by Dee Palmer
“Don’t do what? What are you afraid of, Hope?” He backs us through the library door, and I gape. What the hell? There is a mound of towels and robes piled in front of a large open fireplace, which is illuminated with a dozen or so candles. The flames flicker, casting shadows and warm light that transform the desolate room into something cosy, inviting, and a little bit sinful. There’s also a bottle of wine that looks like it was buried with the ancestors that built this place three hundred years ago.
“Where did you find wine?”
“In the cellar, no food, I’m afraid, although…” He walks us over and places me carefully on the sumptuous soft towels. Pointing to the putter tankard which has the wine already poured, he grins like he’s discovered some great treasure. He’s done one better; he’s found chocolates. My stomach rumbles loudly as if on cue, and he takes two and pops one in his mouth after first placing one in mine.
“Mmm, oh, god, they are so good, it’s a shame there’s only five. I could easily eat my body weight in those fellas.” Shamelessly licking my lips, I savour the velvety luxury of goodness melting on my tongue.
“Please have the others.” I stop his hand from giving me any more. We’ve still got a long night, and three chocolates and a bottle of red wine is hardly a feast.
“Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. We’ll share.” He hands me some wine, apologising about the lack of crystal, which is ridiculous. This is incredible, and I’m a little speechless.
“I couldn’t find any glasses; however, this red wine is surprisingly very good. You have a substantial cellar and some of the darker alcoves contain dusty but undamaged stock.”
“Do you think that’s what the burglars were after?” Sipping the wine, it feels like silk, rich and smooth, washing down the chocolate.
“A few bottles of wine? I doubt it. I have no idea what they were doing.” He takes the tankard and sips, handing it straight back to me.
“Well, the police will find out in the morning.”
“Quite,” He pours some more of the wine but leaves it on the hearth next to the candles. He kneels up and removes his tie, unhooks the first and second button of his shirt, and I have to check that there are only a dozen candles because the temperature just shot from toasty to scorching. Arranging his long legs so he can get as close to me as possible, my heart stops.
He pops the first button on my blouse.
“Jørgen, what are you doing?”
“Undressing you.” He pops another and eases the silk material of my blouse over my shoulders. It slips to my waist where he makes light work of the remaining buttons. His eyes dip to my lace-clad breasts, which are at maximum height on my chest because of the large breath I’m holding. The swell of flesh is barely contained in the cream lace of my bra, and I now have a sheen of sweat making my skin glow. It’s like my body is extending an invitation my brain has yet to approve. His eyes look impossibly dark, the reflection of flames dancing alludes to nefarious desires. The aroma of exotic spices from the scented candles intoxicates the air around us, and his feather light touch is hypnotic. He draws in a deep, steady breath. His slow, deliberate movements are captivating, and any residual resistance evades me.
“Jørgen, please.” My breathy plea is only audible because the room is silent. A guttural rumble seems to vibrate from his chest when he slides his fingers behind my waist and releases the clasp of my skirt. He peels the materials down, and I hitch my bottom up to give him better access.
“Mmm, no need to beg, Hope, this one is entirely for you.” He removes my skirt and my shoes, rolls my hold-up stockings down my legs, then helps me to lie flat. The time he takes for his eyes to travel from my toes to my face is endless, excruciating, and even with my bra and panties on, I couldn’t feel more exposed.
“I’m not begging.” I exhale a short, sharp puff of air, a vain attempt at cooling my rocketing body temperature. His lips carve the perfect wide and terribly wicked smile, which disappears from my view when he flips me carefully over on to my tummy. I jolt when he playfully spanks my bottom and growls his retort.
“Yet.”
TIME IS SUPPOSED TO BE fleeting when you’re in heaven, yet I have felt every blissful second of the hour or so Jørgen has massaged my body. Hot oil from one of the specialist candles felt like warm silk across my skin as his deft fingers worked every knot, every ache, and touched every erogenous zone with the skill of a seasoned professional. Bliss. I’m buzzing, dripping, and even the base of my spine is throbbing for an entirely different reason.
“Oh, god, that feels amazing.” His elbow is pressing hard on my arse cheek working on the muscles from my thigh, over my bottom to my lower back. The pain-pleasure line is fine, and he has it spot on.
“Yes, it does.” His face must be very close to my cheek, since I can feel the additional heat from his breath on my skin. Gooseflesh prickles my skin despite the searing heat, I’m on fire, on edge, and my towel has well and truly been tossed out the window.
“You know, I said I wasn’t going to beg. I’d quite like to retract that.” I twist my head so I can look behind me and see his face, which is now just below my shoulder blade. I freely admit I’m out of my depth, out of my comfort zone, and out of excuses. I’m also beyond horny and shamelessly draw my knees closer to my tummy, raising my bottom, the international sign of an open invitation in anyone’s beginner’s book of seduction.
“Is that so?” His brow arches with amusement. Pressing a firm hand on my invitation, he pushes me flat, a devious smile spreading like honey across his face.
Now I’ve made the decision. It’s so on.
“Yes, actually. I’d really quite like to fuck like rabbits.” Rapid little thumps with my palm on the towel don’t quite give the sound I was going for, however, the visual is effective. He smirks and continues to work his magic on my butt cheek. This time, though, I tilt my hips and no longer suppress the ecstasy of his touch, moaning as I exhale.
“Is that so?”
“Yesss.” Sighing, I wait for him to make his move, nothing. Well, not nothing—more divine, tortuously sensual strokes. I roll half onto my side, my face screwed up with confusion. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“You actually want me to beg?”
“I’d quite like that, but I’m not that cruel. And since I have no intention of fucking you, I think that would be rather mean.” He sits back since I have now scrambled around onto my knees, a mix of indignation and the female equivalent of blue balls making me sound a little irritated. I gather one of the towels, wrap and tuck it under my arms, covering my fully naked body.
“Why not? I mean, if it’s because of my rules, you know as well as I do that everything is up for negotiation.”
“Most things, not everything, and trust me, this is not one of those things. I don’t want to fuck you, Hope, I want to make love to you.” I grin from ear to ear, as if there’s a difference. I want to roll my eyes at the wasted sentiment, but I refrain.
“Oh, okay, let’s do that then.” Excitedly wiggling my brows, I drop one side of the towel so I can fist the front of his shirt and tug him closer.
“Mmm, nice try, but I don’t believe you are capable of knowing the difference, not yet, at least.” He taps my nose and holds my suspicious gaze. What’s his game exactly? Releasing his shirt, I shuffle out of his personal space, covering myself again, and feel the sting of rejection like the bitch it is.
“Oh, really? And what would make me capable of knowing the difference exactly?” My tight smile goes some way to disguise my dejection.
“One month with me, no distractions.” My jaw drops, and then I laugh, only stopping when he doesn’t join in.
“Wait, you’re serious? Look, Jørgen, if ten plus years hasn’t enlightened me to the difference, one month is going to be a huge waste of time for both of us. No offence.”
“None taken.” He pulls his shirt clean off his back, and I’m all kinds of distracted again. He starts to arrange the towels aroun
d us, and it looks very much like he’s settling down next to me for the night, leaving that ridiculous suggestion just hanging in the air between us like it’s a done deal.
“Jørgen, I’m not spending a month with you. I work. I have to get this place started. I can’t just—”
“The work on Greycoat isn’t scheduled to start for six weeks. The permits need to be authorised, and the contracts with the subcontractors have yet to be finalised.”
“Exactly. I can’t just take off.”
“You have lawyers dealing with this. You have an excellent contracts manager that you appointed, people you trust, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“You know as well as I do, nothing is going to actually happen on site until the permits are sorted. There is absolutely no reason to decline.”
“Jørgen…” My hesitation speaks volumes, and it isn’t helped when he lies down and pulls me close. The heat from his body is warmer than any blanket. It feels safe, too, and that fucking terrifies me.
“What are you afraid of, Hope? Me? Us?”
“Jørgen, this is crazy.”
“I’m not hearing a no.”
“That’s the truth. I’m pretty sure that was me saying no.” I turn over, only he takes that as an invitation to spoon, his strong arm pulling me so close every curve of my body moulds against his. He pitches up on his other arm, and I twist my head so I can look into his eyes.
“Yet your whole body is saying something entirely different.” The sexual tension is without comparison on this earth. The most intensely erotically charged situation I have ever experienced. Still I have no idea what I’m feeling or what I’m doing. I don’t know how to handle the tender touches, the sincerity in his stupid declarations. And the way he’s looking at me right now makes my chest hurt. I’ve never felt so vulnerable in my life, both out of my depth and willing to drown.
“My body is a bit of a slut,” I counter with some home truths that will no doubt take the sparkle from his eyes.
“I’m not a fan of that word, Hope. It’s used to shame women by men and women alike, and even as a joke, which I know you think that was. It’s not funny.” A darker frown saddens his expression, and I suddenly feel bad for my cowardly attempt to get him to retract his offer.
“Sorry. Although, technically, as definitions go, it’s not wholly inaccurate.” My tone softens. I may have failed with my crude intention to shock, still I have to be honest. He deserves to know the truth. “I’ve had many sexual partners. I don’t want to disillusion you, because, right now, you’re looking at me like I’m some sort of angel, and I have to caution you, that halo slipped a long time ago.”
“There’s nothing wrong with sex, Hope. I just happen to know there is more.” His lips brush mine, and I’m breathless. He barely touches me and renders my body a pliant mess of wanton desire and liquid lust.
“More?”
“Let me show you.” His finger traces from just below my ear, down my neck, and along my shoulder. Tingles dance on my skin in the wake of his touch, and I shiver, swallowing the dryness in my mouth and finally accepting my fate. I pride myself on not being an idiot or a fool where men are concerned. If this man can make my body yearn like this in just a few short hours, then I would have to be certifiable to say no. I’m going to ignore what other shit is going on in my head and chest, because the effect he has on me is most likely due to low blood sugar coupled with him being hot as hell and wielding a wicked touch or the touch of the devil, I’m not sure which. I think it’s the latter.
“One month?” I turn to face away, and his face hovers above me at my side, his body pressed tight against my back. He is wearing only his boxer shorts, and I’m acutely aware that I’m completely naked, wrapped in a thick, fluffy towel on a bed of robes and towels which are soft enough on the hard wooden floor to get comfortable.
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“My island. ” His mouth is close to my neck. His breath washes over me, and it takes all my restraint not to roll over on top of him, pounce, and take what he’s withholding. I’m such a romantic.
“Of course you have an island.” Amused irony lifts the sound of my laughter.
“One month, that’s all I ask.”
“And what? I’m supposed to fall in love and believe in happily ever afters? Man, you do like a challenge.”
“I like it when I’m right.” When I move a little, he groans, and I swear I feel his erection through several layers of thick towels. I take a little comfort that I’m not the only one suffering.
“This isn’t Love Island, Jørgen.” I look back to see a frown. He interrupts before I can clarify. “It’s a reality show where—”
“I’m aware of the reference, Hope. I raised my brow because that is exactly what it is. You’ll see. The only difference is I’m not playing a game.”
“Shame, I quite like games.” This time I push back and roll my hips so he gets the full curve of my arse rub the entire length of his cock.
Let the games begin.
The massage was for me as much as it was to help with her injury. I needed the time to calm the torrent of fury inside me. It took every ounce of restraint not to kill that guy when I saw his hands on her. Now, however, it’s taking Herculean effort to not do exactly what she’s asking for, but I promised myself this is the only way I’m going to prove that I am different. That this is different. This spark we have is much more than lust, desire, and primal need. It’s our beginning.
She is sceptical. I understand that. I know she’s never experienced anything like this. She trembles when I touch her silky soft skin, and the fear that flashes in her eyes is only there because she’s never felt this before. I fucking love that I’m evoking emotions that, judging by the conflict in her every breath, are clearly challenging her world view. There is no way I’m going to miss this opportunity. I’ve said it before: Time is precious, and life holds no guarantees.
However, my life is complicated. It holds unusual restrictions and obligations that would send most people running for the hills, unless they were truly in love. This is an all-in situation I’m proposing, and I’m acutely aware of the distinct advantage I have over Hope. After all, I know exactly where I stand; I’ve known since day one.
In business, I rarely enter into a situation where I am not one hundred percent sure of the outcome, but in this instance, the key variable is unpredictable, volatile, and unlike anyone I’ve ever known. All I can do is influence the elements that can be controlled: the place, the time, and the outside world.
I’m in unfamiliar territory, but since no one can give a definitive answer to the question, I’m going to go right ahead and say that it takes one month to fall In love. How do I know that? Because one month is all I have.
She sighs in her sleep. Her body undulates against mine, and I’m in tortured heaven. The sense of relief lying like a warm blanket over me thankfully overwhelms the waves of lust that threaten to consume and derail this train before it has even left the station. I have her in my arms, and our journey can begin, despite the agony of an excruciating painful erection, which is something I’m going to have to endure over the next month. I wasn’t joking when I said I wasn’t going to fuck her. It’s the only way I can think of to prove to her that this isn’t a game; this isn’t just sex. That’s all she’s ever known, and if I succumb, she will think she’s won. It will all be over and, truthfully, if that happens, we both lose. And I don’t lose.
THE THUNDEROUS RUMBLE SHAKING THE loose panes of glass in the window frames wakes me with a start. I jolt upright, pulling the makeshift covers to my neck. I swear the foundations are shaking beneath me with whatever is going on outside. I know it’s not an earthquake. This place is in the middle of the English countryside, hardly a hot spot for seismic activity. I race to gather my clothes and get dressed. Jørgen is nowhere in sight, and I need to find out what’s about to tear my new investment to the ground. I skip and stumble my way to the door, hop
ping from one bare foot to the other whilst trying to slip my shoes on.
Pulling the door wide, I skid comically to a halt on the threshold just millimetres from crashing into the tray of breakfast goodies before me. Jørgen has a sudden look of shock before his well-schooled impassive expression falls quickly back in to place.
“Good morning, Hope.”
“Um, good what? What the hell is this, where did you get fresh coffee and croissants?” Wiggling an accusatory finger at the delicious looking pastries, my mind is racing ahead of my mouth, but only just. “Have you already walked into the village? What time is it? How long was I asleep?”
“I’m not sure you need the coffee.” He grins wolfishly, guiding me backward and back into the room. He walks over to the windows and, with one hand, pulls a wide gap in the dusty velvet curtain. A beam of bright sunlight splashes across the room, making me squint, and I have to shield my eyes. He places the tray on the wide, low window seat and sits, calmly laying out napkins and cutlery. His shirt is a different colour from yesterday, and he looks like he’s had a shave. I feel like I’m in the frickin’ twilight zone.
“Jørgen, what’s going on?” I’m bristling, with what I’m not sure, and my stomach rumbles a loud reminder that it doesn’t care what my problem is, there’s food.
“Sit, have something to eat. You must be very hungry.” I place my hand over my tummy, as it rolls once more in angry agreement.
“I’m ravenous, but more than that, I’d like to know… Wait, why is there a helicopter on my front lawn?” My peripheral vision rightly diverts my attention mid sentence.
“Since we don’t have a car, I believe transport is needed to get home.” His matter of fact intonation makes my jaw drop in wonder. Does anything ruffle this man’s feathers?
