“He sent me a message, saying you needed me,” Oliver tells me. “I didn’t think twice.”
“I hate being dependent on somebody,” I whisper. “I’ve always had only myself to count on. But when I saw you yesterday, all I could think was, ‘Thank God’.”
Oliver studies me, a strange emotion in his eyes that I can’t interpret.
* * *
Over the next few days, I’m drowning in work. Oliver’s constant presence is a comfort to me if nothing else. Unfortunately, that rouses Lucas’s curiosity, and he’s like a bloodhound on a trail. He casually strolls into my office on a few occasions. It’s obvious he’s both checking up on me while trying to get the details about Oliver and me.
I’ve sent him packing a number of times, but Lucas is nothing if not persistent.
Aiming him in Elise’s direction is usually highly effective.
I anticipate the arrival of Friday evening. From the look in Oliver’s eyes, he is no different.
When it finally arrives, I find myself seated in a fancy restaurant that seems more Oliver’s style than mine, where the salad prices begin in the double digits.
“So, this is a date.” I roll the word on my tongue to the amusement of the man sitting across from me.
I roll my eyes, studying him with a glare I have to force. “Don’t look so smug. This was blatant manipulation.”
He doesn’t say anything, so I drive on. “I was emotionally distraught, then you threw an ultimatum at me.”
Oliver picks up his glass of wine and sips it, not even trying to look repentant. “Completely inappropriate. Outrageous, in fact.”
“You got that right,” I grumble as I reach for my own wine.
And yet, I don’t care.
“Tell me something about yourself that will surprise me,” Oliver says, his eyes gleaming over the flickering shadows the candlelight throws over his face, making me swallow the desire humming inside me.
I try to think, gently swirling my wine. “Well, once, when I was in high school, puberty and all, I was very lanky. I wasn’t into dressing up or any of those girly things—”
“You seem fine with them now,” Oliver interrupts, indicating the way I dress for the office in my sharply colored power suits and dark lipsticks.
I wave off his words. “That’s different. This is my uniform.”
“Like dressing up for war,” Oliver adds, smiling.
He looks so handsome, I muse, his arrogant demeanor hiding the softness he likely feels to be a fault. I’ve glimpsed it, though, and I can’t help but be attracted to that part of him. This is not a man who will ever try to control me. What other men deem a vice when it comes to me, Oliver seems to interpret it as something worthy.
“Maybe,” I allow. “Anyway, I used to dress in large jerseys and extremely unflattering clothes, and there was this boy…” When a flash of annoyance passes over Oliver’s face, it does nothing more than please me. “He asked me to the spring dance. Naturally, I refused.”
“Naturally,” Oliver murmurs, his eyes dancing with laughter.
I glare. “Moving on. He kept insisting and started paying attention to me, the small things. And I ultimately gave in. However, when I showed up at the dance, he was with another girl. The entire thing turned out to be this huge colossal joke.”
Oliver is no longer smiling, something like anger and disgust moving over his features. “Tasteless.”
My own lips curve at the way he’s taking the side of the heartbroken girl I had been when that asshole humiliated me in front of the entire school.
“Oh, I got my own.” I grin, enjoying the way his eyes light up in interest at my coy words. “Puberty, it seems, had my back. All it took was dressing up a little bit. My female ‘assets’ developed quickly. Within a few months, I was hiding a different body under the large sweaters and baggy pants. There was as swimsuit contest in my school, so I signed up.”
My smile is vicious when I hunch forward. “When I walked out on the stage that evening, I was a completely different person, and Ronald was in the front row. That smug little bastard was leering until he heard my name called out. I won that contest. Later, he approached me in the locker room to ask me to prom. The fucking nerve.” I lean back. “So, I said yes.”
Surprise flickers over Oliver, but he lets me talk.
“Prom was in a few weeks and Ronald was all over me, flirting, giving me gifts, wooing me all over again, trying to flaunt his prize. I let him. I made sure he was completely head over heels for me by the time prom came around. The day of, I cited a family emergency and told him I’d meet him there.” My smile is wide and malicious. “And then I showed up with Lucas as my date.”
Oliver blinks. “Lucas?”
I nod, shrugging. “I had to bribe him a bit, threaten him some, but I finally managed to win him over. Ronald never met my eyes again after that day.”
“You can be very cruel,” Oliver says, not entirely put off. In fact, he seems pleased.
Strange man.
“It’s called survival.” My smile is sharp. “I’ve lived in a man’s world my entire life. I wasn’t going to let some arrogant git who rolls around in money walk all over me. The best part was that, after my little stint, I went back to my old clothes, just to prove the point I could if I wanted to, but I just wasn’t interested in living by everyone else’s rules.”
“Well…” Oliver studies me with newfound interest. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What about you?” I ask. “Tell me about your family. You seem to know enough about mine.”
Oliver waits until the waiter has set our food down, topped off our wineglasses, and left. “I’m the last of the Thornton line. I have heard rumors that one of my ancestors was a bastard child of royalty, but I’ve never bothered to check up on it.”
I tuck my tongue in my cheek. “Now, see, when I said, ‘your family’, I meant from this century, not the eighteen-hundreds.”
He flashes me a faintly amused smirk. “I think you mean sixteen-hundreds. And I was getting to that. The family fortune dwindled, then rose when someone decided to make a few wise investments. The family home I have in Britain is mostly a manor, and I let it be used as a tourist location. My immediate family moved to London. My parents died when I was in my early twenties. Since I was an only child, as was my father, I inherited everything.”
“So, in simple words…” I gesture with my fork. “You’re rich.”
He peeks slyly from under his lashes as he cuts the duck on his plate. “If it helps my cause, I think loaded would be the correct word.”
I have to laugh at how unashamedly he’s flaunting his wealth, willing to use it as a hook. “It’s not going to work in your favor, unfortunately.”
Morosely, Oliver sighs. “I thought so.”
“Do you own a yacht?” I ask, suddenly remembering how I had used to love boats as a young girl.
“Do you want me to?” Oliver asks in turn.
I bite into my food, chewing thoughtfully. “I always wanted to own a yacht. For a day. Just to see what it’s like to lay on the deck in my swimsuit, feeling rich, as the sun gives me an unforgivable tan.”
Oliver arches his brows, his eyes heated. “I might buy one now, if only to see you lazing around on it while scantily clad.”
I smirk. “If you’d be that lucky. Besides, I’ve never had a desire to be rich. It just seems like people would lose the drive we have inside.”
“I haven’t,” Oliver points out.
I shrug. “But I might.”
He’s lost to contemplative silence for a few moments before he says, “Money doesn’t make the man. Besides, one can’t be held responsible for being born into wealth.”
“One can’t,” I agree solemnly before cracking a grin.
The atmosphere lightens.
It’s as we reach the parking area that I suddenly wish I hadn’t brought my own car. Oliver seems to catch onto that stray thought. Out of the blue, he suggests, “How wo
uld you feel about coffee?”
“Right now?” I ask, surprised. “It’s nearing eight.”
He moves his shoulders in an elegant shrug. “I still have work left to do. Some dessert and coffee would be appreciated. We could go to a café, if you’re so inclined.”
I suddenly see past the obvious offer.
We could go to a café.
Or…
We could go to one of our residences.
He’s left the choice up to me. I swallow, meeting his steady gaze.
I don’t recognize my own voice as I suggest, “How about I make you a cup?”
The flare of heat in his eyes makes my knees turn weak.
* * *
As I let Oliver into the penthouse, I spot the stiffness in his shoulders, which evaporates after a few minutes.
When I found out he was planning to sell this place and I offered myself as a potential buyer, I don’t think he expected me to make changes. Although expensive, I’ve accumulated enough savings to buy this place.
“What do you think?” I ask as he studies the lack of ornaments. I had packed them away, replacing them with simpler, more colorful items.
“It feels like you,” he finally responds after studying the living area. He glances over. “I didn’t know you were in a hurry to make so many alterations.”
I shrug. “The paperwork did go through, and you said I could purchase the entire place, including the furnishings. And since you keep sending me home on time—” I aim a glare his way. “I had too much time on my hands.”
His hands tucked in his pocket, Oliver strolls into the dining area, which has been stripped bare of all his personal decorations.
“I didn’t want them,” I say softly. “And I had a feeling you wouldn’t, either.”
He doesn’t turn to face me. “Where are they?”
“In a storage unit I own. I know you told me to do whatever I want with them, but they’re going to stay there if you ever decide to change your mind.”
He leans over to glance at a large tapestry, which I’ve yet to put up. “I won’t.” Then he looks at me. “Do you need any help with this?”
It’s a struggle, but with the help of a chair for me to stand on, we manage to hang up the tapestry, which reveals an image of aquatic life with a beautiful mermaid peeking from behind a rock. The colors are loud and vibrant, demanding attention, and I can tell Oliver admires it.
“Where did you get this?”
“Hanna’s roommate. She makes them by hand.”
“It’s stunning.”
“What other changes did you make?” Oliver asks. He looks relaxed now, almost comfortable.
Buying this penthouse was a careful decision, but from the way Oliver had behaved when I had reluctantly brought it up, I’d been surprised he was so eager to get rid of it. Lucas had helped make the paperwork run through the mills more quickly. By the end of the week, the deed would be transferred into my name.
The lease on my old apartment had been up for renewal in a month or so, and the idea of buying this place had almost been an inspiration.
“Well…” I glance toward a significant room. “I made some drastic changes to the bedroom.”
Oliver blinks, but follows me.
Drastic was an understatement.
Whoever had decorated the place before had classy taste. But that wasn’t me. I had sold the overly done dressing table, the furniture that had been a part of the design, and then bought handmade items from trusted stores that weren’t overly expensive but made me feel like I was home.
“You changed the bed,” Oliver says, his tone strange as he runs his fingers over the woodwork.
“Canopy beds aren’t my thing,” I reply.
Oliver glances over, his eyes dark. “Have you broken it in yet?”
When I catch the double meaning in his words, my breath stutters.
I swallow, not willing to be outdone, so I close the door behind me, then say innocently, “A little hard to do it by myself.”
The full-blown lust radiating from him has me stepping backward. He prowls toward me, a predator having scented his prey.
I don’t realize I’m walking backward until my back comes into contact with the door.
He’s almost upon me, a satisfied gleam in his eyes, then he’s crowding me against the wooden frame, his hands on either side of my head, my hands listlessly down by my sides.
He leans in, his warm breath on my lips, and my face tilts upward. But he doesn’t kiss me just yet. His lips brush against mine before moving to my cheek, my jaw, then he sucks my lower lip, biting down on the soft flesh, making me hiss.
And then he’s kissing me, our lips parted, as he licks into my mouth, seizing control. I’m helpless under the assault. And it’s over as soon as it begun because he wants more than my lips. His mouth is on my throat, his tongue leaving a wet trail over my jaw, my collarbones, on any bit of exposed skin within access.
I’m panting, his mouth so hot against my skin that it’s getting harder to find my breath, my brain cells scrambling.
He reaches for my coat jacket, then he’s tugging it off, dropping it at our feet. My shirt is a button-up blouse. Oliver takes his time with it, undoing the first few buttons before using his mouth on the plump tops of my breasts, biting and leaving marks that will remain there for at least a few days.
I whimper at his ministrations, reaching for his shirt. But he simply takes my hands and presses them against the door beside my head, effectively making me a prisoner.
The lack of control, this feeling of being so powerless, is too much. I moan as I feel the slickness between my thighs. When I rub them together, he notices. “Something wrong, Lana?”
His tone is arrogant, his smile knowing, and I bite my lip, feeling defiance surge.
But I’m trapped against the door, and he’s in charge. He presses his lips against my cheek, biting my lobe and whispering, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your pussy needs some attention.”
I give him a sardonic look, my chest heaving at the way he’s playing with my body. “Do you plan to talk me into an orgasm?”
I immediately regret my words because now he appears intrigued. “Maybe I could.”
Gaping, I internally groan when he smirks, his decision clearly made. “Let’s see whether I can make you come without using my cock.”
His accent is like my personal brand of aphrodisiac. Momentarily, I close my eyes only to find myself released, the loss of his hands suddenly making me a feel a deep sense of bereavement.
“What?” I open my eyes, only to see him stepping away from me. “What are you doing?”
Oliver moves to the bed and sits, watching me with a smile on his lips that is both threatening and incredibly enticing. “Come here.”
I hesitate, pride wanting me to hold my ground, not wanting to be led around by a leash, yet my feet move toward him of their own accord until I’m parked before him.
He seems entirely too pleased by my obedience.
He takes my limp hand and presses the back of it to his lips, his eyes on mine. Then, releasing it, he commands, “Take off your shirt.”
“What?”
He gives that faint smile again. “Your shirt, please.”
I reach for my blouse, unbuttoning it, then I’m shrugging it off until it falls at my feet. He just watches me, his eyes dark and luminous, not saying anything. I find myself shuffling on my feet, feeling awkward, a part of me longing to take back the control, to say something. At the same time, my mouth feels dry and it feels completely impossible to do anything except await further instructions, completely docile and pliable.
“Now your skirt.”
Oliver sounds so polite while his hot gaze roams over me, darkly possessive, as my fingers slowly move to the zipper on my skirt. I lose my nerve midway, wavering, but he just arches a brow expectantly, like he expects me to obey his orders, as if I have no choice in the matter.
The thought of being at his merc
y like this excites me, and it wars against my instinctive desire to rebel against any form of authority. As the skirt slides down my legs, falling into a graceful pool at my feet, I feel my pussy clenching at how I’m baring myself to this man who’s just watching me, not even attempting to touch me. The sense of shame, the guilt, and then this feeling of being unnerved at enjoying this form of submissiveness to the fully clothed man with the serene smile.
I’ve never felt docile before, not like this.
But as Oliver puts his hands on my waist, then lowers them to tug the panties off my hips before moving to unclasp the bra, tossing both items to a side, my heart races, my skin flushing. I feel like I’m under a spell. In this moment, it feels like I belong solely to this man.
When he pulls me forward, I find myself being maneuvered in a way that has me sitting on his knees, facing him, my own knees resting on either side of his thighs. I gasp at the bold move. He leans forward, tugging at my earlobe with his teeth until my head tilts backward. He laughs softly at this, then I feel his fingers in my hair, pulling until it’s just on the cusp of being painful.
“You’re entirely too enthralling, Miss Hill,” Oliver murmurs, and his use of my surname makes me let out a small sound of need. “You’re so receptive to every touch. The contrast is almost addicting.” His voice is laced with approval. “In the office, you’re like a fierce kitten, snarling and protective of your turf, yet, here, you’re as shameless as I want you to be.”
The sting of his words is dampened when he presses his mouth to my throat. “I absolutely adore you.”
The words are not an insult, but spoken in what sounds like awe. Something in my chest tightens.
“Tell me,” he breathes against my neck. “Now that I have you, what should I do with you?”
My mouth parts at the way one hand brackets around my throat, the other still gripping my hair, showing his dominance while daring me to fight back.
Feeling something wet trail down the inside of my thigh, my mouth goes dry. “I don’t know.”
Resisting the Brit Page 11
