My stomach did a slow roll as I surveyed a bathroom more opulent than anything I could ever have dreamt up. I had known Zach was rich, had heard the term billionaire applied to him, but . . . wow.
It was slightly amusing that it had taken a bathroom for me to fully understand how wealthy the man who had been inside of me only hours earlier was.
Uneasy and in awe, I circled the room. The floor was made of tiled river rock trapped in a clear, thick varnish. Warmth seeped from the surface into my chilled toes as I wiggled them. The floor seemed to heat beneath me as I walked, cooling where I had already been, and I assumed that it was controlled by some kind of motion sensor, or weight detector.
I had never even heard of such a thing, and I had grown up in a family that was well-off. The realization had me staring down at the beautiful floor, at the pale white of my skin against it.
My life was so incredibly different from Zach’s. I didn’t know what, exactly, there was between us, but whatever the term, I knew in that moment that it couldn’t last. Our lives were so different.
I was way out of my league.
Feeling slightly sick, I shook my head to rid myself of the depressing thought. Since I was up, I decided to take a shower—I would bathe, then dress in the clothes that I’d worn the day before. Well, minus my now-shredded bikini panties. By then perhaps I could find Charles, and be driven back to my hotel room to change.
Even if Zach had been taken out of the equation entirely, I really liked my new job. I liked the city of San Francisco. I was fairly certain that I wanted to stay, wanted to find a home here, and to do that I had to be ready to work, even if the big boss himself would know I hadn’t exactly spent a restful evening alone.
The innermost part of me didn’t want to leave. I wanted to bathe my sore muscles in hot water, and then return to Zach’s bed and the protection of his arms.
But I knew I was already feeling more gushy emotions than was wise. A man who could afford a house like this, who owned a corporation like Phyrefly, wasn’t going to have any feelings for me anywhere outside of the bedroom.
I began to shiver, despite the heat from the tiles at my feet. Padding across the floor to the shower, I slid open the clear glass door and stepped inside the walls that could have comfortably enclosed a horse, or maybe even two.
Wow. I turned in a slow circle, surveying the shower that was bigger than my hotel room. The very air itself seemed to echo off the cavernous space.
I tilted my head up, and saw not one, but four, showerheads that were bigger than dinner plates. I thought of the measly spray from the rusted head back in my hotel room, and my sore body clenched in anticipation of the rainfall of warm water. It might have been shallow, but I thoroughly appreciated Zach’s wealth, or at least his taste in bathrooms, as I bent to turn the shower on.
The only thing that would make it better would be if he were to join me.
Though the idea made my pussy clench, I thought better about waking him up and inviting him to a shower for two. His mood swings were varied enough that, tender as he had been the night before, I wasn’t certain which side of Zach revealed his true nature.
Scowling now, I reached for the knobs of the shower only to discover that there weren’t any. Confused, I looked up and down and found nothing but a control panel of buttons.
They weren’t labeled. I picked one at random and jabbed at it. I jumped when, a moment later, a glass-covered fireplace roared to life at the back of the stall.
My mouth fell fully open as I stared. The man had a fireplace in his shower. Well and truly unnerved, I hit the fireplace button again, quieting the flames, before scurrying out of the stall altogether.
My sore body protested.
“Dammit.” I furrowed my brow at the shower, then turned toward the bathtub. It was the size of a small lap swimming pool, and appeared to be carved out of some kind of silvery gray rock. There were steps leading down into it.
Apart from the size and extravagance of it, though, it seemed to be nothing more than a bathtub. I was fairly confident that I wasn’t going to be unnerved by a fireplace in its depths.
Perching on the edge of the tub, I turned the hot faucet all the way, and the cold a half turn. The cool stone nipped at my buttocks as I waited for the tub to fill, my knees clenched to my chest.
When I looked up from the swirling, crystal water I was confronted with the same visual that had blown me away the night before. The bathroom jutted out over the ocean, giving me the impression that I would be bathing in the blue-gray water of the sea.
I stared out the wall of glass as I sank into the tub, my eyes wide with wonder.
The heat felt wonderful, though I hissed when the tender flesh between my legs was submerged. Zach hadn’t been gentle, and though I’d loved it, I was incredibly sore this morning.
Memories of how he had handled my body made me flush all over. Despite the warmth of the water, I shivered.
No matter what the rational part of my brain told me, no matter that we’d been together only hours ago, I wanted him with a ferocity than I hadn’t known I was capable of.
I couldn’t do this again. Shouldn’t do it again. Wincing as the thought pained me, I reached for the bottle of body wash that sat on the edge of the tub, and began to hastily wash myself.
The soap smelled like Zach.
Scrubbing it through the long strands of my hair, I leaned back to rinse it away. Even stretched out lengthwise in the bath, it was so big that I couldn’t touch the sides,. I floated for a moment, enjoying the way the way the warm water buoyed me up when my thoughts wanted to weigh me down.
Sitting up, I slicked my dripping hair from my face. At first I thought the sound was just my sense of hearing readjusting after my ears had been submerged in the bath.
“No! No!” The words sounded almost strangled, like they were wrenched from someone’s chest.
I straightened, my body suddenly tense. My senses weren’t playing tricks on me . . . what I heard was Zach, in the throes of what sounded like a terrible nightmare.
“Slower . . . go slower . . .”
My heart ached as I clambered out of the tub, water sluicing off my naked flesh in streams. I had had nightmares myself for a long time after my parents’ death. I still did once in a while. I knew how very real they could seem, even after waking.
The sounds from the other room quieted, and I was relieved. Still, I groped for a towel. I’d decided to just go check on him before I got dressed.
Though I didn’t know him well, I knew that Zach wouldn’t thank me for catching him at such a vulnerable moment, no matter what it was that he was dreaming about. But I also knew that being alone when horrific images were playing in your mind like a movie could make a person sick.
I heard a rustle, the sound of a body shifting over bedsprings, and then the padding of feet over carpet. He was awake.
My concern swung from wanting to make sure that he was okay to trepidation.
I’d never had a morning after quite like this one.
The heavy wooden door opened, and Zach burst into the room. He was still fully naked, and I could see that every muscle in his big body was tensed as if anticipating a blow.
One look at him told me that he wasn’t fully awake yet—his eyes were open, but they searched the room as if he had never seen it before. I stood, mouth agape, uncertainty playing over my features as his stare roamed the room, finally settling on me. I felt as though that stare sliced right through me, a hot knife through soft butter, as he glowered at my naked, shivering self.
“Are you okay?” He blinked, clearly trying to focus on me through the haze of sleep that still fogged his consciousness. Though he had seen every part of me the night before, I felt so exposed, wishing that I had had the time to pull a soft bath sheet to me, to hide my nakedness.
&
nbsp; Zach’s eyes narrowed as I watched him, wide-eyed, and he looked furious. I didn’t know what I had done to provoke him, if anything—I couldn’t tell if the nightmare was still clinging to him, like a sticky spider’s web—couldn’t tell if this was his reality, or if he was still caught in the dream.
Crossing the room in three long strides, he caught me by the shoulders and shook me. As his fingers dug into my shoulder blades, the fury was still apparent on his face, but it was mixed with the slightest hint of confusion. My heart melted, even as nerves skittered through my veins.
A clammy chill settled over me when he finally spoke, his voice still husky from sleep.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
Read more of Devon and Zachariah’s tumultuous passion in
Part III of SURRENDER TO TEMPTATION
TEMPTED TO OBEY
Available from InterMix on January 15, 2013
And keep reading for a special preview of
Lauren Jameson’s upcoming erotic romance novel,
BLUSH
Available from NAL in May 2013
Many people would look uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny that I have been directing his way. This man doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blush, doesn’t toss me a cocky smile. Instead he returns my stare, unabashed, stoic even, letting me look my fill. He doesn’t touch me, either, but after he sets the glass down, I feel as if his hands had been all over me.
“Let me get you something else wet.” I think he smirks now, just the smallest upturn of his lips, but the expression is gone before I can be certain. Certainly he hasn’t meant the double entendre that has leapt into my head.
He waves the bartender over and speaks; I am not listening and don’t hear what he orders. I am busy focusing intently on not making a fool of myself—that, and wondering why on earth such a desirable man is here, talking to me.
“There.” The man eases himself up onto the stool beside me and turns to face me. Our knees bump together, and I get the impression that he has done it on purpose.
“Now. Why are you so nervous, so uptight, that my ‘hello’ makes you spill your drink?” He steeples his fingers, rests his chin on them, and looks right into my eyes. I feel like a bug pinned on the wall.
“I . . . I . . .” I can’t tell him why. It’s stupid. No, it’s not stupid, but it would seem stupid to someone who doesn’t know me, who doesn’t know what I’ve been through or why I’ve done the things that I’ve done.
The man frowns when I don’t reply, and I feel, again, a bit like a child being scolded. Then he smiles again, a seductive smile right at me, and the sun seems to shine through a batch of rain clouds.
“Let’s start with something easier, then.”
The bartender arrives at that moment, setting down a fat wine bottled with an elongated neck and two stemmed glasses. The man pays it not a whit of attention, keeping his eyes intently latched on my own.
I am growing very warm.
“My name is Alex Fraser. What is yours?” He seems keenly interested in the answer.
“Um.” Why on earth does he care? Why do I care why he cares? “Maddy. Maddy Stone.”
He nods as if he has never heard anything so interesting. “And is ‘Maddy’ short for anything?”
“Madeline.” My voice is soft, but I can’t seem to speak any louder.
“Well, then.” Enormously pleased, the man I now know as Alex Fraser turns and pours two small glasses of the liquid from the bottle, which is already uncorked. He hands me one, and though I can feel the heat of his hand as I wrap my own around the glass stem, he doesn’t touch me.
I find myself oddly disappointed.
“Drink.” Instead of sipping his own drink, he watches me expectantly. I lift the glass, study its ruby contents, then lower it again. With wide eyes I move my stare from the glass to him.
“I usually stick to cola.” I have learned the hard way that too much alcohol unlocks the grief. I become another person entirely when I’ve been drinking, a stranger who is wild, emotional, and above all, angry. Since I like alcohol, it is just easier not to start.
I don’t like releasing that other me, maybe because I know that, given half a chance, she will take over the rest of me, and the person I was a year ago will be lost forever.
“This is much better.” He is watching my lips again, expecting me to lift the glass, to sip.
I know better than to accept drinks from strangers in bars, but I have watched this one’s journey from the bartender’s hands. Alex seems to want so badly for me to taste it.
“You’ll like it.” The promise sounds sultry, and I warn myself to settle down, knowing that his hormones are probably much calmer than mine in this moment.
I have a sneaking suspicion that I will like anything he tells me to like.
Lifting the glass to my lips, I take a sip. Heaven pours over my tongue and down my throat, and I surprise myself by taking a second sip.
“It’s lovely.” Alex is watching me with pleasure, and I feel absurdly pleased that my enjoyment of the liquid has pleased him. “What is it?”
“Mouton Rothschild, Bordeaux Red. 1943 was an excellent vintage.” I very nearly choke again.
1943? This wine is seventy years old?
How on earth much must it have cost?
My face must display my shock, and Alex laughs—a sound unexpected from someone who looks like he does. There is no malice in the sound—he seems to be genuinely enjoying me.
I like the way the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles as he laughs.
“Why?” What on earth is he going to expect in return for two sips of something this outrageously expensive?
“Why not?” He sips again, not breaking eye contact with me. “I think you deserve it. If you feel the need to alleviate some ridiculous misplaced sense of give-and-take, then you tell me why you are so nervous.”
My jaw drops a fraction at his supercilious words. Misplaced sense of give-and-take? Excuse me? But in the same breath he has told me that he—a stranger—thinks that I deserve wine that is over twice as old as I am. Flustered, I take another deep sip from my glass, buying time.
I don’t deserve anything. I take one more small sip of the wine, telling myself that it’s okay, it’s just wine, not a self-actualizing experience.
He wants to know why I am nervous? Fine. I’ll tell him—though I won’t delve too deeply into it. Then he’ll laugh at me, and I’ll have a reason to leave.
Lauren Jameson is a writer, yoga newbie, knitting aficionado, and animal lover who lives in the shadows of the great Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada. She’s older than she looks—really—and younger than she feels—most of the time. She has published with Avon and Harlequin as Lauren Hawkeye and writes contemporary erotic romance for NAL. Visit her online at www.laurenjameson.com and www.laurenhawkeye.com.
Surrender to Temptation
Part I: Tempted to Submit
Part II: Tempted to Rebel
Surrender to Temptation Part II: Tempted to Rebel Page 5
