As I brew the tea, I think about how the day has gone so far. I enjoyed surprising my Haughty Hottie this morning, even enjoyed the rude, shockedYou?when he saw me. Because…the thing is…
Oh, God.
Iwanthim.
He’s stuffy and arrogant and downrightpersnickety, but I still can’t helplikinghim. Besides, this whole house issoakedwith sex. It would be difficultnotto get caught up in that whirlpool of desire. That’s all it is. The environment, and another weekend of play.
It’s a fantasy. A wonderful, sexy fantasy, that I intend to milk for every drop while I’m here…
But that’s all it is. A fantasy.
“Don’t catch fee-eelings,” I singsong to myself softly as I rummage around in the cupboards for cookies.
Biscuits.
Whatever.
* * *
When I get back up to the room with the tea tray, which takesagesbecause I’m terrified I’ll drop it, Lord Arden is back at the piano, headphones on, scribbling at the sheet of music and frowning. He looks so pleased to see me that I grin back, but then he says, “Thank God, I’m gasping,” and I realize it’s the tea he’s waiting for.
I place the tray on the sideboard and slip off his robe, disappointed when he doesn’t watch. I pour out a cup of tea, exactly as he required, and one for myself, and spread out the cookies on the small plate.
Biscuits.
The whole time I’ve been moving around the room, he’s been playing the piano, but I haven’t heard a single note, just the sound of his fingers on the keys, like rain landing on hard earth. I guess he must be able to hear what he’s playing through the headphones.
I’m a little disappointed. I’d like to hear him play.
I pick up the tray, and he glances toward me. “No. Bring only the teacups and biscuits. Set them on this table here—” He nods to his side, and I see he’s already moved a small side table next to the bench.
I do as he asks and then wait awkwardly for my next instructions.
“Down here,” he says, not looking at me, and pointing at his feet. A large pillow is there at his feet again. I sit stiffly, legs curled up, my back straight. I’m trying to avoid contact, just in case he doesn’t like it, but then his hand descends on my head, and I give a start.
“You’ll be there a while,” he murmurs. “You may as well relax.”
Awkwardly at first, and then with increasing confidence, I lean into him, rest my head on his knee, and close my eyes.
It’s kinda…nice.
I’m allowed to drink my tea at my own pace. As for the cookies—biscuits—halfway through my cup, he looks down at me, strokes one hand over the back of my hair like he’s petting a cat, and with his other hand, holds one of the tiny chocolate shortbreads to my lips.
“You’re behaving very well,” he purrs.
I’m serious, the words rumble out of him exactly like a cat purring.
My mouth opens of its own accord, and as he puts the tiny treat on my tongue, his fingers brush lightly on my lips. I catch his eye, and for a moment we hold each other’s gaze—
But then he clears his throat, and looks back to his work. I’m lulled by the comforting scratch of pencil on paper, theflumph flumph flumphas he strikes the muted piano keys. A little later he feeds me another cookie with a distracted air, but I notice he’s careful not to look down at me, even as his fingertips caress my mouth.
It takes a while for my mind to stop racing, to stopthinking. But it does. Ifeelmy thoughts slowing, my focus sharpening to the here and now, to the sound of papers shifting under his hands, to the soft ticking of the watch he wears on his wrist, the pattering of the silent piano keys…to the scent of him, the faint cologne and fainter smell of soap and freshly-washed skin.
I should be bored, but I’m not, not at all.
I can’t imagine there’s much grace in the way I’m slumping against him, but Ifeelgraceful all the same, calmed into a peace I’ve rarely experienced.
I don’t have to think.
