Page 29 of The Stipulation
The thought sends heat curling through me, and I up the pace of my fingers around my clit. I shift under the covers, my thighs brushing together, and the friction makes my breath catch. My pulse pounds. I press my lips together to stop myself from crying. All I can see is Axel standing at the end of the bed, his jacket discarded, his tie loosened, his eyes dark and unreadable.
He’s not touching me yet.
He’s just watching me with his slow-burn eyes.
I know he could make me unravel, and he knows it too. He knows he would enjoy watching how hard I try to maintain control while my body betrays me. He tilts his head slightly, a totally sexy smile playing at his lips.
“Still pretending you don’t want me?” he murmurs.
My spare hand drifts over my rib cage, my fingers curling into the fabric of my vest top instead of skin, gripping something solid so I don’t float away entirely. I arch slightly into the mattress, chasing a sensation that isn’t quite enough.
God. How can that man have this effect on me when he’s not even in the room?
I imagine his mouth at my neck, the scrape of stubble, the deliberate patience. He is not a man to be rushed. He takes his time mapping every reaction, every sound. He catalogues me the way I analyse everything at work; carefully, reverently, determined to find the hidden layers.
The thought makes me tremble, and I bite my lower lip to muffle the small, frustrated sound that escapes me. My body feels too tight, too awake. I shift again, my hips rolling slightly against the mattress, and the pressure sends a ripple of sensation through me that makes my toes curl. I keep rolling my hips, working them in time with my probing fingers, bringing myself dangerously close to the edge.
Axel finally moves in. He walks around the bed in three long steps and braces his hands beside my head, leaning over me. His eyes soften just a fraction, not losing their intensity, but adding something else. Heat. The need to claim. Hunger.
“Go on. Tell me to stop,” he growls.
I can’t. I don’t want to.
My breathing stutters as I let the fantasy crest – Axel climbing on top of me and filling me with his big, throbbingcock, pounding into me while calling my name. I don’t hold myself back. I go to town on my clit, and when I come, the intensity makes my thighs tremble. My muscles contract as the pleasure floods me, the tension releasing in waves that leave me trembling and breathless in the quiet dark.
I lay there still afterwards, my heart racing, my body tingling with the memory of my own touch, the faint musky smell of my own pleasure filling the air. Sleep comes, the thoughts of Axel lingering like a shadow at the edge of my consciousness, a silent, insistent presence that I know will follow me into tomorrow’s work.
Chapter
Fourteen
JO
The vault door swings shut behind me; the familiar click of the door closing echoes in the stillness. I’m tired but satisfied; the last hours have been spent meticulously removing layers of grime from a delicate seventeenth-century canvas that my binder instructed me to work on next. My eyes feel a little strained, and my hands are streaked with tiny flecks of dried varnish.
I stretch my shoulders, the stiffness easing as I walk down the corridor. The house seems quieter than usual, the sun dipping low outside and casting long, golden slants of light across the polished floors. I am enjoying the solitude. Although I have been alone all day in the vault, this is a different kind of alone. The vault is like a whole other world, but this is just a peaceful interlude in a normally louder world. All I can hear is the gentle sound of my own footsteps. The air smells of the faint scent of flowers. I am trying to work out what the scent is when I round the corner into the foyer and almost collide with someone.
“Careful,” a low, controlled voice says.
A masculine hand at the end of a thick wrist shoots out at the ready to stop me from teetering off balance, from coming to such an abrupt stop, but I manage to stay upright on my own. Inside, I’m dying, but my eyes tilt upwards automatically, all the way up. Of everyone who it could be, everyone I could have just almost plowed into, of course, it has to be Axel. He is, of course, very calm and composed, but his lips twitch slightly with amusement. Naturally, he looks as if he owns the space by his mere presence. The light catches the strong line of his jaw, the dark sweep of hair falling over his forehead, and the faint warmth of his skin seems to radiate directly onto me.
For a heartbeat, my brain seizes, and I just stand there staring idiotically up at him. Oh God, up this close, he even smells incredible, some sort of a gorgeously manly cologne that clings to him like an erotic aura. My stomach flips. I blink and try to think my way out. I’m not supposed to be flustered by him. I hate men like him. He’s rude, arrogant and obnoxious. And the fact that he looks like he could have walked straight out of a magazine spread isn’t going to change that.
He looks like a million dollars, while I am acutely aware of the grimy state of my appearance. I don’t need to glance down at myself or look in a mirror to know that it’s not just my clothes that were unprotected by my work overalls. Experience tells me that there will be varnish flecks and smudges in my hair, on my cheeks, and across my arms. Basically, I look a mess, and the insecure part of me worries that Axel is going to, what? Sneer? Roll his eyes? That seems likely given our interaction so far. But I tell myself firmly that I don’t care. Axel can think what he wants about me. I’m Jo Button, and I’m here to do a job, not to impress anyone, least of all him.
I am vaguely aware that we have both been silent too long and it is becoming awkward, but I can’t think of a single thingto say. But when Axel finally breaks the silence, casual like he didn’t notice the awkwardness, he asks me something that makes me long for the awkward silence to come back.
“How’s the search for the father of your heir going?” he asks gravely.
I freeze, then, to my mortification, stinging heat floods from the region of my chest, up my throat, on towards my cheeks, and continuing up all the way to the roots of my hair. My mind scrambles for a response. The truth is, I haven’t even thought about searching for someone to knock me up. That wasn’t part of the plan. But, of course, I’m not going to admit that to him. Partly because he might then call the whole thing off, and I am just getting started on those paintings, but also because who knows? Fate is a funny thing. I might go to a bar tomorrow, and someone perfect for me might walk in. So instead, I smile and try to appear casual, though I can tell I am still bright red.
“It’s all in hand,” I say, pleased that I managed to match his tone.
He studies me for a minute. I think that look means he doesn’t believe me for a second, not even a little bit.
“Really?” he asks, not bothering to hide his disbelief.
Rude man! “Yes, actually,” I reply, forcing a confident nod. “I have itcompletelyunder control.”
