Mad Love (20 page)

Is he a fast runner? Probably. I’m pretty sure that he excels at everything.

“There’s no other way out,” he says.

My eyes dart to his in the mirror. How did he know?

He smiles coolly. “You’re easy to read, baby.”

Oh shit.

“Just remember that you asked for this.”

Before I can even ask what it is that he thinks I asked for, he pulls me around in his arms and his lips meet mine in savage ferocity. I welcome the assault on my mouth as my hands move to his head and pull his face closer to mine. Our tongues clash and I’m immensely satisfied when I hear him moan with desire. And that sound brings me back to reality.

Hold on a second! I need to remain aloof. What am I thinking? I can’t just cave in to him! I move my face away from his, trying to get a grip on my
raging hormones. This behavior is not normal! I have to take a stand now or else I’ll lose all credibility.

I try to picture myself in my Torts class in law school. That’s a good one. Boring. Dreadfully painful. Okay, I got this.

I hear Clayton chuckle as if he knows my game. He lifts me up on top of the marble sink, clearly not deterred. He pulls me in close toward him, so that I’m forced to practically straddle him and starts to kiss my neck. I try to remain uninterested. Remind myself that I can’t tolerate this kind of behavior. I tell a guy I don’t belong to him and he goes caveman on me?

But it’s hard to remain cold. It’s
so
hard.

Hard to pretend that his touch doesn’t affect me when I’m so inexperienced that I can’t help but have it feel so thrilling. And damn him, he knows this! It takes him only a few minutes before I’ve melted and my lips start to respond to his, my hands move up to grip his arms, my legs go from limp to gripping him tight. And just when he has this response from me, he grabs my bikini bottom and pulls it off, pushes me back so my head brushes up against the mirror and before I know what is happening, he grabs my ass and pulls me up to his mouth. With the skill of a master, his mouth and tongue drive me to the edge. Sweet. Holy. Shit.

His tongue. Inside me. Deep. Licking. Sucking. I think I’m going to explode from the sheer ecstasy. I can’t even grip his head and pull him up to me, because I have to hold on to the counter for dear life.

And every damn time I come close to finding release, he pulls back, like he knows I’m about to come. He licks, he pulls, he blows, knowing exactly how far to push me before easing back. The grip he has on my ass is so tight I can’t even wiggle away from the blissful torture.

Oh my God.

“Clayton,” I whimper in need.

Suddenly he is making love to me softly, slowly. Erotically. I push myself up to him, trying to get more, but he won’t give it to me. He takes one hand and slowly moves against me as he licks and sucks. I want to scream. Fuck! What is he doing? I look down and see him there, in the
most intimate part of my body, and I’m so turned on it
hurts.
I want him inside me. Filling me. Just so deep inside. Holy shit.

“Please!” I beg him to give me what I want. But he’ll have none of that. Instead he grabs my body and turns me around so I can look at him in the mirror. One of his hands holds my hair back, the other is wrapped around me, moving against me, grazing me, then stopping. I can barely stand it. I’m dying with need.

With want.

With lust. I close my eyes and try not to think about how good he feels inside me, how he fills me, how it’s just so damn perfect.

“Look at me,” he says, his voice raw with passion.

I can’t, I’m so mortified by it all. By my need. By my inability to maintain control. By my lack of shame.

He pulls my hair back tighter, gripping my head so hard that I’m forced to look at him.

“How bad do you want me, Sophie?”

I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me, Clayton
, I think to myself. Please. But I don’t give him what he wants.

Somehow he’s loosened his swim trunks and is moving his hips against mine. I want to scream. I’m so swollen with want that I’ve lost the ability to think. I try to push up against him, forcing him inside, to give me the release I need.

I close my eyes again and Clayton pulls my head back again, forcing them open.

“
I want you to keep your eyes open
.” His voice is rough, his eyes glowing with something more than passion. He’s the wolf now and his need to conquer and subdue is written all over his face.

And yet, in my passion-induced haze, I know this is torture for him as well. I can see how bad he wants me, but he’s trying to teach me some type of fucked up lesson. At this point, I don’t even know what it is anymore.

In a distant part of my mind, I can hear myself say with longing. “Clayton, please!”

He pushes me down on the counter and leans on me, barely grazing, just circling, as he whispers in my ears.

“Who do you belong to?” he demands to know as his fingers thrust inside me. The ecstasy is so staggering that if he wasn’t holding on to me, I would fall off onto the floor.

“Who?” His licks my neck as his mouth moves up my throat.

“You!” I cry out, desperate for him.

“Say it. All,” he orders. I hear the passion in his voice. The need.

“Go ahead and scream it, baby. No one can hear you. Only me.”

God.

I hate him.

I love him.

I hate him.

I love him.

“I belong to you, Clayton.” My voice is raw with hunger. “Are you happy? I belong to you!
You asshole!
”

I’m practically sobbing now with need. It is so humiliating that I had to add the last bit for my own self-worth. I swear I can feel him smile, and yet he still wants more.

“That’s good, love. You’re learning. We’re almost there.”

I cry out in frustration. Jesus! What else?

“You’re mine, Sophie,” he says through gritted teeth as he pulls up against me, his hands on my breasts, on my stomach, moving all over my body. I’m delirious with fucking want.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours,” I pant out, because I am. He knows it. I know it. Fuck. The entire W Spa and Resort knows it. “I’m yours, Clayton. I want you!” I scream at him in a feverish frenzy. I’ve lost all inhibition, all sense of decorum. This is me. Sophie Walker. Wild. Uncensored. Bare. And I don’t give a flying shit anymore.

“Are you happy? I’m yours and I want you so bad—“

Thankfully I don’t have to finish the sentence because he thrusts deep inside me, giving me exactly what I want, until again and again I reach sweet release.

My legs are wrapped around his waist and he’s leaning over me on the counter, still deep inside. I’ve orgasmed I don’t know how many times. I’m completely satiated. Happy, even though he’s clearly got some major issues, but hell, I’m so content, I could sit here all day.

“You make me forget myself,” he says.

I can feel his body tense when he says those words. It’s apparent that he doesn’t like admitting this to me.

“Let’s just say the feeling is mutual,” I grumble.

He pulls out of me suddenly. And I feel the loss.

“Let’s shower.”

Clayton is again as cold as a block of ice. I let him grab my hand and pull me into the giant shower. I even let him wash my body, and it literally takes all my willpower not to get turned on again by him and his magic hands.

I rinse off as I watch him rub the soap quickly over his body. He’s been quiet the entire time, just staring at me, watching, observing. Doing that goddamn thinking thing he does. I try to act cool too, and gracefully get out of the shower. I pick up a plush towel and start to dry off. I want to give myself one minute without him. One minute just to think normally. To be Sophie.

Smart Sophie.

Innocent Sophie.

Virgin Sophie.

Shit. The last adjective is obviously not even a possibility to entertain. I’m definitely no virgin anymore. I discreetly look over at Clayton. His eyes are down and I can tell he’s stewing. He still hasn’t said one word and I’m suddenly deathly afraid. Let’s be real. This is a guy who is used to models, to the most beautiful women in the world throwing themselves at him. They know how to act. They know the game. They’ve had experience. And
here I am an innocent who was totally played by a master. I keep drying myself with the towel while I think.

“Are you trying to rub your skin off?”

Damn him. He’s been watching me have my internal dialogue. I hope my lips weren’t moving, as they sometimes do when I’m silently yelling at myself. Erik and Orie were kind enough to point that out to me one time.

“I’m just drying myself off,” I reply aloofly.

He gives me a cocky smile.

Yeah, yeah. He knows I’m full of shit.

“Are you happy now, Clayton?” I blurt the words out before I can help myself.

Shit. Why did I just ask him that question?
Because you want to know
, my mind annoyingly tells me. You’re like a newborn puppy looking for a pat of affection. Any affection. Even just a light tap.

And let’s be real, he should be happy. He got his way. And I know I’m screwed. I’m the one who entered this weird, strange union with no experience and now have to suffer whatever consequence it brings.

“You sound like you’re reprimanding me.” His brow is raised.

He moves a hand through his wet hair as he looks at me. I wrap my towel around my body. I wonder if my skin looks as good.

“Get that look off your face,” I tell him. “I’ve had enough of the Clayton Astor Sinclair rules of punishment for the day.”

“Clearly you haven’t.”

Okay. Maybe not, but there’s no way in hell I’d ever admit that. I turn and face him. Hands on hips, jaw jutting out. Before I have a chance to say anything, he adds, “I’m going to try and be patient with you, Sophie.”

Ha!

“
That
was an example of your patience?” I can’t keep the incredulous tone out of my voice. I hope he is seriously joking.

We stare at one another for a long, silent moment. I force myself to keep his gaze and not be the usual shy Sophie and look away. It’s hard, though. Especially when my opponent is a man who is clearly stronger than I am. More experienced. Hotter. Smarter. And yes, so rich that I can’t even
comprehend it. His wealth is so staggering and overwhelming that you are just enveloped in it.

The rational part of my brain knows that my thoughts make no sense, but here’s the thing, he was born into this world, and no matter how privileged I thought I was growing up, Clayton is on a whole other level. So maybe I feel like his wealth also gives him carte blanche, a green light to speed off in his Bugatti when the rest of the world is stuck at a red light in a Honda.

“Believe it or not, but yes. This is the most patient I’ve ever been.”

It takes me a moment to come back to earth from my inner dialogue. When his comment registers in my head, I realize that I am in trouble now.

“I see red when you say my full name, by the way.” This is a warning. Obviously. You’d have to be a complete idiot not to get it. This pisses me off too.

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, you’ll have to forgive me. I don’t have the family manual. Maybe there’s one I can download and read through quickly so I’ll know the ‘dos’ and ‘don’ts.’” I want to pat myself on the back for this rebuttal. I think it’s a good one.

Not Mr. Clayton Astor Sinclair, who cocks his head to the side and slowly smiles. Instead of feeling warm as I usually do when I see that sexy look, I suddenly feel like I’m in some dangerous waters. I wonder what his next move is going to be? What is he thinking? In an instant, I’m flooded with a wave of uncertainties. Am I just a fun diversion during his stay here in the Maldives? An American girl who’s the antithesis of the women he’s grown up with?

The dark path down the Sophie Walker insecurity lane is never fun. It’s kind of like my own personal
Nightmare on Elm Street
. You never know what hideous image is waiting around the corner.

On cue, a dark thought enters my mind.

Is he Henry VIII and am I his Anne Boleyn? Amusing, witty, but ultimately unable to keep his attention?

Headless, in the end?

Shit.

“What the bloody hell are you thinking?”

My gaze meets his and I try my hardest to mask my feelings, hoping that I don’t look as insecure as I feel.

“Nothing,” I say nonchalantly as I pick up my navy blue sundress, which is crumpled on the floor, and hold it up against my towel.

He walks over to me and lifts my chin. I can’t look at him. I don’t want him to see this part of me.

“Sophie.”

I focus on his chin.

“Look at me.”

I realize I’m acting a tad childish and I know from firsthand experience that it’s pointless to resist him, so I meet his bright blue gaze.

“What’s going on in there?” He looks almost concerned.

“I told you—“

“You lie.”

It’s infuriating that he can read me so easily. I guess I don’t have much of a game face. But still. There is no way I will tell him the turmoil I’m going through. The roller coaster of emotions that I’m experiencing. Some things are better left unsaid. My dad taught me that; he drilled it into my head. So I do know how to remain silent.

The frustration is written all over Clayton’s face.

“Talk to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to know everything you’re thinking.”

I almost laugh. Is he serious? “Trust me, you don’t. And honestly, what does it matter? If I say what I feel, you see red. I’m a quick learner.” I kind of huff out the last few words.

“Are you angry?” He seems surprised.

“Maybe. Actually, I’m a bit bothered by what I’m gathering is your uncompromising personality, quite honestly.”

“I like that,” Clayton smiles.

“You like anger?” My stomach sinks at the thought.

“I told you. I like honesty. I like real. I don’t want a proper response from you. I want the Sophie Walker response, whatever that is. Happiness. Sadness. Anger. Joy. I want it all.”

“What about when I just said I don’t belong to you?” I ask him. “Do you want all of that too?”