My stomach twisted. I was about to ask how she knew my name, but remembered she’d been programmed somehow when I had that official job here at the beginning of the week.
“Just get on with it, Winona,” I whispered to myself. I dropped the towel and quickly stepped into the sweats and t-shirt Mitchell had provided me. Then I gathered up my wet clothes and headed back downstairs.
But this was a harder task than I’d anticipated. The sweatpants, though staying on okay, hung well below my feet. I had to hitch them up with one hand while holding my laundry with the other. I wasn’t looking where I was going, since I had to keep my eyes trained on my bare feet to make sure I didn’t go ass over teakettle down the concrete stairs. I was pretty sure I’d almost made it. I glanced up to check.
And found Mitchell standing right in front of me.
I shrieked, unable to contain my alarm at his proximity. As I tried to back up though, my heel slipped on the step behind me. I was going to fall. I was going to crack my head open right here, while Mitchell Harrington watched, perhaps impartially. But even as gravity betrayed me, I thought vaguely that wasn’t fair. It was still my judgment of wealthy men. I was going to die bitter.
Of course, he didn’t let me fall. Not even close. Mitchell’s hands caught me, wrapping around my hips in a firm and steady grasp.
“Shit,” I breathed, suspended over him. Our faces were only inches apart.
Time seemed to stop. All I could see was Mitchell—his eyes, a storm before me. His expression a struggle. I was heavy, obviously. A full-grown woman, and not willowy, either. Except his arms didn’t tremble one bit. His hands were perfectly still, even though he was holding nearly all of my weight.
“I’m okay,” I whispered.
He blinked, as if coming to himself. His nostrils flared, the only sign of something happening inside. Then he gently eased me back onto the step. And as gravity sank me back down onto my feet, I felt almost…disappointed.He was incredibly strong to hold me like that. And my body must have known that too, because I didn’t have those jittery aftershocks of fear that come with nearly falling. Instead, I felt the warm glow of comfort and safety. For that brief moment, I’d inadvertently put my life in his hands, and he’d caught me.
I was shaken. Rattled. Like I still might fall if he moved.
That’s how I knew his hands were still on me, like he could sense I was still unsteady. But it was the acute awareness of him touching me that had my throat clicking as I swallowed. I had the absurd urge to look; to see the way I fit in his grip. But I couldn’t look away from his eyes. I was lockedin place, the warmth of being caught transmuting into the syrupy heat flowing between his two palms. But I guess he had the same desire, because his eyes dropped with a slow blink to where he held me. He watched, almost as if mesmerized, as his thumbs inched inward from the edge of my hipbones into the dips beside them.
This touch couldn’t be rationalized. It had nothing to do with keeping me steady, and everything to do with… what, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that heat ripped through everywhere Mitchell was connected to me. From his thumbs notched into the soft hook of my hips, to his palms, firm and broad against my sides. As I stood there, not daring to breathe, both sets of his fingers curled around my backside, sending electricity rocketing through my pelvis.
My brain screamed. This was wrong. He needed to let go. But the other, louder part of me was trying to pry my mouth open. To let out the strangled plea burning in my throat:Press harder. Dig deeper. Show me how strong.And the briefest fraction of a second, as if I'd spoken out loud, his hands complied. They pressed harder; wider, more completely. I inched forward.
Mitchell let out the faintest guttural groan, his eyes fluttering shut before opening wide again.
It was then reality crashed in. Because if Mitchell shifted his hands just slightly more, he’d be cupping my ass. I’d let go of the clothes so they rained around us, and tell him to carry me upstairs. To have his way with me.
To eat me alive.
I found only the very tip of my reserve of power, buried deep in wanton need.
“Let me go, Mitchell,” I croaked.
Please. Please let me go, or I’ll beg you to stay. Please let me go, or I’ll want you to do all kinds of terrible, wonderful things to me.
Mitchell let me go. A word punched out of him, something low and not for me. I think it wasFuck.
“I’m sorry.” He took the wet clothes from me. “Laundry’s over here.”
I hardly recognized the sound of his voice; it was so thick with gravel.
CHAPTER 13
Caviar on Tuesdays
MITCHELL
My limbs were stiff as I strode around the corner. Something else was stiff, too, and that was a fucking problem. I adjusted my idiot, aching cock in my pants as I headed for the laundry room, which was tucked around the back of the kitchen. I stopped in front of the machines, trying to control my breathing, crushing the clothes between both palms like that could force the out-of-hand feelings from me. I had fucked up. Hugely. Because now I knew for certain that this wasn’t just about my dick. When I saw Winona nearly fall on the stairs, I felt a fear that went beyond the instinct to prevent injury. I’d caught her with panic lurching up my chest. I hadn’t let go, not for her sake, but for mine.Thenit had absolutely become a dick issue.
Bad, Mitchell. That was very bad.
But fuck, touching her had feltsofucking good. Ludicrously good.
And all things considered, I’d barely touched her. What would it be like to touch more?
