I take her shoulders and move her under the spray.

  And my peace goes up in smoke, my shocked eyes nailed to her arse. Or the big fucking bruises covering it. “What the fuck are they?” Lord above, what happened?

  She looks over her shoulder, copping a load of my wide eyes, and frowns, turning to find out what’s got my feathers all ruffled. “What?”

  I grab her when I lose sight of them and turn her back “Them!”

  She frowns over her shoulder. “I fell over in the back of Margo.”

  “What?”

  “I was holding up the cake in the back of Margo,” she says on a condescending sigh. “I got chucked about a bit.”

  Yes, I knew she was holding up a fucking cake, but I didn’t know this was the extent of the damage. “A bit?” She looks like she’s been struck repeatedly with a fucking hammer. My face screws up as I dip and gently stroke the fading bruises. What was she thinking? Her irresponsibility and neglect for herself is leading to one thing: me wrapping her up in cotton wool, and something tells me Ava won’t like that. Well, she’d better start fucking looking after herself. It’s not beyond me. I’ll bubble wrap her if I have to. What if a car had of ploughed into the van? I flinch harshly, blinking back the memories that thought spikes. She wouldn’t have stood a chance. “Ava, you look like you’ve been used as a rugby ball.”

  She laughs. It makes me want to sew her mouth shut. This is about as funny as John’s temper. “It doesn’t hurt,” she says, blasé.

  It doesn’t hurt? I beg to differ. I’m in fucking agony. “No more cake propping.” I’ll be having a word with her friend. “I mean it.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  Overreacting? Many would probably agree. I don’t give a fuck. Those bruises shouldn’t be tarnishing her flawless skin. Nothing should be tarnishing her. Alcohol. Blemishes.

  What about you, Ward. Should you be tarnishing her?

  “Probably not,” I grumble in answer to my own silent question, falling to my knees and kissing her better. “I’ll be having a word with Kate too,” I warn, just to be clear, just so there are no surprises when I declare the demise of Margo. Fucking Margo. I need to call the dealership and see if they’ve found a replacement yet.

  I rise, every muscle pulling, and turn her back to me, struggling to remove my fierce glare as I wipe the water from her face. Doesn’t she realize how precious she is? She needs to look after herself, and if she’s going to be difficult about it, I don’t mind taking on that role.

  When she opens her eyes, I dip and kiss her collarbone. Gently. Softly. Showing her. She quivers when I draw a perfect line with my tongue to her ear. “Later,” I promise, smiling when she grumbles unhappily. There it is. Want. Greed. It’s a leap in the right direction. The first step on the path that’ll be her only route to what keeps her surviving. I’m much farther down that path. “Out,” I order, finding it unbelievably hard to refuse her. But refuse her I must. I lack control in so many elements of my life, even more now. Controlling what I can is a necessity. A compulsion.

  I guide her from the shower and dry her off, wrapping her up, snug and cozy in a towel. “All done.”

  I see her eyes roam the vast planes of my torso, see her delight. Irresistible. She finds me irresistible. Taking her hand, I lead her into the bedroom. I find my jeans and tug them on, depriving her. Increasing her want.

  “No boxers?” she asks.

  I’m careful as I fasten the fly, smiling. “No, I don’t want any unnecessary obstructions.”

  “Obstructions?”

  I yank a T-shirt over my head, feeling her burning gaze all over my front. Yeah, I’m a tad older. But in incredible shape. “Yes, obstructions,” I say as I tug it down my body, watching in amusement as she tries to get her lax jaw under control. She’s adorable. I walk over and take her neck, pulling her close, aware I’m being unfair. And I’m not sorry. “Get ready,” I murmur lowly, sealing our mouths.

  “Where’s my dress?”

  “I don’t know,” I say before I can stop myself, my mind working overtime. Use it as a bargaining chip. Ammo. I nod to myself as I stride out of my room. I’m all for give and take.

  I make it to the kitchen and find my peanut butter, settling at the island and thinking while dipping, mentally making our plans. I haven’t told her she’s technically working today. How will that go down? I pull my finger from my mouth slowly, my eyes narrowing, my cunning mind off on a tangent. I’ll convince her it’s a great idea. Just watch me.

  I turn on my stool when I hear her coming down the stairs, bracing myself for the vision of her naked in my kitchen. She may as well get used to it. I don’t plan on letting her wear any clothes when she’s here, and if I have my way, which I will, she’ll be here a lot.

  I look up, grinning like an idiot as I suck my finger clean. She’s not naked. But she still looks like a dream in one of my dress shirts. My dick buzzes. My body calls for her. “Come here.”

  Her face falls into a frown. “No.”

  No? What does she mean, no? She can’t stand there like that and then refuse me. “Come . . . here,” I say slowly, my face twitching with the effort to hold back my filthy look.

  “Tell me where my dress is.” She looks at me with pure defiance. It doesn’t bode well for the plans I’ve made and of which she is yet privy to. The battle to hold back that filthy look becomes too much, and I slowly rid my hands of my favorite thing, preparing to replace it with another one of my favorite things. Actually, my absolute preferred thing. She’s challenging me. Somewhere between the shower and the kitchen, she’s found her spunk. She’s trying to claw back some control. Call the shots. I thought we’d reached an understanding. Apparently not. I actually love her spirit . . . but not all the time.

  Hmmmm. What to do, what to do?

  I should give her a chance to rethink because one thing becoming glaringly obvious to me is that she’s more agreeable when she’s in my arms and mindless on this insane chemistry we produce. So I have to ensure she’s in my arms as much as possible. “You have three seconds,” I say, surprising myself. Yet it’s all I have, short of getting up and physically dragging her over. I need her to come to me willingly. Each time she does, it’s a brick stronger in the structure that will be us.

  “Three seconds for what?”

  “To get your arse over here.” Simple. Keep it simple. Simple but effective. I hope. We’ll soon find out. “Three . . .” I say quietly, my face deadpan, though on the inside I’m laughing my fucking arse off. Not at her. At me. The fucking countdown?

  “What happens if you make it to zero?” she asks, her face a picture of uncertainty.

  I eradicate that sass and defiance you’ve found with a reminder of how good we are together, that’s what. “Do you want to find out?” I ask, because I’m more than willing to show her. “Two . . .”

  She’s shifting from foot to foot, her eyes darting. Come to me. Don’t come to me. Either way, she will be in my arms in . . .

  “One . . .”

  She shoots across the kitchen fast, and I welcome her with an open embrace, of course, deeply satisfied. She’s learning well. My body relaxes immediately, and I rest my head on hers as she strokes my back. See? Perfect. Why ever would she play silly games and starve us of this? And speaking of starving us, has she remembered what she told me last night? I pout to myself. It doesn’t hurt to ask.

  I shift and lift her onto the worktop, moving between her thighs, smiling at my shirt drowning her as I skate my palms over the smooth skin. “I like your shirt,” I muse, pulling my hand back from the brink of meeting the apex of her thighs.

  “Is it expensive?” she asks casually.

  I raise my eyebrows, smiling darkly at her cheek. She knows it’s expensive. “Very.” But fuck the shirt. Let’s get down to business. “What do you remember about last night?”

  She definitely withdraws, and it’s far too long of a delay before I get an answer. “You’re a good dancer.”

  Talk about stating the obvious. But it’s not what I’m looking for. “What can I say? I’m a sucker for JT.” Moving on. “What else do you remember?” Come on, Ava. Give it to me. Don’t make me squeeze it out of you.

  “Why?” she asks, looking at me in question. It makes me pause for thought. She really doesn’t remember?

  I deflate. Well, that sucks balls. Okay, let’s try and clear something else up. “Do you remember seeing your ex?”

  “Yes,” she virtually snarls, though I can’t be sure if it’s at me or him.

  “Do you remember my request?”

  “Yes.”

  That’s good. It’s one less thing for me to worry about. But . . . back to the original matter. “And at what point do you draw a blank?”

  Her body tightens in my hold. “I don’t remember getting home, if that’s what you’re getting at.” She’s defensive. Very defensive. “I do realize I was stupidly drunk and highly irresponsible.”

  I couldn’t agree more. So I’ll take that as an indirect guarantee she won’t be drinking again. Glad we’ve cleared that up. It’s dangerous. And on top of that, she told me something groundbreaking and can’t fucking recall. “You don’t remember anything after the bar?” I ask, digging deeper, willing her to try hard and remember.

  “No,” she sighs, glancing away. She’s not avoiding me. She’s embarrassed.

  “That’s a shame.” So I guess I have to wait until she has that revelation when she’s sober. That’s another solid reason to not let her drink again. There are too many to ignore. I take her cheeks and drop a kiss on her lips. Dig deep, baby. Find those words. Because I really need to hear them again.

  “How old are you?” she asks.

  For the love of all things old. Age is but a number. So tell her, you colossal tit. Yet I can’t ignore the cautious part of my brain warning me to hold back on all the things that could potentially end this. So I do what I’m learning works for us. Kiss her. Consume her. Show her that nothing matters except how smitten I am. “Twenty-six,” I murmur, gently biting her lip, smothering her with my mouth and relishing her immediate softness.

  “You missed twenty–five.”

  “No, I didn’t. You just can’t remember asking me.” Right before you told me you love me.

  “Oh. After the bar?”

  I touch her nose with mine. “Yes, after the bar.” Her lips part, and I smile thoughtfully as I wipe the remnants of my kiss away. “You feeling better?”

  “Yes, but you need to feed me.”

  I laugh. “Are you making demands?”

  “Yes. Get me my clothes.”

  And now she’s gone too far. I make a play for her hip and squeeze, making her jerk on a gasp. “Who has the power, Ava?”

  She laughs, squirming, wriggling, generally increasing her torture all by herself. My grip is solid. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about how much easier we’ll get along if you accept who holds the power.”

  “You do,” she screeches, and I smile, satisfied.

  “Good girl.” I haul her forward and reinforce it with a kiss. “Don’t forget it.” I break our connection, leaving her panting on the worktop, wanting more. Granted, I’m pretty pent-up myself, but depriving her is a tactic I’ll exercise when necessary. I head upstairs, adjusting my dick behind my jeans as I go, and retrieve her underwear from the wash basket in the bathroom, her shoes from the floor, before heading back down to fetch her dress from the washing machine.

  When I arrive back in the kitchen, she’s still on the worktop, her cheeks still wonderfully flushed. Even if she’s got narrowed eyes pointing at me.

  I scoff. “Don’t look at me like that, lady,” I warn, handing over her things, giving the dress a filthy look as I do. “You won’t be wearing that dress again, I can assure you.” I’ll cut it up to guarantee it. “Put the shirt over it.” My phone rings, and I leave her with the facts as I take Sarah’s call, wandering out onto the terrace.

  “Morning,” I chirp happily.

  “So he’s alive,” she quips.

  More alive than ever. But I quickly remember that I’m not talking to her. “What do you want?”

  “Where are you?”

  I roll my eyes. She knows exactly where I am, and who I’m with. “Why are you asking questions to which you know the answers?”

  “With her,” she sighs, as if it’s a massive problem. “I’m surprised she’s given you the time of day after—”

  “Don’t,” I warn. “And had you not wanted to help me unwind, I wouldn’t have to worry about being given the time of day.”

  She’s silent for a few moments, and then she inhales, realization falling. “She still doesn’t know about The Manor, does she?”

  I glare at the beautiful view.

  “And what about your Tuesday evening indiscretions?”

  “Sarah . . .” I’m growling, hate rising, mostly hate for me. “I’ll talk to you when I get there.” I need to tell her the score, and she needs to stop fucking interfering. “Ava’s coming with me to work on the extension.”

  “Risky.”

  “It’s Sunday. It’s quiet. See you soon.” I hang up and rub at my forehead, ensuring all signs of stress and guilt are gone before I make it back to the kitchen. Except, when I arrive, I find Ava frantically rummaging through her purse, and that stress and guilt returns tenfold. Fuck. She’s looking for her pills. “You ready?” I ask.

  “Two seconds.” She shakes her head, clearly casting her mind back, trying to remember the moment she didn’t put her pills in her purse. I bite my lip as she approaches and takes my hand. It’s easy to be distracted from my wrongs by that little black dress. She’s put the shirt over it—good girl—but what use is that if it’s flapping open?

  “It’s a good job Cathy isn’t here. You would give her a heart attack in that dress.”

  “Cathy?” she asks, confused, as I set about fastening the buttons from top to bottom.

  “My housekeeper.” I nod my head approvingly. “Better.” I take her hand and lead her out, looking at her as we board the lift. She looks thoroughly fucked. It suits her.

  The doors close, and my head is quickly invaded with a barrage of wicked ideas, all involving Ava, me, and this lift. Against the wall. On her knees. I shift on the spot, the rough material of my jeans rubbing against my bulging cock. I should have put some boxers on. I have a one-track mind lately and that one track always leads to Ava.

  “Morning, Mr. Ward,” the concierge says as we pass, smiling brightly at Ava. “You look better this morning, Ava.”

  I feel Ava’s intention to stop and chat with the old boy. Not today. Our time together is precious. No sharing. Pulling her on, we make it outside, and I open the car and get her in, fastening her seatbelt for her. She doesn’t bat an eyelid, just smiles up at me.

  Acceptance. It’s stunning on her.

  Today is going to be a good day.

  20

  I spend the whole journey to Ava’s detailing my plan to get her to The Manor with me this afternoon. It’s simple. I’m going to tell her.

  She slips out of my car when I park and rounds the front, joining me on the pavement. The way she’s looking up at me tells me I could just ask and she’d agree.

  She walks into my chest, tilting her head back, and I remain where I am, my hands restrained in my pockets. I could take what she’s silently offering, but there’s so much more pleasure to be had when she gives it to me willingly. She comes closer, closing the space between our lips, and when they meet, I’m done for. I give in to the power and seize her, tumbling into my newfound euphoria, working her mouth firm and steady, the world as I know it disappearing around me. I don’t want this kiss to end, but I tear myself away, and she whimpers, her hands limply sliding from my shoulders. I’ve never seen a woman so deeply and obviously breathless. It’s fuel to my fire of need. She doesn’t want to leave me.

  She walks up the path to the front door, unsteady on her feet, and I follow with a small smile.

  She turns and finds me close behind. “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “I’m coming in to wait for you.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “You’re coming to work with me,” I tell her candidly, and her sweet frown deepens.

  “You just kissed me goodbye.”

  “No, Ava.” I reach up and sweep aside the lock of hair falling across her brow. “I just kissed you.” She should get used to it. “Get ready.”

  “Okay.”

  Her easy agreement is promising. Let’s keep that up. She opens the front door, and I follow her into the lounge, my eyebrows jumping up when I find Sam looking a bit cozy with Kate. He stayed here? All night? I throw him a questioning look.

  “Hey, my man.” He doesn’t seem to give two fucks about the fact he’s naked, hardly covered by the sheets. I cast a look across to Ava to see if she’s at all affected by my well-formed, younger mate.

  “How are you feeling, Ava?” he asks with a cheeky smile, and Ava’s cheeks turn a fetching shade of pink. Embarrassed?

  “Good.” She looks away from my exhibitionist friend and finds Kate, tilting her head. It’s a silent message. She wants to talk like girls talk. Good. Because I need to talk to Sam like a girl too. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” She dips out of the lounge, and Kate makes no attempt to untwine her body from Sam’s.

  “I think you’re wanted,” I say, subtly hinting for her to exit so I can pick Sam’s brain. He must have talked about me with Kate. Ava’s friend must have divulged something.

  Kate lifts the sheets and peeks under them before returning her eyes to me. “Want to turn around?”

  Realization dawns and Sam laughs as I quickly pivot, giving them my back while Kate dresses.

  “Thanks,” she says, moving past me, now decent. I make sure she’s gone before I turn and find Sam shoveling cornflakes in his gob.

  “Good night?” I ask, interested. I don’t think I can ever recall him not being at The Manor on a Saturday night. What gives?