and he knew it was acceptance. More than that, desire.
And when he bent his head and tormented those pretty breasts, he didn’t hold back. He made them shake, sucking her hard and then releasing. He marked the pale skin with the stubble on his cheeks, with his teeth. He used her flesh in every way he wanted, reveling in the soft sounds that slipped from beneath his hand.
He moved down her body, teasing and sucking the tender skin of her stomach, pushing her to the brink and then soothing her, quieting her again. To do what he wanted, to go where he wanted, between her legs, tasting her, he would need to remove his hand from her mouth. He didn’t want to. Not when he knew how it affected her, when he’d felt her squirm under his body, felt the soft pants against his hand. She wanted this as much as he did—more. So when he finally released her, when he moved down her legs, taking her jeans and panties off as he went, he made a new plan.
Her panties were damp with arousal. He pressed the wetness to his mouth—a dirty kiss. Then he bunched the soft fabric and reached up.
Her lips parted, in surprise more than acceptance.
He used the opening anyway and pushed the fabric half into her mouth, a gag more effective than his hand, both more intimate and less, more tightly controlled and setting her free. Her body moved in a sinuous wave, painting shadows on her skin, giving only glimpses of her pink flesh. He longed to spread her wide. His dick throbbed, imagining that tight heat wrapped around him.
But he wouldn’t do that to her. Couldn’t do that to her.
Even in this state, half feral, he couldn’t risk scaring her with how he really felt.
So he gave himself time, by moving between her legs, by kissing her clit. He wasn’t gentle, though. It was the one solace he gave himself, to fuck her with his tongue and his stubble and the graze of his teeth. She bucked up into him, her muffled moans a sweet music, humping his face until she keened out her release.
Liquid gushed onto his tongue and he swallowed it down. Only when he had drunk every drop of her pleasure, when he’d granted himself that reward, did he rise up and plunge inside.
She was slick and swollen and so well prepared. But even now she clenched hard around his intrusion, making him grunt in sweet agony. It felt too impossibly good inside her. It made him want to rut fast and hard, to finish as quickly as possible. But it also made him want to revel in slow, languid thrusts, making this sex last forever. It was a cruel paradox, one that had him pistoning his hips without any control at all, without any thought but to have her, take her, claim her.
Her eyes filled with tears, casting a strange and ethereal light. She looked like some kind of otherworld creature, a fairy come to torment him, come to save him. He was drunk on her, and on whatever magic made him this way—almost cruel.
Why did the sight of her lips stretched around her damp underwear make him wild? How did she make him crazed with just one fucking question?
Who was your first?
She was his first—the first woman he’d loved, the first woman he’d let in. The first woman to truly love him back, and he hated that she’d ever fucking doubted them.
So he was rough when he pushed inside her. Rough enough to hear her gasp. He tore the panties from her mouth so he could kiss her the way he wanted, deep and crude. He fucked her with his tongue the same way his dick thrust inside. He wanted her to taste her juices, to know that he was the one who had made her feel this way.
Only when she whimpered a final, softer orgasm did he let himself go. He pushed inside her again and again, almost fighting her, rough and hard and everything he shoudn’t be. He fucked her like an animal—and that was how he came, with a roar that could be heard through the entire house.
He slumped over her, blanketing her with his body. She still shook slightly beneath him. Aftershocks?
Or was he too rough with her?
But when he raised his head to check, she smiled at him—so sleepy and full of love that his heart seemed to squeeze. He rolled over, bringing her with him, so she was sprawled on top of him. In minutes their breathing had evened out and matched up.
A soft snore, and he knew she was sleeping. It made him smile, but he was nowhere near sleep.
Who was your first?
As if the question was anything to do with Clarissa or the fact that she’d had braces and he’d been nervous out of his mind. No, the question was about the fear he’d seen in her eyes. The fear that he’d seen when she’d met his parents, seen their house. Maybe the fear had always been there and she’d just hidden it—or he’d just pretended not to see.
She still saw the class differences between them.
And he’d been an idiot not to see them too. Not that he believed himself above her in any way. But their childhoods had shaped them. He didn’t want to think of himself as a pompous, self-entitled prick, but he couldn’t deny that was exactly what he’d been raised to be. And no matter how hard he fought it, no matter how much he believed in equality, no matter how much he was head-over-fucking-heels in love with Erin, it could never change his past.
It could never change what he was deep inside.