Page 21 of His Pretty Little Duet

He shrugs. "I'm just following orders, Fawn. I have no idea what he thinks you might do."

I hum, not convinced. "Well, can I go for a walk? Am I allowed or is it forbidden or something? Ya know, like Belle fromBeauty and The Beast? Will I find a magic rose? Enchanted crockery, perhaps?"

"No enchanted inanimate objects here." He nods to the hallway as way of invitation. "You can go for a walk. It's only in your room that there are no cameras. Which is why I'm here. The rest of the house is covered in them. And men watch them around the clock. I'm basically rendered obsolete by the technology in this house. Don't tell the boss."

"I think he knows." I walk down the corridor, guessing the direction to the pool, hoping my sense of space and my muscle memory serve me well.

I follow the lights that sporadically light the halls and main rooms.

When the French doors to the pool come into view, I realise this is the first moment I've shared alone in this house with just the kid in my stomach. Sighing softly, I press my hand to him, and indulge, while in my solitude, in the idea of this kid growing up in a house like this.

The dimly lit space, so quiet in its night-time state, is incredibly beautiful even if it's a little staged.

A little soulless.

Through the glass, the pool glows a brilliant blue, darker thanMr Butcher'seyes, but just as vivid. I shake the comparison from my mind, groaning at myself for allowing the thought in.

Across the glittering pool and into the horizon, the first sign of dawn lights up the gaps between the tree foliage. It must be early morning. Around 4:30 a.m., perhaps.

If I had grown up in a house like this, I think I'd watch the sun rise over the pool every morning. Maybe I would have breakfast outside on the stone balcony. Read a newspaper. Not on that horrid wrought-iron table, though. I'd get an outdoor daybed and sprawl across it like a cat.

I'd also get a cat.

Opening the doors, the balmy air sweeps around me, my hair and robe swaying around my body. My mother was right about the fresh air. It may not be the remedy for everything, but it does seem to carry energy.

As I inhale the breeze, a shadow moves behind me, causing my heart to lurch. My smile to fall. And I press my hand against my chest, feeling the rapid beating beneath.

I spin around to find a man staring at me.

And God...

I do a double-take.

It's Clay Butcher standing in only jeans, seemingly just thrown on, hanging low around defined hips.

Dark tattoos that I can't quite distinguish span his chest and dip low beneath his jeans. His perfectly virile physique is cut into trim, defined muscles coated in perspiration, the lingering scent of sweat and something musky surrounding him.

Fuck me.

If my ovaries still operated, they'd be popping eggs out like a tennis ball machine.

In a suit, the man is a powerhouse of intimidation, a handsome mystery, but in very little, he's... overwhelming, alarmingly breathtaking, masculine, sexy as sin, and if my brain blood wasn't between my legs right now, I would be able to think of other synonyms.

Butterflies take flight inside me.

I've never wanted to lick a man before, but right now, I want more than anything to know what his sweat tastes like. Power probably; if power had a taste, that's what his sweat would taste like.

My eyes drop to the light dusting of hair on his abdominals, following the trail between the thick V-shaped muscles leading beneath his pants, where I am now staring at the dense bulge between his thighs, a shape hard to hide due to the size and girth. I can't look away.

Stop looking at his cock, Fawn.

But I don't.

I press my thighs together.

Bouncing my eyes up from the thick channel of his cock, I meet his searing blue gaze. His eyes are locked on me like he is imagining tasting me the way I am imagining tasting him, which can't be true because I'm a nobody.

An obligation.

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