Page 17 of Owned By her Enemy
My dress has rucked up and his forearm presses to the backs of my knees. Every place where we touch is a relief, as if my whole body has been waiting to be in contact with him again. So when we reach the top and I wriggle and protest, I’m reluctant to be put down. And he hesitates as though he enjoys holding me too. He slides me down his body, and my hip rubs over an unmistakable hard bulge.
He has an erection. My mind can’t take it in.
“Thanks.” I smooth my dress self-consciously as I attempt to find my balance on the dense sandy lawn.
“Anytime.”
He motions for us to go into the house with a tilt of his head, catching my fingers as we walk, making my heart pound, despite him being the one who carried me up all those steps. He’s hardly out of breath.
Is it weird I find that really hot?
In the light kitchen he slides the glass doors so it’s open to the outside, and maybe he always does that, but it helps. That and the grass just there, the steps and the beach, the horizon unimpeded by skyscrapers or smog.
He pulls tapas from the fridge and makes a joke that the housekeeper is a gem. I’m not super familiar with this sort of thing—my father is very formal—but I help get plates and bowls from the cupboard. A pair of each. One for him and one for me. We work around each other instinctively. It’s sweetly domestic, playing house. The beach cottage is small, and if I ignore my conscience—I’m going to kill him, right?—I can imagine this is normal for us.
He suggests eating on the terrace, and while the wind tugs at my hair like a playful puppy, I ask him about himself. We miss out on all the mafia stuff. No word of family. No questions about who lived and died on the paths that brought us here.
When we’ve eaten our fill, he brings out ice cream and we lounge all afternoon, looking out at the sea. Just food and music. The conversation meanders comfortably to our favourite books and movies. A few in common, many not, and I’m exclaiming that he must read this, or I’m going to make him watch that.
I’m not going to. The fact he will never read anything I’ve recommended to him is a weight in my stomach.
There’s a thread of awareness that shimmers between us and as the sun dips, I can’t help myself. I find excuses to touch him. A speck of dust on his shirt. Fingertips to his knee when he makes a joke. So when he casually offers his hand, palm up, between us, I first brush my fingers against his in a deniable, movement. Then when he loosely clasps his big hand around mine, I don’t draw away. I lace our hands together and take in the warmth.
And the thought drifts across my mind like a fluffy cloud: much more of this fresh air, infinite sky, and the reassurance of Nik’s bulky presence and I’ll fall for him.
It’s an act. I know that, and I’m acting myself, right?
Right?
I wish my heart knew that, because it’s insisting today has been magic. The best day of my life.
It’s only when I go into the beach house to nip to the loo, the door closing behind me with a click, that my chest tightens. The air inside is still, and it’s like the wind-blown salt and sand that carried me back here drops into my stomach.
I’m going to end up trapped. Again.
After being locked up for years, I confess, today has been… amazing. Yes because of the beach and feeling free. The air that isn’t recycled a million times, the breeze on my face and tangling my hair. I knew being away from Tottenham Tower and London would be wonderful.
I didn’t haveliking my husbandon my bingo card, but here we are.
My husband.
My enemy. The man who gave me an orgasm so intense I basically had an out-of-body experience, then kissed me and held me all night.
My videographer.
My personal chef. Sort of.
My mother’smurderer.
And while I can forgive his smug gorgeousness on the beach thing, am I really ready to give up revenge?
Being with Nikolai is like hearing a half remembered favourite song. Every part of me wants to lean into him and sing at the top of my voice.
I could easily fall in love with him. I’m not sure I haven’t already begun to tumble because being with him is too easy, but that doesn’t change the facts. It’s Edmonton who killed my mother and the mafia war that gave my father the excuse to keep me locked up. He always said Tottenham Tower had everything I needed. A cinema, two pools, a gym, cafés and restaurants, and a nightclub.
I guess it makes me greedy, but I need trees and salt air, sand between my toes and to go wherever I want to go at a whim.
There’s a sly voice in my brain that says Nik—my husband—will provideallof that, plus orgasms that send my heart pattering and make me weak.
