If I Were You (12 page)

“No,” I say, and dare to go where I would normally never go,
but then nothing is normal about the past few days. “And I don’t want to be a
part of the ‘who’s got the bigger sword’ contest you two have going on either.
I don’t do cock-fights. I just want to do my job and do it well.”

He chuckles, and I think it’s the first time I’ve heard him
laugh. I’m not sure how I feel about my wine induced braveness sparking
amusement in a man so difficult to amuse.

“Smart decision, Ms. McMillan. Once you’ve slept off the
wine, I suggest you begin studying again. I’ll test you on Monday.”

I open my mouth to protest and he arches his brow. It’s a
testament to his natural-born authority that I’ve already come to know that
arched brow as a warning. “I’ll be ready,” I state, and with a little rebel
left in me, I don’t bother with ‘goodnight’. I head for the door.

“Ms. McMillan.”

I stop at Mark’s command and glance over my shoulder,
fearful my escape isn’t as imminent as I’d hoped.

“Pain meds and a bottle of water before you sleep,” he orders. 

My boss is dictating my preventive hangover care and I’ve
just used the word ‘swords’ in  reference to his obvious cock-fight with the
man I just made out with in a public hallway. I am truly in an alternate
universe.

“Yes sir, Mr. Compton,” I say and continue on my way. 

I step into a starlit, chilly night and find Ralph and
several of the interns are loading up in a cab. I hold my breath, hoping I
won’t be noticed. Now that I’m staying at the gallery, my decision to drink too
much jeopardizes the professional image I value. The door shuts behind Ralph
and I sigh in relief but a sudden awareness turns my attention to my left.

My breath hitches as I find Chris, now wearing his leather
jacket again, and leaning on a fancy black sports car I know is a Porsche 911.
I know it’s a 911 because, in an ironic twist, my father will drive nothing
else. Chris makes the Porsche look sexy in a way I didn’t think was possible.
Not with my history with this car.

His lips curve, and his gaze burns a path up and down my
body, and there is no question he’s here for me. He’d come here tonight for me,
he’d claimed, but he and Mark clearly have a power play going on, and I became
a token in that game tonight.  

I start walking toward him, trying my best to appear steady
on my feet. Why I thought wine was a good idea, when I never drink, is beyond
me. He is watching my every step, and his stare is a hot caress stroking my
entire body. I remember his hands touching me, his mouth on my mouth, and
sensation builds low in my belly and tingles down my thighs. I want him. He
knows it too, but I’ve been played with enough for one night. No, I amended.
Enough for a lifetime. 

“You left,” I accuse as I stop in front of him, the wind
blessing me with a rush of his clean, male scent, and adding to my wobbling
legs. I sway toward Chris and his hand settles on my waist, my hip and leg,
pressing to his. Our eyes lock, and the instant charge between us all but sets
sparks to the air. I am lost. So much for the bravado of being played with too
much. 

“I’m here now,” he says softly and there is a slight splay
of his fingers on my waist.

I should push away from him, but I want to touch him
instead. I curl my hand on top of my purse to control myself, the sting of him
disappearing still present. “I thought you’d left.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to ride on the bike with your
skirt on.”

“We didn’t talk about me riding with you. We didn’t talk
about anything.”

“I planned to convince you and I would have been back long
ago, but in my eagerness to return, I had a run in with a police officer who
didn’t like my speed. He wasn’t forgiving, but I’m hoping you will be.”

My anger evaporates instantly. Not only did he go after a
car for me, he managed to get a ticket in the process. A wave of dizziness
washes over me and I press my hand to my forehead. “Considering how I feel, I
think I should thank you for trading in the bike.” I drop my hand and it ends
up on his chest, and his heart thunders beneath my touch.
Because
of my
touch? Do I affect this man as he does me?

My gaze lifts, and the smoldering look on his face tells me
I am right. I affect him as he does me. This cool, confident famous artist is
reacting to me. ”I’m guessing you now realize I drank a little extra wine after
you left?”

“I kind of got that idea.” He pushes off the car, his arm
wrapping my waist to steady me and I am aware of every hard inch of him next to
me. “Why don’t we go get you some food? I know a great pizza joint, if you like
pizza?”

I’m relieved at the simplicity of pizza. “No fancy menu. No
wine list. I’m sold.”

“Then pizza it is,” he agrees, and unlocks the door.

Once I’m folded into the soft leather of the passenger’s
seat of the car, Chris surprises me by squatting down beside me. His hand
settles on top of my leg. “The belt can be tricky sometimes.” He leans over me
to pull it across me, his body intimately brushing mine, before he latches me
into place. We stare at each other, the shadows dancing across our features.
“We wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

No, but I think he will hurt me and I remember him warning
me away from him. I think he believes he will hurt me, too, but there is a
current between us, an understanding of a line we’ve crossed, of it being too
late to turn back.

His fingers brush my cheek as he pushes to his feet, and
shuts me inside the car, the darkness consuming me. I lean back into the plush
leather, willing my head and stomach not to ruin this night.

Chris slides into the car beside me and I glance at his
profile and I wonder what he thinks of me and my wine fest. “This isn’t like
me. I never overindulge.”

“Never say never, baby,” Chris replies and then turns the
key, bringing the soft purr of an expensive engine to life.

I absorb those words, staring out of the window without
really looking. Rebecca had done things she’d sworn she’d never do for her
‘Master’. I wonder if I could talk to her now, would she agree with Chris?
Would she say n
ever say never?

Chapter Fourteen

Chris maneuvers the 911 into the drive of a fancy high-rise
building not more than four blocks from the gallery. Before I can question the
fancy location being home to a ‘pizza joint’ as he’d called it, a valet is
already opening my door.

“I’ll come around to get you,” Chris says with a touch on my
arm. He doesn’t wait for a reply, climbing out of the vehicle and disappearing
from full view.

I am both charmed and embarrassed at the prospect he
believes the extra wine has made me a helpless lush. Worse, it wouldn’t be an
assumption completely without merit and this night is exactly why I never let
myself lose control. It always backfires.

I unsnap the seat belt about the same moment Chris appears
at my door. Holding my skirt down, I slide my legs to the ground, all too aware
of his scorching gaze on my legs.

His hand appears in front of me, and I hold my breath,
preparing for the impact of his touch, as I press my palm to his. He pulls me
to my feet, onto the sidewalk beneath an awning, his hand settling possessively
on my hip. The rich sensation of desire spreads through my limbs. I have never
in my life reacted to a man this intensely.

Behind me, I hear the car door shut, and the engine rev,
before the 911 pulls away. “This doesn’t look like a place that serves pizza,”
I comment but I am not looking at the building. It is Chris who has my full
attention. 

“Two blocks down,” he explains. “We can walk there if you
want or we can go upstairs to my apartment.”

Chris lives here, at least when he’s in the States. The
implications of our location are clear.

His long fingers curl around my neck, under my hair, and he
lowers his mouth to my ear. “Be warned, Sara. I’m no saint. If I take you
upstairs, I’m going to strip you naked and fuck you the way I’ve wanted to
since the moment we first met.”

The shockingly bold words ripple through me and I am
instantly aroused, squeezing my thighs together. He has wanted to fuck me since
we first met. I
want
him to fuck me.
I
want to
fuck
him.
Yes. Fuck. I want to give myself permission to forget good, proper behavior and
fuck and be fucked. Wild, hot, uncontrollable passion, with no worries during
and regrets in the aftermath. I’ve never let myself feel those things. When in
my life have I ever experienced such a thing? When has any man ever made me
think I could?

I press against his chest and lean back, my eyes seeking
his. “If you’re trying to scare me off, it’s not working.”

“Not yet,” he says, dark certainty to his tone, to the lines
etched in his handsome face. It is as if this is simply a seed already planted
that cannot be stopped. 

“Not at all,” I counter. 

He doesn’t immediately respond, and his expression is a mask
of hard lines, his jaw set, tense. Slowly, his fingers slide from my neck to
caress a path down my arm until his fingers lace intimately with mine. “Never
say never, Sara,” he murmurs and starts walking, pulling me with him.

Anticipation sizzles through me, as we walk toward the
automatic doors to be greeted by a man in a dark suit with an earpiece and
buzz-cut.

“Evening, Mr. Merit,” he says, and glances at me. “Evening,
Miss.”

“Evening Jacob,” Chris replies. “Pizza coming our way. Don’t
frisk the delivery guy.”

“Not unless he’s a delivery woman, sir,” Jacob comments, and
I get the sense these two are familiar beyond the casual exchange.

I lift a tentative hand at Jacob. “Hi.”

“Ma’am,” he replies, and there is a slight shift in his gaze
I’m certain he doesn’t intend for me to notice, but I do. I read it as surprise
at my presence, and I can only assume I am far from Chris’s normal choice in
women. It isn’t hard for me to imagine Chris being a blonde bombshell kind of
man, and where I hadn’t felt insecure moments before, I suddenly do now. I am
angry at myself for feeling such a thing when I’ve promised myself no more
self-doubt. When I crave the escape, the freedom, I was so close to
experiencing only moments before.

The elevator is right off of the fancy lobby and past a
security booth. Chris punches the button and the doors open immediately. I
follow him inside, and watch as he keys in a code. The doors shut and he pulls
me hard against him.

My hands settle on his hard chest, inside the line of his
jacket, and warmth spreads through me. “What just happened?” His hand brands my
hip.

My breasts are heavy, my nipples aching. “I don’t know what
you mean?”

“Yes. You do. Second thoughts, Sara?”

I scold myself for being so transparent. “Do you want me to
have second thoughts?”

“No. What I want is to take you to my apartment and make you
come and then do it all over again.”

Oh…yes please. “Okay,” I whisper, “but I think you should
feed me first.”

His lips curve into a smile, his eyes dancing with gold
specks of pure fire. “Then you can feed me.”

The bell dings and the doors begin to open. Chris wastes no
time pulling me to the edge of the elevator, and I watch in surprise as a gorgeous
living room appears before me, rather than a hallway. Chris has a private
elevator and I am entering his private world, a world very unlike my own.

Chris releases my hand, our eyes lock, and I read the silent
message in his. Enter by choice, without pressure. On some level I sense that
once I enter his apartment, the decision to do so is going to change me.
He
is going to change me in some profound way I cannot begin to comprehend fully.
I think he might know this and I wonder why he would be so certain, what is
etched with such clarity to him beneath the surface.

He has misplaced doubts of me in this moment, as he’d
doubted me at the gallery. I can see it in his eyes, sense it in the air. I
refuse to allow his lack of confidence in me, or anyone else’s for that matter,
to dictate what I can or cannot do ever again. I’ve been there and I ended up
on the sharp edge of a cliff, about to crash and burn. I’d recovered, and I am
beginning to see that locking myself in a shell of an existence isn’t healing.
It’s hiding. Regardless of what happens at the gallery, I’m done hiding.

My chin lifts and I cut my gaze from Chris’s and exit the
elevator.

My heels touch the pale, perfection of glossy hardwood
floors and I stop and stare at the breathtaking sight before me. Beyond the
expensive leather furniture adorning a sunken living room with a massive
fireplace in the left corner is a spectacular sight. There is a ceiling to
floor window, a live pictorial of our city, spanning the entire length of the
room.

Spellbound, I walk forward, enchanted by the twinkling night
lights and the haze surrounding the distant Golden Gate Bridge. I barely
remember going down the few steps to the living area, or what the furniture I
pass looks like. I drop my purse on the coffee table and stop at the window,
resting my hands on the cool surface.

We are above the city, untouchable, in a palace in the sky.
How amazing it must be to live here, and wake up to this view every day. Lights
twinkling, almost as if they are talking to each other, laughing at me as they
creep open a door to the hollow place inside me I’ve rejected only moments
before in the elevator.

I swallow hard as the song ‘Broken’ from the band Lifehouse
fills the room because Chris doesn’t know how personal it is to me.
I’m
falling apart. I’m falling to pieces, barely hanging on.

This song, this place with the words, and I am raw and
exposed, as if cut and bleeding. Who was I kidding with the refusal to hide
anymore? This is why I’ve hidden. The past begins to pulse to life within me
and I am seconds from remembering why I feel this way. I refuse to process the
lyrics and shove them aside. I don’t want to remember. I can’t go there. I
squeeze my eyes shut, trying to seal those old wounds, desperate to feel
anything but their presence.

Suddenly, Chris is behind me, caressing my jacket from my
shoulders. His touch is a welcome sensation and when his arm slides around me,
his body framing mine from behind, I am desperate to feel anything but what
this song, no doubt aided by the wine, stirs inside me.

I lean into him and hard muscle absorbs me. There is a
strength to Chris, a silent confidence I envy, and it calls to the woman in me.

His fingers, those talented, famous fingers, brush my hair
away from my nape and his lips press to the delicate area beneath, creating
goosebumps on my skin. And still, I barely block out the words to the song, and
their meaning to me.

As if he senses my need for more—more something, anything,
just
more
- he turns me around to face him and his fingers tangle almost roughly
into my hair. The tight pull is sweet, dragging me from other feelings, giving
me a new focus. 

“I am not the guy you take home to mom and dad, Sara.” His
mouth is next to mine, his clean male scent all around me. “You need to know
that right now. You need to know that won’t change.”

But the song does change and this time to another track on
what must be a Lifehouse CD. ‘Nerve damage’ begins to play.
I see through
your clothes, your nerve damage shows. Trying not to feel…anything that’s real.

I laugh bitterly at the words and Chris pulls back to study
me. And I am not blind to what I see in the depths of his green eyes, what I’ve
missed until now, but sensed. He is as damaged as I am. We have too many of the
wrong things in common to be more than sex, and the realization is freedom to
me.

I curve my fingers on the light stubble of his jaw, the rasp
on my skin welcome, and I have no idea why I admit what I have never said out
loud. “My mother is dead and I hate my father so don’t worry. You’re safe from
family day and so am I. All I want is here and now, this piece of time. And
please save the pillow talk for someone who wants it. Contrary to what you seem
to think, I’m no delicate rose.”

A stunned look flashes on his face an instant before I press
my lips to his. The answering moan I am rewarded with is white-hot fire in my
blood that he answers with a deep, sizzling stroke of his tongue. He slants his
mouth over mine, deepening the connection, kissing me with a fierceness no
other man ever has, but then, Chris is like no other man I’ve ever known.

His tongue plays wickedly with mine, and I meet him stroke
for stroke, arching into him, telling him I am here and present, and I’m going
nowhere. In reply to my silent declaration, his hand cups my ass and he pulls
me solidly against his erection. Arching into him, I welcome the intimate
connection, burn for the moment he will be inside me. My hand presses between
us and I stroke the hard line of his shaft.

Chris tears his mouth from mine, pressing me hard against
the window, and I know I’ve threatened his control. Me. Little school teacher
Sara McMillan. Our eyes lock, hot flames dancing between us and some
unidentifiable challenge.

 Some part of me realizes the window behind me is glass, and
all things glass can break. He knows this too, it’s in the dark glint of his
eyes, and he wants me to worry about it. He’s pushing me, testing me, trying to
get me to break. Because I slid beneath his composure? Because he really
believes I am out of my league? And maybe I am, but not tonight. Tonight, as
the song has said, I am broken and for the first time perhaps ever, I am not
denying the truth of all of my cracks. I am living them.

I lift my chin and let him see my answering rebellion. His
fingers curl at the top of my silk blouse and in a sharp pull, material rips
and the buttons all the way down pop and clamor in all directions. I gasp, in
unfamiliar territory, and burning alive with the ache I have for this man.

He turns me to the window, and my hands flatten on the
glass. Wasting no time, Chris unhooks my bra, and it and my blouse, are off my
shoulders in moments. He is behind me again, his thick erection fitted snugly
to my backside.

“Hands over your head,” he orders, pressing my palms to the
glass above me, his body shadowing mine. “Stay like that.”

My pulse jumps wildly and adrenaline surges. I’ve been
ordered around during sex, but in a clinical, bend over and give me what I want
kind of way I tried to convince myself was hot. It wasn’t. I hated every
second, every instance, and I’d endured it. This is different though, erotic in
a way I’ve never experienced, enticingly full of promise. My body is
sensitized, pulsing with arousal. I am hot where Chris is touching me and cold
where he isn’t.

When he seems satisfied I’ll comply with his orders, Chris
slowly caresses a path down my arms, and then up and down my sides, brushing
the curves of my breasts. He’s in no hurry, but I am. I am literally quivering
by the time his hands cover my breasts, welcoming the way he squeezes them
roughly, before tugging on my nipples. I gasp with the pinching sensation he
repeats over and over, creating waves of pleasure verging on pain, and the
music is fading away, and so is the past.
There is pleasure in pain.
The
words come back to me, and this time they resonate.