Page 44 of His Pretty Little Duet

Which we aren't and yet... there is intimacy now.

Far more intimacy than I've ever felt with anyone, and it's not just that hours ago he watched me come—made me come. It's the small conversations while the rest of the world sleeps.

The looks.

Touches.

The butterflies go berserk. My heart feels as if it doubles in size and my petite body cannot cope with everything taking up real estate inside it.

A man steps in front of him to get his attention, and I gape as Clay swipes him out of the way; the man merely a web hanging in his path.

My line of sight leaves the now shocked face of the man, focusing on Clay as he stops an arm's length away. His eyes dart to my hand on Henchman Jeeves's forearm, his brows weaving in.

"I think that is unnecessary now," he states smoothly. I drop my hand to my side while Henchman Jeeves nods and steps backwards, offering us some space. His curt words throw me, hurt me a little as I expected more gentleness. Ineededa bit of gentleness after...that happened, right?

As hurt flares, I ask, "When is my dad coming?" The question tumbles from my mouth, suddenly feeling as though that is the only conversation we should be having right now, or at all, really. The words put a barrier between us, a good solid construction made withreality.

I reach up to find the ends of my hair, only to realise they are bunched on my head.Dammit.So, instead, I fidget with the material of my dress.

The oriental music sweeps around us, mingling with the chatter. I peer across the room, and see side-eyes from guests, but I doubt anyone can hear us over the conversation and music.

"In a few weeks," he answers smoothly, lifting his thumb to his lower lip and dragging it along the swell, his eyes licking me in a way that screams he has seen me bent, bare, and exposed. The action, riddled with indecency, forces my thighs together to fend off the pressure—the discomfort. And I only just quelled it. Is this a never-ending desire?Goddamn it, how do sexually active people get anything done with this perpetual urge?

"So—" I clear my throat. "You have spoken to him?"

"Eat something, then go back to your room."

"Is that a yes?"

His lips twitch and his eyes darken, his pupils swallowing his blue irises like dark mist rolling over a still ocean. "I don’t need to."

I blink at him, needing a moment of reprieve from the conflicting messages barrelling from him in hot waves. "You shouldn't look at me like that."

His jaw clenches, and my heart stops beating as he leans down, his lips a whisper away from my ear. "I like looking at you. I'll look at you however I please, and you will like it, too. If you ever tell me what I shouldn't do again, I'll spank that perfect arse of yours until it's raw."

I exhale in a rush, unable to stop myself from turning into his mouth, causing his lips to skate along my hair. "Is part of your hospitality to also help me come because that is definitely something you should put on the brochure."

Oh. Fuck.

Kill me.

The breath from a small chuckle hits my ear, his lips skating my flesh as he says, "You need to stop that pretty head from overthinking. I don't offer such an itinerary for all my guests, but your perfect little body is hard to ignore."

There it is. He acknowledges it. I don't know why I needed that so much, but I did. My fingers tingle. "What would my dad say?" I mutter, a slither of volume.

He steps back, putting space between us. "Are you besotted by him? By a man you don't know."

"I am. He's the only person in my life who impresses me," I lie, but the person who actually impresses me is regarding me, my words displeasing him, and it feels all wrong... and right. I can't think straight. "Even if he is a bad man," I bite out, observing his reaction to my words, "he's better than my mother, than my foster mother. I bet he's never been the victim."

He smiles, but it's unfriendly. "Your father doesn't know your dress size. Or that the only time you clean your plate is when you're given sweets. That you use humour to deflect. That you have nightmares about the television."

Air catches in my throat.

How did he know that?

"Hello there," a man with a thick Indonesian accent says, approaching and appearing like a little boy next to the towering broad physique of Clay Butcher. "So many pretty, young girls. Who might this be?"

"Dustin Nerrock's beautiful young daughter," he says, deadpan.

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