As before, he slowly, sensually licks along the path of lipstick. The tip of his tongue descends further, getting closer and closer to—
It dips inside my shorts, making everything south of that barrier clench with vicious need. His tongue repeats the action again and again, as if asking for permission.
And that’s when I ease back.
I don’t know what grabs ahold of me in that moment. But once it tightens its grip on me, I can’t break its grasp.
I lay my hand on his shoulder.
He sighs deeply, his shoulders slumping with the movement. His forehead hasn’t moved from my stomach. “And here’s the most maddening part,” he says through gritted teeth. “I don’t even need a finished map to know where ‘X’ marks the spot. I know exactly where the treasure is buried. But I still can’t reach it. I’m starting to think it’ll be lost to me forever.”
The pain his words inflict in my chest cavity is so sharp, I worry the beating muscle has lost all function for a moment.
For interminably long seconds, neither us moves. We don’t say anything. The only sounds filling the room are those of our erratic inhales and exhales…inhales and exhales…
Then he mutters something under his breath I can’t quite hear. The only words I make out are …’m so fucked. I don’t get a chance to address that before he’s pushing back up to his feet. When our gazes connect, it’s like I get tunnel vision.
Tunnel vision on his mouth.
His lids grow heavy as he carefully swipes the lipstick over my lips. It’s like he doesn’t even register what he’s doing. He’s simply doing it because his muscles are commanding him to. He feels led to.
All I can see are his lips.
Just before they descend onto mine.
I immediately reach back and plant my hands on the counter’s edge, forcing them to stay there. No matter how indescribable the contours of his mouth feel against mine, I can’t give in and let this thing go any further. Back to the point before we decided three months ago that it had to end.
We’ve already learned we’re not good together beyond that point.
Beyond this right here.
I shouldn’t even be allowing this. But it turns out I’m powerless to the temptation of his tongue sliding against mine, the way his groans echo in my ears. I suppose it’s kind of like weaning yourself off an addiction. Don’t they say it’s harder for alcoholics to stop drinking when they try to quit cold turkey? That conquering addiction has a higher success rate when you indulge less and less each day until you can eventually go without the vice?
I’m not too proud to admit that I’m addicted to West.
At least physically.
Maybe if I allow this kiss to play out and indulge in the moment, then it won’t be as hard to resist him tomorrow. And the next day. And the next.
Although stopping at just a kiss is proving much harder than I thought. Especially when he starts to swivel his hips in a clockwise motion, as if trying to burrow his way between my legs. My muscles and bones go molten then, threatening to burn me up from the inside out. The kiss started out aggressive and dominant, West doing all he could to assert absolute authority over my body and its reactions.
But it has since turned…seductive.
The movements of his tongue have become more languid, more carefree, yet purposeful. Before, it was as if his goal was to remove every speck of lipstick from my lips. Now, it’s as if he’s savoring the flavor of it on his taste buds.
When he gives a particularly vigorous thrust against my femininity, a whimper escapes the corner of my mouth. The sound must yank him out of his daze because he reluctantly breaks the kiss, both of his lips taking my lower one with them as he pulls away.
With a choked sound, he presses our foreheads together. “Ah, princess…what the fuck did you eat?” His voice is nothing short of tormented. “Why do you have to taste like summer on a goddamn tropical island?”
The pineapple.
When he eases back enough to look me in the eyes, his remind me of the rich stout beers he favors. Dark, thick, and heavy. Full of flavor, potent as hell. And smooth. So, so smooth.
Despite the way I met him—a harried West on the verge of a nervous breakdown over the prospect of shopping for a woman—he has been unerringly masterful in the sexual arena. Every aspect of our physical relationship has flowed so easily. I barely noticed when we advanced from one step to another, when I would have been nervous and self-conscious with anyone else.
That kiss proves that nothing has changed. The lust that has sparked and sizzled between us from day one is still flickering bright with life.
And the absolute last thing I need to do is pour lighter fluid on those flames.
I place my hand on his chest to push him back, but force is never applied to the movement. It merely becomes a touch. His pec flexes beneath my fingers, almost as if it’s yearning for more, trying desperately to find its way back home.
He slaps his hands onto the counter behind me, careful not to touch my own, and drops his head on a defeated sigh. Like before, all I can see is his dark head of hair. All I can hear is his labored breathing. Unlike before, his body isn’t touching me anywhere. It’s caging me between it, trapping me inside its magnetic aura, but there isn’t one iota of physical contact between our bodies.
He doesn’t have to touch you to make you feel caught.
“Twice already this week I’ve had to end the night in a freezing cold shower,” he snarls. “You owe me for that.”
“I owe you?” I sputter. “I’m not the one who started this.”
His head snaps up, his eyes blazing with staggering fury. “No, but you’re the one who has the power to end it.”
End it, as in, I can invite him into my bedroom and alleviate this torture for both of us?
Or end it, as in, I can walk right out that door, never to see or hear from him again?
“You’re saying you don’t?”
His laughter lacks all mirth. “Why do you think I’m still here? If I had any other options to get out of this situation, don’t think for a second that I wouldn’t have leapt at the opportunity. Masochism has never been my thing.”
I flinch.
Of course, West sees it. He sees everything, most of which I wish he didn’t. Namely, whenever his words or actions have the power to hurt me.
His face softens for the briefest of moments before hardening back to granite. “Do me a favor…” His gaze falls to my mouth. “Make more of that.”
I have no idea how to respond.
He shakes his head admonishingly as he pushes away from the counter. Turning toward his bedroom, he mutters under his breath, “Maybe I am a fucking masochist.”
His body disappears inside his dark room, his door slamming shut with an ear-piercing bang.
While I’m left standing here wheezing like I just Usain Bolt-sprinted a full marathon.
Covered in a lipstick treasure map.
Days later, I feel like that lipstick trail is still covering my skin. Even though I’ve taken about a million showers since that night and scrubbed my flesh raw until every trace of red was removed.
Maybe it’s just West’s touch that I feel is still branding my skin.
This situation between us can only last so long. I can only take so much more. I’m just afraid things will get worse before they get better. Because of that, I have no flipping idea what to expect from tonight’s dinner at my mother’s house.
But if you had told me it would start with West swaggering out of his bedroom wearing a custom-tailored charcoal suit, I would have asked what the hell you were smoking and why you didn’t share any of it with me.
My jaw drops as I digest the eye candy before me. “Where did you get a suit?”
When he adjusts one of his cufflinks with jerky movements, I can’t tell if he’s amused or annoyed. “Contrary to what you obviously think, I do know how to clean up.”
I feel my cheeks flush. “I didn’t mean anything by that.�
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His eyes widen in mock surprise. “Get this, I actually own more than one suit.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear, mortified at my rude behavior. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I’ve just never seen you wear a suit.”
I glance up in time to see him frown. “That’s because I never took you anywhere nice enough for one. And I should have.”
Does he really think that’s what I want? Fancy, five-star restaurants? Five-course meals? Just because of my last name and how I grew up? I’m not sure if I should feel insulted. I didn’t think I came off as that high maintenance, because I’m really not. Even though we’re broken up, I still thought he knew me better than that.
“Dress code doesn’t matter to me, West. It’s the company I care about.”
“And yet both are worlds away from what I’m used to.”
I open my mouth to protest but forget everything I’m about to say when his eyes slide languorously down my body.
“Damn. Pulling out all the stops I see, princess. Where the hell have you been hiding that dress?”
The sudden heaviness of his eyelids detracts from my frustration over his continued use of my least favorite word. It’s like he’s purposely saying it to maintain that emotional gap between us. Which I should be grateful for.
But I’d be lying if I said it still doesn’t grate.
Knowing his question is mostly rhetorical, I don’t bother answering it. Clearing my throat, I smooth away invisible wrinkles in my dress. This material doesn’t wrinkle, you see, but if I keep nervously pushing my hair off my face, I’m going to show up to Mother’s house looking like I just stuck my head out of an airplane at thirty thousand feet.
“You might have been right about the dress code. Even at my mother’s house she expects her guests to dress. Family or not.”
Although, I’m probably still breaking her dress code. This royal blue bandage number is more form-fitted than Mother would consider appropriate. It pulls taught across my boobs, butt, and thighs, conforming to my curves, the hem falling just above my knees. It’s not the most modest of frocks. But in terms of exposed skin, there’s really nothing indecent about it.
I still know she won’t approve, though. A dress this tight is not something a true lady and respected leader of the community would wear out in society.
Good. Let her kick me out of her house. Then I won’t have to endure this nightmarish evening.
“You look…” West shakes his head, “incredible.”
My face suffuses with heat again. “Thanks. So do you.”
He gives me a half-grin as he holds his arm out for me to take. “Shall we?”
Yes, let’s go pretend like we’re still a happy couple. In front of my judgmental family. Days after we made out in our kitchen. Nothing abnormal about that, is there?
I curl my arm through his.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
Ilene, Mother’s newest housekeeper, answers the door when we arrive. She inclines her head at us, smiling politely. “Good evening, Ms. St. Clair. I presume this is Mr. Devereaux?”
Anyone who’s willing to put up with my mother’s shit on a daily business always has my utmost respect, even if I think they might need to be institutionalized. And Ilene seems to be tougher than most of the housekeepers before her.
Which means she probably won’t last long.
West steps forward to shake the older woman’s hand, laying on the charming smile of his that even grandmothers like Ilene aren’t immune to. “Yes, it is. But please call me West. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
After discreetly fanning herself, Ilene waves us down the hall. “Your mother and sister are in the solarium. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.”
Solarium. Because calling it a sunroom would be too pedestrian in my mother’s book.
“Thank you, Ilene.”
I lead West down the hall where we pass several pieces of art framed in gilded gold that cost ungodly amounts of money, my Minolo heels clicking across the imported Italian marble floors. The house belongs to Dan, Mother’s current husband. Lucky number five. She moved in the second he slipped that four-carat diamond on her finger and immediately assumed her role as Lady of the House. Being the richest of all her husbands—not that the others were by any means poor—she’ll probably keep Dan around for at least another couple of years.
“I assume they’re not drinking beers and watching the game back here?” West murmurs close to my ear as we approach the solarium.
I huff with dry laughter. “More like drinking Dom Perignon and toasting each other’s egos.”
He grumbles. “My heart was really set on buffalo wings. I even brought my own barbecue sauce. Think they’d mind if I slapped some meat on the grill?”
I shoot him a grin, appreciating his attempts to put me at ease. He must feel the way my muscles are tightening with tension the closer we get to this room. That reaction to seeing my family has become so natural to me, I hardly even notice it anymore.
“You never know,” I muse, “we might get lucky and find Mother flipping burgers in her ‘Grill Master’ apron.”
“Fingers crossed.”
Just before we cross the threshold into the room, West takes my hand and laces our fingers together. The action causes a low thrum in my chest. He might as well be strumming my heart strings like a bass guitar with those fingers.
Get ahold of yourself. He’s just doing his job.
Right. We’re actors tonight. Playing the roles of boyfriend and girlfriend. I can do this.
All heads turn in our direction at our entrance. Mother is the first to approach us, ever the well-mannered hostess. In her knee-length ivory wrap dress, she’s the same polished and prim woman from my youth. Dark blond hair pulled back in a neat, immovable twist. Pearls around her neck. Impeccable French manicure.
But even makeup can’t hide all those frown lines. She’s made valiant attempts with Botox, but that doesn’t conceal a person’s character. And the harsh lines around her mouth and eyes are clear indicators that she’s one giant, hard shell.
“Hello, dear. So glad you could come.” Taking my shoulders, she kisses me on both cheeks—the action more compulsory and frigid than warm and welcoming—before turning her attention to West.
“Mother, may I introduce my boyfriend, West Devereaux.”
I haven’t called him that in over three months. If he’s in any way affected by that term, he doesn’t let it show. While my heart is pounding like a village drum.
I clear my throat. “West, this is Eleanor St. Clair.”
Once she divorced my father and went back to her maiden name, she never let it go again. She liked my father’s political connections that came with his last name, so she took it. But once they headed to Splitsville, she adopted the façade of being a trailblazing St. Clair woman who would never again “hide behind her husband’s name.” And yes, she even changed Violet’s and my surname back to St. Clair. Which might account for why our father doesn’t care to come around much. He probably feels like his entire family abandoned him after the divorce.
When, really, it was just Mother.
“It’s a real pleasure, Mrs. St. Clair.”
Her smile might remain polite, if not placid, but Mother’s eyes have noticeably cooled as she takes West’s proffered hand. “I’m delighted to have you in my home, Mr. Devereaux.”
“West, please.”
I know she won’t call him that. She only reserves first names for people she respects, or those she’s attempting to schmooze in order to get something from them. And West falls into neither of those categories.
Mother’s eyes then rake over me and what she no doubt assumes to be the dress of a hussy. When those harsh lines around her mouth deepen, I inwardly snicker. Maybe it’s because West is standing next to me and she doesn’t want to risk airing out our dirty laundry in front of a veritable stranger, but she doesn’t say a word about my attire.
“Are you trying to ruffle her feathers on purpose?” she whispers so that only I can hear.
I sense West on my other side trying to shift away to give us more privacy, telling me he can hear every word.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
My older sister just gives me a look.
I roll my eyes. “It’s a damn dress, Vi. It’s not like I walked in wearing pasties, for Christ’s sake.”
She scrunches her nose in distaste at my profanity.
I swear, she’s acting more and more like our mother every day. Pretty soon I’ll lose my sister altogether and be stuck with two Eleanors. No joke, she’s wearing a wrap dress, too. It might even be the exact same one as Mother’s, but in fuchsia.
“Can we just get through this dinner without any major confrontations, please?” she pleads.
“It’s not me you have to worry about.”
I don’t start shit just to start shit. I never have. I only react when Mother provokes me and even then, I don’t do it often. Rarely, actually. So, I’m not even sure why Violet is acting like the possibility of me causing a scene is at issue. Although, I guess I would be considered the rebel in comparison to her. After all, I’m not willing to be led around like a dog on a leash.
Aren’t you? Why else are you still working at the Foundation?
Violet bases her self-worth solely on what Mother’s opinion of her is. She values Mother’s approval above everything else, which means Violet has no idea who she is. Her identity is completely shrouded in Mother’s image. Which, again, explains why she’s had so many fiancés and no husbands. And, hell, why she’s even dressing like Mother. The modest wrap dress, the close-toed pumps, the minimal jewelry, and the perfectly-styled sweeping curls of her hair.
Our hair all used to be the same shade, actually. Darker blond with sparse, lighter blond highlights. When I dyed mine to platinum, I think that was the moment Mother realized she had failed where I was concerned. At least, in terms of cloning herself in my body. She officially concentrated all of her efforts on Violet after that.
The Six Month Lease (Southern Hearts Club Book 2) Page 13
