Page 15 of Yield to Me

Chapter 8

A long driveway arched along the front of his property. I parked in the front, cautiously waved at the security guard waiting near the gate. With a quick glance at the house, I couldn’t tell how many bedrooms the place had, but it had at least three stories above ground, each layer expansive, seeming to stretch across an entire block. It was the kind of house you could get lost inside of.

I’m at Owen’s house, I sent a text to Clay with the address. Be back later. I clutched the phone in my hand. I wasn’t afraid that Owen would do something dangerous, not really, but I still felt better knowing that someone knew where I was. I’m doing this because I’m attracted to him, I told myself. I don’t want to date him. I want to be with him, to see what he’s like, to see what he can show me. This is purely sexual.

I climbed the stairs to the door, and before I could knock, Owen opened it. I followed him; he walked through a hallway that led to an open room, almost the size of the club we had left. Books covered the walls, with art pieces in the corners, a large rug on the ground, a single sofa in the middle. A red light gleamed from the corner, casting us in shadows.

I crossed my arms, not knowing what to do with myself. Owen pulled my sweater from my shoulders, his fingertips tickling my skin as he removed it. I turned around to face him, but he was already walking towards the couch. He poured himself a glass of scotch from the small tray to the side, poured me one too, leaving it on the tray. He settled into the sofa. Darkness covered his eyes, but I could see his hand holding the glass on his knee, the other hand stretched along the backside of the couch. His mouth open. Waiting.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked quietly.

“I want you,” he paused, “to do exactly what you want.”

I pulled for my sweater’s sides in nervousness before I remembered that I didn’t have it on anymore. I wished I did. The room’s openness made me feel isolated, especially with Owen watching me.

“Relax, Riley. This isn’t about me.”

I heard music drifting in slowly, like a low murmur. Had it always been on, or had Owen turned it on somehow, without me seeing him do it? I concentrated on relaxing my arms, but I knew it looked forced. I let go of my clenched fists. I wasn’t afraid of him, I told myself. I wasn’t afraid of this, whatever this was, but butterflies did backflips in my stomach. I was afraid of liking it, afraid of liking him.

“I’m not going to touch you,” he said. “You’re safe tonight.” I noticed the conditional that showed his promise was only for that moment. I held my breath, almost wishing he would show me what he was like now, his need for control, his desire to test powerful women, so I wouldn’t have to wait. If I didn’t like it, I could leave. But I couldn’t do anything if I didn’t know. Curiosity killed me every time. “Close your eyes,” he said. “Pretend I’m not here.” I closed my eyes, but I could still feel his eyes on mine. “Now move to the music. Let your body dance.”

I breathed in deeply, then took both hands, felt my own curves. It was thrilling, like a crawling sensation that inched from my toes to the tips of my fingers, to know that Owen was watching me. My hands grasped my breasts, my shirt crinkling in my grip, lifting a little, exposing my stomach. Owen sucked in his breath like it was hard for him to hold back. Feeling encouraged, I dipped my hips, swayed, my fingers tangled in my hair, exposing my neck as I turned. I opened my eyes and in the soft light, I saw Owen’s erection in his pants, hard and growing on his thigh. He put the drink on the tray, then placed both hands on his knees. His face was illuminated now. The calm expression made me shiver, and I felt need growing inside of me. I hated to admit it, but I wanted him to want me, like I wanted him.

“I’m not going to touch you, Riley,” he said again. A low growl escaped him. “But know that I want to.”

I turned over my shoulder, the skin of my lower back peeking out from my shirt. “Why won’t you?” I asked. My voice was damn near pleading.

“We’re here for you,” he said.

I could feel his eyes on me, a deep glare, as if he was angry and enthralled, like he needed me. Each time I moved my hips, made my ass dip, or squeezed my breasts, I felt I was compelling him towards me, beckoning him in the same way he had tempted me. His erection strained against his dress pants, begging to be touched. Even though I knew my own need was palpable too, dampening between my legs, I felt more powerful than I ever had. Who is in control here? I wondered. Was it me, who held Owen’s gaze, Owen who knew he couldn’t touch me even though he desperately wanted to? Or was it Owen, the person who owned this place, who owned many companies and properties, who continually found me and exposed me to new things? Me, the young, aspiring artist with nothing to my name, who was dancing for the esteemed Owen Lowell, or Owen, the one who had made me want to dance for him? Even if I didn’t know the answer to that question, it felt like nothing existed beyond the walls of that room. Nothing mattered beyond the two of us, gazing at each other, with me coaxing Owen’s need out of him. As if I was a sculpture Owen was pining over, yearning for the meaning of, studying for the truth. Because we both wanted each other desperately, more than we were willing to admit.

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