I wanted to sample her so goddamn much.
But sex between us would never be simple. It would be pleasurable for me and pain for her. She’d never been taught how to find enjoyment in fucking. According to her notes to No One (to me), she’d been a virgin. The only sex she knew was with bastards trying to destroy her.
I refused to be yet another one of those.
Sex with Pim would be a labyrinthine of complications, and that reason alone gave me the courage to get rid of her.
If I took her, she’d have to want it too—just like she’d wanted that kiss, even if she hadn’t known it until I pressed my lips to hers.
Her gaze when I pulled away hadn’t been tear-filled or vacant but soft, as if wondering what the hell happened but no longer afraid of new.
Drawing my mind from yesterday, inhaling deep against the lust I hadn’t been able to shed, I turned off the shower and waited as warm droplets cascaded over me. The pounding in my cock hurt and the urge to self-pleasure got harder and harder every day. I hadn’t relieved myself since she got on her knees and gave me a blowjob I hadn’t asked for.
And now, we’d kissed?
I didn’t know how much more self-control I possessed to keep my distance from her.
But today is a new day. Today is teaching time.
I was her master; she was my pupil. There were boundaries in that relationship that couldn’t be crossed.
Slinging a towel around my waist, I headed into my suite that was three times the size of Pimlico’s and strolled into my walk-in wardrobe. There, I selected a pair of beige shorts and white t-shirt, slipping my feet into simple flip-flops.
My phone said the time was nine a.m., and for the first time since I’d carried Pimlico on board, I wanted to see her. I didn’t want to avoid her because she was too complicated and frustrating. I wanted to work with her to earn another break-through because, Christ, it was rewarding.
Pocketing my phone, I left my quarters and headed down a deck to hers. Stupidly, my hand shook a little as I knocked on her door.
She answered promptly as if she’d been waiting for me.
Once again, she was naked.
No shame or apology.
Her hair hung over her breasts, wet from her shower, her stomach shadowed with muscle, swiftly returning from emaciated to toned.
When she’d first arrived, I was attracted more to her inner beauty. I didn’t see the beaten slave or bruises, I saw a worthy adversary.
But now…
Holy fuck.
Now, I saw a woman becoming more and more stunning every day. Her body slowly shed its illness and pain, remembering how to fill out in all the best places. Her breasts were fuller, her hips less sharp. With no jewellery or tattoos or makeup, she was the epitome of natural, and shit, she took my breath away.
“You can’t do that much longer, Pim.” My gaze refused to unglue from her body. I couldn’t stop staring at every exposed inch.
Her head tilted as she held the doorknob, a knowing smile on her face. For a woman who’d been forced to endure sex, she acted as if she enjoyed my eyes on her. As if it gave her redemption as a sexual creature.
I got it.
Having me stare was an exchange of power. I had no way of hiding how my hands balled or throat clenched with desire. She controlled me completely.
Without authority, my hand swooped up, so damn close to cupping her breast and pinching her nipple.
Fuck.
Taking a step back, I growled. “You can’t be naked around me anymore.”
Her eyes narrowed as if daring me to either touch her or yell at her.
I did neither.
Backing farther away, I commanded, “Dress and meet me in the dining room. We’re having breakfast together. And then, we’re going to work.”
BREAKFAST CONSISTED OF freshly baked croissants, home-made jams, and every exotic fruit imaginable. A small serving of scrambled eggs with hollandaise sauce was our main affair, and by the time we pushed aside plates in favour of steaming coffee mugs, a comfortable silence wrapped us in a bubble no one else could enter.
Not the staff to-ing and fro-ing with dishes. Not the captain when he came in to give the brief on the night cruising and the plan of today’s journey.
Elder might look at other people, he might smile and speak to them, but his entire focus remained on me. I sensed him watching, felt him calculating.
The kiss between us lived on my lips, tickling me every time I took a sip of coffee or brought a fork to my mouth. His music corrupted my mind, strumming at odd times, robust in my memory. Whenever I recalled his cello-eloquence, I wanted to silence every note—to ignore he wasn’t as gifted as he was; pretend he could delete melody from his life because after that kiss…wow.
That damn kiss proved how naïve I’d been even when I believed I was wise.
I didn’t want him to love music because it was my enemy. I wanted him to hate the things I hated. To loath the things I loathed.
I was selfish.
I didn’t want to have to face my idiocy or for him to take it upon himself to break me by showing me music wasn’t a sentinel being but purely soulful.
He didn’t play fair, and his talent spawned so many reactions—emotional, physical, psychological. I never wanted to hear his cello again but at the same time…that was a lie.
I’d been pushed to the brink and managed to stay clinging to the cliff—the next time he played, I might fall.
I didn’t want to fall.
I want to fly.
With him.
The liquid in my belly, the hummingbird in my heart—it all equalled one thing.