Page 7 of Claiming Genevieve

But now, with a forgotten feeling flickering to life in my veins as my fingers trail down my stomach, I wonder if that was the right way to think at all—if I’ve been denying myself something I want, that Ineed, just because dealing with the lack of it is too difficult.

My fingers dip lower, tracing the taut skin between my hipbones. I take another long sip of my wine, rolling it around in my mouth, trying not to think of Rowan as my hand slides an inch further, as my fingers nudge against my clit, sending sparks of pleasure skittering over my skin.

I tip my head back, the wine glass held loosely in my other hand as my fingers roll over the slowly swelling flesh. Heat pulses through me, and I feel sweat bead at my hairline, at the hollow of my throat, the bath too hot now. But it feels too good to stop. My legs spread open a bit, the water sluicing over my skin as I increase the rhythm, circling my clit in quick, fast motions before I suck in a breath and force myself to slow down.

There’s no rush, not right now. Nothing to make me hurry through this. I take another sip of wine, letting the pleasure build, slow and sweet and?—

Rowan flashes into my mind again and won’t leave, no matter how hard I try to refocus my thoughts. I feel like I’m floating in a haze of heat and pleasure and wine, and for a moment I think I can smell his cologne instead of the vanilla scent of the bath—that smell of wood and smoke and salty flesh. I can almost taste it—the way his skin would feel under my tongue if I dragged my mouth down his throat and sucked at the edge of it, the way his body would jerk and harden against mine, the sound he might make?—

Pleasure jolts through me, more insistent now, and my fingers speed up again. I can feel it building, my muscles tightening, that knotting sensation in the pit of my stomach so close to unfurling. I toss back the last of my wine, close my eyes, and lean my head back, and I feel Rowan’s hand on my back again, see the mischievous gleam in his bright green eyes, the promise of desire between us throbbing like the pulse beating a wild tempo in my throat.

The orgasm hits me with a force that leaves me gasping, and I clamp my other hand over my mouth to keep myself from crying out and waking Chris. My hips buck upward against the hand between my legs, sending water splashing out of the tub onto the tile, pleasure rolling through me like a tidal wave. It feels good—better than I remember—and I keep my fingers on my clit all the way through it, carrying myself through the crashing, blissful sensations until they fade, and I slump back into the water, sweaty and dizzy from the heat and the climax.

It felt so good.And if I’m being honest with myself, I know the reason why it happened. It wasn’t the champagne or the wine or the bath or the argument earlier. It was Rowan.

My sex life with Chris has been cold for a long time, and he made me feel heat for the first time in longer than I can remember. It was part of the reason I was so icy with him while we talked and danced. I didn’t want him to see the effect he was having on me—the way his hand on the small of my back made me feel, the way his skin burned through the silk of my dress. The way his scent, his presence, made my skin tingle.

I sink lower into the tub, resolutely pushing all of that away. It doesn’t matter. Lust doesn’t support my future. Lust is nothing but a distraction.Rowanis nothing but a distraction—right now, especially. Maybe in the future, when I’m not so close to a showcase, when I don’t need to focus so intently…

Even then, I think, he isn’t a wise choice, no matter how much Vincent might want a peek into his wallet. Someone like Chris, who doesn’t distract or fluster me, is a much better option. The way Rowan makes me feel isn’t good for me—for my focus or for my career, at any point.

What I need, I think grimly as I pour myself another glass of wine, is to forget about him entirely.

4

ROWAN

Ican’t believe my luck when I run into Genevieve the very next day.

I was disappointed not to see her again at the party. She disappeared right after our dance, and I spent the rest of the night sipping whiskey and ginger, dancing with other ballerinas and guests intermittently while scanning the room for the only woman I really wanted to see. She never reappeared, and sometime just before midnight, I begged off from my dance partner of the moment and went home as well.

Home.

It doesn’t feel like home right now—my father’s estate. That’s how I think of it—as the estate belonging to Padraigh Gallagher, and sometimes as my inheritance, but neverhome. It hasn’t been home in fourteen years, and it didn’t feel much like it back when I lived there. Back then, in my childhood, it felt like loneliness, like wanting time with a father who never had time for me, and love from a mother who disappeared when I was very young. In my teenage years, it felt like a prison, one that I broke free from as soon as I possibly could.

Ireland is my home. It has been ever since I caught the first flight I could once I turned eighteen and left the States for those verdant shores. I’ve missed it since the moment I boarded the private jet that my father sent me so that I could return to my childhood home—aching for the craggy cliffs, the green fields, the warm pubs, the crashing gray waves onto jagged rocks on the beaches.

The stately mansion that I grew up in feels cold, empty—like a memory that I want to shake loose but just can’t. My childhood bedroom has long since been turned into a guest room, so even that doesn’t hold any glimpses of nostalgia for me, any feeling of homecoming. It’s the same as every other guest room in the house—impeccably clean, with dark furniture and slight variations in the color of decor depending on the room. Mine is done up in deep reds and creams, complete with a patterned duvet on the bed and matching textiles throughout the room.

I slept poorly there last night, my dreams filled with visions of the gorgeous ballerina that got away from me, like Cinderella leaving her slipper behind for the prince—except I didn’t get anything from Genevieve. Not even her number.

It would probably be easy enough to get. All I’d need to do is ask that slightly smarmy manager of hers, and he’d offer it up without any difficulty. But I don’t want that. I wantherto want me—to give in—and that can’t be accomplished just by digging up her information without her realizing it.

She’s all that’s on my mind as I step into a downtown coffee shop, eager for some caffeine and the opportunity to sit in peace with a book without any chance that my father might want to speak to me just now. I’m in no mood for conversation—Genevieve is thoroughly occupying my thoughts, and I’m irritable both from lack of sleep and my own frustrated desire that seems to only grow worse with every passing minute. The moment I see her, standing in line to order, I feel my entire body go tense as that desire floods through me.

I woke up this morning moody and hard as a rock, gritting my teeth when I felt the insistent throbbing of my cock pressed between myself and the mattress. My erection had stubbornly refused to go away last night, springing back to life at the slightest thought of Genevieve, and I’d finally stroked myself in the shower after getting home, remembering the delicious scent of her skin and perfume and the way the small of her back felt beneath my palm. I’d imagined her on her knees in the shower, her dark hair soaking wet and plastered to her neck and shoulders as that rosy lipstick rubbed off on my cock, and come harder than I have in years, spraying the tiles on the far side of the shower with my release.

That didn’t seem to have resolved the issue. I spent twenty minutes this morning lingering in bed, torn between jerking myself off as quickly as possible to get on with my day, and wanting to stay in my fantasy of her. In that particular fantasy this morning, she was on top—stripped naked with those long legs on either side of me, her slender hips rolling in a perfect rhythm as she bounced on my cock until I filled her up with my cum.

The fact that it was my fist that I was filling, and not her undoubtedly perfect pussy, only made me more irritable once I was finished.

She’s the last in line to order right now, and I stride quickly across the coffee shop, intent on being the next. I take in the sight of her as I walk—she’s wearing slim black jeans and a white cropped sweater, the strip of skin left bare across her stomach between the edge of her sweater and the top of her jeans making my mouth go dry. I want to sweep my lips across it, feel that taut flesh against my mouth before unbuttoning her jeans and sliding lower?—

Genevieve turns as I walk up behind her, and displeasure fills her expression before she schools it a moment later into that careful blankness that I remember from last night.

“Mr. Gallagher,” she says in a bland, pleasant tone that I also remember from last night, and I wince.

“Rowan is fine. Although if we need to be introduced again—” I grin at her, and she doesn’t return it.

---