Page 3 of Guardian's Touch

His eyes pierce me from across the room while his generous mouth tips downward at the corners in a familiar frown. “Since when do you barge into my office?”

“Sorry. I figured since it means so much to you that I get as far away as possible, you would care that my acceptance materials came in the mail today.” I march across the room and slap the letter onto his desk.

Frank clears his throat on his way to the door. “I'll leave you two alone for a minute.”

“Take the dog with you,” Dane mutters. Great. That means he's in a worse mood than usual today. He normally at least tolerates Georgie, and I've seen him play with him a few times when he didn't know I was watching. I don't know why he has to pretend to be such a hard-ass all the time.

“I don't want to go,” I announce, folding my arms once we’re alone. “And you know I don't want to go. Why are you making me do this?”

“Why are you wasting my time?” he counters, tossing the letter aside once he's skimmed it and dropping into his chair. “Who in their right mind doesn't want to go to Yale?”

“Me. I don't want to leave. I want to stay here.”

“That is out of the question.”

“Are you that desperate to get rid of me?”

He growls softly, and I wish he wouldn't. Not because it scares me but because it makes my nipples go tight. I'm too mad to let this insane infatuation get in the way. “Let me get this straight. You were accepted to an Ivy League school many kids would kill to get into. The tuition is paid. You're all set. And you're still in here, complaining to me about it?”

“Why does it not matter what I want? Can you at least answer that?”

“I know better.”

If I had a dollar for every time I heard that, I could afford to pay the tuition myself.

“I have much more important things going on right now,” he continues, “and you’ve interrupted a meeting. If this is all you were coming in here to complain about, I have to ask you to go elsewhere.”

He means it, too. There isn't so much as a scrap of regret or even understanding in his cold, hard eyes. If he would only pretend to understand. If it even seemed like I had a say in my own life.

If he would only see me as a woman and not a little girl. Because that's what's at the heart of this. He'll never see me the way I want him to.

I almost run from the room because saying anything would mean bursting into tears. I always cry when I'm frustrated, and nobody frustrates me worse than he does. I pass Frank along the way, and he at least looks unhappy for me.

It’s only when I’m back in my bedroom that I can let myself dropkick a pillow after screaming into it. I hate him so much that I can’t see straight.

I want him so much that my pussy is wet and aching. So much that if he barged into the room right now, I would throw myself into his arms and beg him to touch me. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to fight my craving for his big hands, the shoulders and arms that always seem ready to shred the seams of his shirts. I need to test their firmness while he puts those hands of his on my body. Every inch.

The very thought makes my pulse race and my breath come short and fast. Maybe it really is a good idea to get far away from him. I don’t know how much longer I can be strong.

For now, I need to get out of the house. Screw him for thinking he can tell me what to do. I’m sick of being watched, questioned, and denied.

Fiona answers on the first ring when I call. Of all people, Frank’s daughter understands what it’s like to live in my world. He’s almost as overprotective as Dane. “What’s up?”

“There’s a party tonight, isn’t there?” I blurt out, already looking through my closet. “At that club downtown.”

“Um, is this Camilla? Because Camilla doesn’t even try to go to parties. And she never calls me out of nowhere and mentions a party at a club we’re too young to get into.”

“Everybody we know is too young to get in, but they’re going. We’ll be fine.”

“Dane would skin you alive if he knew.”

All her warning does is make me more determined than ever. “Are you in or not?”

Her heavy sigh tells me she’s in. “Don’t blame me if he finds out.”

“You know I wouldn’t.” While I’m talking, I twist my long blond hair into a topknot to keep it dry while I’m in the shower. “But don’t drive up to the house. Park down the street and text me when you’re here so he doesn’t know.”

“He always knows.” She snorts. Sometimes I wonder whose side she’s on.

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