Page 6 of Pleasure Lessons

His question nearly knocks me down. “Ex–excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, his smile broadening. “I don’t have to worry about what you’re up to when I’m away. Do I, darling?”

I shake my head so hard it nearly comes off. “Of course not! Rhett is very professional!”

Don’t overdo it.

Arthur sets his cigar aside, reaches out, and takes my hand. It’s just as cold as his lips. “You’ll be a good wife, Cassandra. I’ve been very patient. I’ve let you live here without any contact while you…mature. But patience has its limits.”

He lowers his eyes to my hand, my ring finger, the large engagement ring he placed there when I first moved in. It’s enormous. A symbol of his equally enormous wealth. I’ve always hated the thing. It weighs my hand down like an anchor.

I hide my hand behind my back and look at the floor. “I–I’m tired, Mr. Frederickson. I think I’ll go to bed–”

“Must we still play this game?” he asks before I can turn. I bring my eyes to his, nearly trembling from anxiety. “Call me Arthur. I’m going to be your husband.”

My throat spasms. I’m not ready for this.

“I think I’ll go to bed…Arthur.”

He smiles and nods, taking a puff from his cigar. “Good night, darling.”

I turn and quickly leave the room, gulping down deep breaths to calm myself. This house feels like a prison. It’s like the walls are closing in on me, doing their best to squish me into jelly. I take the route that leads to my room but duck out a side door and walk across the grass to the back garden. It’s lush and ornate, with fountains and ivy and roses everywhere, and I’m sure Arthur has never once been here. He just pays someone to keep it up so when guests come over, the estate looks impressive.

I’m glad he does, though, as I like to come here from time to time when I need to decompress. It’s where I go when I need to breathe. The cobblestones are cold on my feet as I take the long route. I pass through the stone arch and hear the sound of running water from one of the fountains and am just about to find my normal bench when I stop breathing altogether.

Rhett is here.

He’s shirtless, wearing only jeans. Sweat is gleaming off his muscled back and shoulders as he curls a dumbbell in one arm. I knew he was built when I first saw him, but seeing him uncovered like this just takes things to a whole new level.

I grip the stone of the arch beside me, using its chill to lower my body temperature. He doesn’t know I’m watching him as he lowers the weight slowly, his bicep bulging, thick and veiny. When he finally sets it down, he runs a hand through his hair and turns slightly, stretching, giving me a view of his abs. Abs a Hollywood star would kill for.

A sound squeaks out of me. I can’t help it.

His head snaps to me, and my heart stops. “Cassandra?” His voice is low and cautious.

I step out from the archway, doing my best to appear innocent, like I wasn’t just watching him work out–like I justhappenedto be here.

He reaches for a towel and wipes the sweat from his face. My thighs are tingling like crazy. “You shouldn’t be out here at this hour.”

“I–I needed to get some air,” I explain. “After Mr. Fredrickson made a surprise visit.”

His face hardens. “Did he…touch you?”

“What?”

Rhett growls something under his breath and tosses the towel aside. “Nothing. Never mind.”

I take a step forward. My arms are tingling now and my mouth is dry–but my center is not. I feel like I feel sometimes when I read those books Clarisse brings me. Maybe it’s because I was reading one a moment ago–or maybe it’s some leftover anxiety from my visit with Arthur, but I’m feeling curious at the moment. And I say something I don’t think I normally would.

“Do you always work out shirtless?” He doesn’t answer. My heart is racing. Am I overstepping? “You’re…in very good shape.”

Still, he is silent.

“You know I have these books that Clarisse gets me, and the men on the cover are always very muscular. You look like you could be one of them actually–”

“Cassandra,” he snaps, as if warning me. But my body is on fire for him now, and I can’t stop myself. Behind me is prison–before me is freedom.

I walk right up to him and look up, so far up. He’s so tall I have to crane my neck. My eyes fall on a scar on his chest. A slash of white across his glistening golden skin. Before I can stop myself, I raise my hand to it and trace the line with my fingertips.

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