Page 8 of Heavy Equipment
The house looks like something out of a magazine with its timber frame and diamond-patterned windows. Sunrays fold over the thatched roof, orange and purple and red, a bittersweet farewell.
Asher seems inured to the romance of the sunset. He acts brusque when he crosses the front of the truck and opens my door, business-like as he helps me down. Almost impatient as he leads me into the house, as if he regrets having me here.
That suspicion is confirmed when he hurries me through the darkened foyer and up shadowed stairs. A small room near the end of the hallway contains only a bed, its white lace coverlet such a sharp contrast to the man standing in front of me. “You’ll sleep here,” he says, his expression impassive.
There’s a finality to his tone, as if he’s saying goodnight.
It’s strange to feel disappointed that he isn’t going to have sex with me. My body still hums with the memory of his words, the frantic way that I rubbed myself while he watched.
“Is that… it?” I say, hoping I hide my dismay.
He reaches out a hand, fingertips soft against my temple, and I can’t help but jump. “You’re too busy being afraid of me to enjoy this, and I do plan on enjoying you, June.”
There’s a knot in my throat. It’s hard to swallow around it. “Oh.”
“I don’t suppose a little goodnight kiss would hurt, would it?”
The question doesn’t seem to need an answer. Not when his head lowers, blocking out the faint light of the moon. Not when his lips brush mine. Time slows down, so I can feel his soft breath against my lips, more gentle than a man his size has any right to be. I can feel the cushion of his lower lip. I let myself sink into him, without guilt or doubt. For this moment I push away the reason I’m in his house.
There’s only his silent request—let me in, open for me. And my acquiescence, parting my lips. Pleasure gives way to a soft moan. His. Mine. There’s surprise, that it could be like this. Chemistry? We have chemistry, but that’s only electrons and protons.
This is something else. Tenderness.
I’m the one who pulls back. I find my balance against a wall with priceless art I vaguely recognize from a museum benefit auction last year. It’s sacrilege to lean on a piece like this, to touch it with bare hands, to feel the brush strokes against my palm, but I’m incapable of holding myself up.
And I can’t trust the man in front of me, not one second more.
He stands where I left him, his expression one of bemusement. He touches his lower lip with two fingers. What does he feel there? My kiss? My naivete, most likely. How quickly I surrendered.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, his voice uneven.
“Me? You’re like two hundred pounds of muscle. What could I do to you?”
He rubs his jaw, looking away. “I guess we’ll see,” he murmurs. “Time for bed, beautiful.”
When this night began I never would have expected the flick of anticipation low in my belly. Asher has already proven he can make me enjoy this. The dates my daddy arranged? They never made me feel anything but duty. Certainly not this all-consuming fire that spreads and spreads.
I sit down on the edge of the bed, unsure where to begin. Do I undress?
Or do I wait for him to undress me?
There was no mother to give me the birds and the bees talk. She died years ago, but her spirit left a long time before that. On a good day she would tell me parables about frogs and tigers. There would be gossip about people I didn’t know. Sometimes the stories would blend together until I wasn’t sure which was fiction or fact. Maybe she didn’t know either.
On a bad day, she wouldn’t speak at all. I learned to manage the household before my feet could touch the floor at our dining room table. I planned parties and hired staff. Papa was too busy with Li Industries, so I was the only one left. That’s how I ended up in this room, I suppose. If the business was failing, if papa had run out of ideas… I was the only one left.
Asher crouches down in front of me, and I hold my breath, waiting, waiting.
He hooks one arm behind my calves and pushes me lengthways on the bed, his movements brusque, unceremonious, and definitely unsexy. A sweep of his arm, and then I’m covered with the sheet. “Goodnight,” he says, already turning toward the door.
“Wait.”
He stops, his back toward me. “Yes?”
I have the sense that he’s afraid, which doesn’t make any sense. I’m the one who should be terrified. I should be shaking beneath these covers and grateful that he’s giving me a reprieve. Instead I’m disappointed. You’re dangerous, he said to me. What could he possibly be afraid of? “You’re just going to leave.”
