by Leisa Rayven
He holds the glass up to the light and points at a thin line that runs the length of the bowl. “Do you see that crack? It occurred when Lord Cranbourne caught it after his wife flung it at his head. That was in 1741. For nearly three hundred years, this glass has survived, despite the damage. Remarkable, no?”
He places the glass carefully back in the case and turns to Holt and me. “I guess that’s part of my fascination. It seems so fragile, yet it somehow manages to endure, even with cracks and scratches. Personally, I find perfect glass boring. I love all of these pieces, and the scars of their survival make them even more beautiful in my eyes.”
“But doesn’t damage like that make the glass worthless?” I ask, calling on my limited antique knowledge.
Eric looks at me thoughtfully. “Worth is such a subjective issue.” He walks over to a large cabinet and pulls out a walnut box. While holding it out to me, he asks me to open the lid. When I do, I see the interior is lined in plush blue velvet. There are six indentations for goblets, but instead of containing intact glasses, there’s simply a pile of broken pieces.
I look at Eric in confusion.
“When I bought the Cranbourne glass,” he says, “this was included in the lot. It’s what remains of the other five glasses. The auctioneer suggested I throw it away. After all, it’s just a collection of broken glass. But to me it was much, much more. Lady or Lord Cranbourne must have retrieved the broken glass after their fight. What the glasses represented—their marriage, their history, their love—was too important to throw away, even broken beyond all repair.”
He smiles at Holt and me before closing the box and placing it back in the cabinet. “The auctioneer considered it to be worthless, because it had no monetary value, but I think it’s priceless. It represents passion, and without passion, life is meaningless, yes? At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.”
After pausing to give us a smile, he heads toward the door. “I’d best help Marco with the dessert. He gets tense if people don’t have something in their mouths every five minutes. Look at the glass as long as you like. Handle it, if you wish. It’s really not as fragile as it seems.”
He disappears down the hallway, then it’s just Holt and me, standing too close as Eric’s words hang in the air.
“So,” I say. “Who do you think saved the broken glass? Lord or Lady Cranbourne?”
“Lord,” Holt says without hesitation.
I look at him questioningly.
“He bought her the glasses,” he says, “and he said something to hurt her. He’d feel guilty.”
“Yes, but she was the one who smashed them,” I say. “And maybe what he said to her was true.”
Holt shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. For her to fly off the handle like that, he had to have been an insensitive asshole.”
“Or maybe she was just a drama queen.”
He pauses for a moment and looks at me, his eyes intense. “Maybe they both saved it. Maybe they carefully collected all the pieces, then had incredible make-up sex in front of the fireplace.”
I raise an eyebrow. “There’s a fireplace?”
“Of course. Possibly with the head of a dead animal hanging above it.”
“Wow. Romantic.”
“I know. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like broken glass and decapitated wildlife.”
I laugh, and so does he. Then his smile fades into the familiar shape of longing I see so often these days.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says quietly. “Did I do something to piss you off? Because if so, I’d like a chance to apologize.”
I look back at the cabinet, trying to ignore how amazing his eyes look reflecting the glass.
“It’s nothing.”
“With the way you’ve been looking at me, I’m pretty sure it’s something.”
He stands behind me, his chest pressing into my back. “If I were a betting man, I’d say you’re pissed because of how much you want me.” He weaves an arm around my waist and turns me to face him. “Don’t you realize I know all the tricks? The dark looks, the anger, no touching. I did the same to you because I was scared of letting you in. But you didn’t let me keep you out. You pushed me, time and again. Maybe that’s what I should do now. Make you face your feelings for me.”
My heart pounds as he runs his fingers through my hair. My breathing becomes shallow and I instinctively fixate on his mouth. How soft it looks. How delicious it would taste.
“You want me to kiss you,” he says. “You’d never admit it, and if I tried to actually do it, you’d stop me, but … you want it. Don’t you?”
I look down. “No.”
“Bullshit.”
He cups my face. “Look into my eyes and say it, then maybe I’ll believe you.”
My stomach tightens, and my whole body flushes, but I force myself to meet his gaze. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”
My voice is unsteady and weak. Just like my resolve.
“Jesus, Cassie,” he says as he strokes my cheek. “You’re a critically acclaimed actress and that’s the best you can do? That’s fucking appalling. Try again.”
“I don’t … I don’t want you to kiss me.”
“Yes, you do,” he says, quiet and confident. “I’m not going to do it. I just want to hear you say it.”
He might as well ask me to walk a tightrope a hundred feet above the ground without a net. I stare at his chest.
He sighs, and I’m not sure if it’s out of frustration or relief.
“Cassie, look at me.” When I hesitate, he puts a finger under my chin and tilts it up until I’m looking at him. “I just need you to know that the second you’re ready to try again with us, I’m going to kiss the hell out of you. I’m going to kiss you until you see stars, and hear angels, and can’t stand up for a week. I hope you realize that.”
My heart is thundering when I say, “Holt, if I’m ever ready, you’ll be the first to know. I promise.”
He gives me a half smile. “So kissing is off the menu, but you should know I’m also offering free hugs today—strictly platonic—for the first beautiful woman who requests them.”
I laugh, probably a little too loudly, and step forward as he wraps his arms around me. His face settles in my neck, and I squeeze him tightly as our bodies connect.
“God, you smell amazing,” he whispers into my skin. “Nothing on this planet smells as good as you.”
“That doesn’t sound too platonic to me.”
“Shh. Don’t talk. Just let me smell you.”
I pull back and cock an eyebrow.
“Okay, fine,” he says and rolls his eyes. “No more sniffing. Jesus, ruin all my fun.”
He hugs me again, and I sigh.
“Ready for that kiss yet?” he asks as his arms tighten.
“Not yet.”
He runs his nose along my throat and inhales. “Just checking.”
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
It’s been nearly two weeks since Holt and I officially decided to become nonofficial, and in that time I’ve experienced more sexual frustration than I’m sure any human was meant to endure.
We’ve shared the occasional kiss-and-grope session when he’s walked me back to my apartment after class, but that’s it. If I didn’t occasionally catch him looking at me like he wanted to make a three-course meal out of my boobs, I’d never know he actually liked me.
My problem is I’m sure everyone can tell I really like him. I laugh too loudly at his jokes and sit too close to him in class. His demonic sexual voodoo has kicked into overdrive, and I can’t get enough of him.
It doesn’t help that I’ve had some highly erotic dreams about him recently. Dreams in which I get to see what he’s been hiding in his pants. Subsequently, my allotted porn-viewing time has been extreme. I’ve watched countless film clips about how to pleasure a man, and although I�
��m pretty nervous about putting my pseudo-knowledge into practice, I really want to.
He’s coming over tonight so we can study for our History of Theater quiz tomorrow. I want to seduce him, but I’m not really sure what seduction entails. I guess I have two hours to figure something out.
“Name the six most famous ancient Greek playwrights,” he says, all sexy voice and glorious eyes.
“Um … okay. Ancient Greek playwrights. Uh … just give me second.”
I tap my pencil on my notebook as I try to remember the answer. He’s watching me as he sits cross-legged, leaning back against the couch. His crotch is foremost in my line of sight.
There’s no way in the world I can concentrate while he’s basically flaunting his penis in front of me. What the hell is he thinking?
I huff and squeeze my eyes shut. “Um … Ancient Greek guys … ah—”
“Come on, Taylor, you know this.”
“I know, but"—you’re distracting me with your possibly beautiful man member—"my brain’s tired. We’ve been studying for two hours.”
I open my eyes. He’s staring at me, and a familiar heat emanates from him.
“When we’ve finished with the ancients, we’ll take a break. Okay?”
There’s a slight sheen of moisture on his lip. I can’t look away.
“When we break, will you let me kiss you?”
He pauses and tries not to smile. “Maybe.”
“Grope you?”
“Possibly.”
“See your penis?”
His eyes bug out of his head, and he chokes on his own saliva. “What the hell, Cassie?!”
Okay. Seduction fail. Time for plan B.
“Please?” Did I mention plan B was flat-out begging?
He laughs and runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll say one thing for you, Taylor. I never know what’s going to come out of your mouth.”
I desperately want to say something about what I’d like to go into it, but I figure I’ve already freaked him out enough.
“Okay, how about a challenge, then?” I sit up onto my knees. He looks at me quizzically. “For every answer I get right about the ancients, I get to take off a piece of your clothing.”
He laughs again, but this time it’s tinged with mild hysteria. “And if you get questions wrong?”
“Then you get to take my clothes off.”
He looks at me before dropping his gaze to the floor. “I thought we agreed to take things slowly.”
“We did, and we are,” I say and take his hand. “Holt, the only thing going slower than the two of us right now is a glacier in New Zealand, and quite frankly, it’s gaining.” I look down at his fingers and stroke them. “I just … I want to touch you. Would it really be so bad if I did?”
He squeezes my fingers. “You do realize it’s usually the guy who pressures the girl into getting naked, right? I mean, you’re kind of usurping my manly duties here.”
My heart pounds faster as I see how large his pupils have become. “Then pressure me.”
He stares at me with an expression of disbelief.
“Nothing about this scares you, does it?” he asks quietly.
I almost laugh. “Of course it does. It terrifies me. You terrify me. But not enough to make me think you won’t be worth it.”
His gaze is intense. “You think I’m worth it?”
I nod. “I have no doubt.”
He swallows. “That’s the sexiest goddamn thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
In a second, he pushes me onto the floor. He kisses me hard, and as he presses his weight into me, I part my legs for him. As we connect, he buries his hands in my hair and makes my favorite groaning sound in his chest.
“If we flunk this test tomorrow,” he says between panting and kissing my neck, “it’s going to be your fault. You know that, right?”
I kiss him deeply then push him over so he’s on his back. I straddle his thighs and grip the collar of his shirt. “Oh, please. We can so do this and keep studying. Uh … the six most famous ancient Greek playwrights.” I flick open his shirt button. “Thespis.”
“Aeschylus.” The second button goes.
I pull fabric aside so I can kiss his chest. He grabs my hips and squeezes as he pushes his crotch up into me.
“Keep going,” he murmurs, and I don’t know if he’s talking about my mouth or the Greeks.
“Number three would be … Sophocles.” I open another button and continue to kiss him; his skin is crazy-warm and soft under my lips. “Four is … um … Euripides.” I open the last button and pull open his shirt before kissing a trail down his stomach. He lets go of my hips and digs his fingers into the carpet. “And five is …” The muscles in his stomach tense as I kiss them. “Uh … five is …” I lick his abs.
“God … Cassie.”
“Nope. Not ‘God’ or ‘Cassie.’ I’m thinking it starts with an ‘A.’”
I kiss back up to his nipple. I have no idea if men’s nipples are as sensitive as women’s, but I kiss it anyway. He arches his back and swears so loudly the neighbors probably heard it.
Okay. Note to self: He likes having his nipples kissed.
“Five is … Aristophanes.” I move to the other side. I’m amazed by how he tastes. Salty and perfect.
“Number six is … uh … God …” He grinds into me, and I can’t think. I can’t stop tasting him as I run my hands over him, loving how fast his heart is pounding because of what I’m doing.
“Six is … it’s … Aw, hell, I have no idea.”
He sits up and kisses me, his tongue sweet and warm as I push his shirt off his shoulders.
“Menander,” he says, his voice tight. “Guess you have to lose a piece of clothing. Let me help you.”
He leans back and yanks off my T-shirt as he mutters, “God bless Menander for being so fucking forgettable.” He cups my breasts through my bra and squeezes gently.
Oh, Lord. Holt’s hands. On my boobs. I may pass out.
He pushes my breasts together and kisses a path across the top of them. The light stubble on his jaw scratches in a completely pleasurable way.
“I’ve been fantasizing about doing this for weeks. They’re fucking perfect. Soft. Warm. Beautiful.”
I push his face further into me and moan as he continues to fondle and kiss. My skin is burning up. Everywhere he touches me tingles. I can barely breathe, but I don’t want him to stop.
I tilt my pelvis so I can press against him more firmly, and when I do, I gasp. The hard of him makes me ache to feel more.
I push him back onto the floor and straddle his thighs, before kissing a line down his stomach. Within a few seconds, my face is hovering just above the waistband of his jeans. I stroke the light smattering of hair below his belly button as he watches with heavy eyelids.
“I want to see you,” I whisper.
He exhales. “Taylor, you’re the most forward virgin I’ve ever met. Most are frightened of the things lurking inside men’s pants.”
“Have you known a lot of virgins?” I ask.
“Heaps. None of them ever asked to see my dick. In fact, they always asked me to keep it well away from them. Mind you, we were all fourteen at the time.”
I smile. “Silly girls.”
I kiss the skin just above his waistband, and when I look up at him, he’s leaning on his elbows, watching me.
“You’ve read my diary,” I say, keeping eye contact as I lick his hip. “You know my fascination with what’s inside here.”
“Fuck, yes.” He squeezes his eyes shut and groans. “Please don’t remind me about what’s written in your diary. After I read that damn thing, I had an erection for over a week. It was torture.”
“So, you remember what I wrote?” I ask as I run my hands over his hips.
“Taylor,” he says, his voice low and deep, “I’m absolutely fucking ashamed to say that I remember every word. Your diary is like literary Viagra.”
He tightens his jaw as I stroke h
is thighs, my fingers getting a little higher each time. A little closer to the bulge I’m dying to explore.
“You said my penis would probably win awards,” he says, his voice cracking. “I have no idea why I found that so sexy. Oh, fuck …”
He gasps as I gently graze the line of him, feeling the pressure of the tight muscle beneath the fabric.
“Jesus.” His jaw clenches and releases. “You have no idea what you do to me. You really don’t.”
When I unbuckle his belt and begin to unbutton his fly, he doesn’t stop me, and I’m hit with a sudden revelation that although this is all new to me, he’s no doubt had heaps of girls do this in the past.
I’m scared I won’t measure up.
“Keep going,” he says when I pause, a desperate edge to his voice. “Have pity, woman. Do you not fully understand how much I need you to put your hands on me right now?”
His words give me confidence, and as I continue, he watches me, his chest rising and falling quickly. Small sounds accompany each exhale. When the fly is completely unbuttoned I pull it open and look down.
“Oh … wow.”
Holt’s not wearing underpants.
Breathe, Cassie.
I glance up at his face. He half shrugs, half smiles. “Laundry day.”
I direct my attention back to his crotch.
As I pull his jeans down, his erection settles on his stomach, allowing me to really see it for the first time.
My predictions about what it would look like were spot-on. This is an award-winning dick.
My porn research has taught me that dicks come in all shapes and sizes, and I truly appreciate a pretty peen no matter the dimensions. But Holt’s erection is just like the rest of him. Inexplicably gorgeous. Large and arousing.
I touch it gently, grazing my fingers over the taut skin. The texture is incredible; far silkier than I’d imagined. I graze my fingertips over the length of it, and watch in awe as a myriad of emotions play across his face.
