Page 30 of Daughter of a Monster

Jericho rams his knee between my legs, forcing them apart.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the vision as I watch the back of my employer curiously. He’s an imposing man, formidable, but not frightening. I have never felt unsafe around him; in fact, I’ve mainly only felt attraction to him, but I’m beginning to reconsider that now. There’s something rough and rugged, despite his seemingly formal lifestyle with all the rules.

I follow him until we’re in a large room. A desk is backed by three rain-streaked windows, each of them working in unison to create a peaked frame. One of the walls is lined floor to ceiling in books, another in black and white images of the restoration process of the building. The light from the moon falls across the floorboards, matching the peaked arches of the windows.

Jericho walks over to the screen-covered desk, roughly jerks one of the drawers open and pulls out a notepad and pen.

“Here.” He shoves them in my direction.

His knuckles are red and purple. But it’s not until I get close to him that I notice the scratches on his cheek. They’re not deep, but they’ve drawn blood. Without thought, I reach up, my fingers brushing against the wounds.

“What happened?” I ask. My voice is so quiet it almost goes unheard against the cry of the wind.

Jericho’s eyes flash darkly and he captures my hand, locking his fingers around my wrist and holding it away from him. He doesn’t say anything, just traps my eyes with his. I know I should be scared. But I’m not. Not of him. I match the intensity of his gaze, refusing to look away. His fingers burn my wrist, singeing my skin. His eyes bore into mine. They come closer, close enough for me to see the specks of blue in the darkness of the black sapphire.

His breath dances over my face. His cologne invades me. It’s such an intoxicating scent, I want to inhale and drown in it. Releasing my wrist, he captures my chin between his fingers, drawing me closer. There’s only a fraction of breath between us. If I push onto my tiptoes I would be able to press my lips against his.

He studies me, his eyes scanning over every inch of my face. They get stuck on my lips for an instant then fall down my body. My robe is disheveled from my sprint back up the stairs. Cold air teases the flesh of my breasts.

He takes a step closer, the length of him brushing against me. It’s just a tease, a whisper of how he would feel and my entire body shudders in anticipation.

I want him to kiss me.

I want him to meld his body to mine.

I want him to consume me.

But then his grip on my chin is gone and he takes a step away.

“I’ll show you back to your room.” His voice is calm and even, like nothing passed between us.

But I know it did.

I felt it.

He walks out the door without looking to see if I follow. Fixing my robe, I follow, watching him intently. He’s dressed casually, a t-shirt and jeans. The blades of his shoulders slide under the material seductively. He’s cut beautifully with broad shoulders that taper down to his waist and lead to a defined backside.

He shows me back to my room, holding open the door and standing to the side so I can walk through. I almost have to brush against him to pass and I catch a whiff of his scent again. It does something dangerous to my insides and I’m struck by the thought of what he would taste like.

And then I have a flash. The same one I’ve had before.

I’m kneeling at his feet, utterly and completely exposed. This time I feel the cold air prickle my skin. I feel the nervousness of waiting for his touch, the shiver of excitement in knowing that he wants me. It’s just a single finger that he places under my chin, lifting my gaze to his.

He’s so handsome in that moment it hurts.

My insides clench, much like they do when anxiety hits, but there’s no accompanying swell of nausea. His hand changes position, moving to cup my cheek. I nuzzle into the softness of his palm. He takes a step back, then another. Shrugging his shoulders, his jacket falls to the ground. And then he starts to undo the buttons of his shirt, one by one, slowly and seductively. I cannot keep my eyes off him. I watch the strip of flesh between the material, my heart pounding in anticipation.

And then it’s gone. Vanished into thin air. And Jericho is still standing in my doorway, only a fraction of a second having passed.

“Goodnight, Miss Berkley.” His voice is deeper than usual, gruffer too. And the way he says Miss Berkley sends shudders through my body.

chapter eleven

JERICHO

She’s killing me. It was one thing to watch her dance but quite another to have her body brushing against mine, the swells of her breasts teasing me through the flimsy material of her robe. This isn’t supposed to happen. She isn’t supposed to get under my skin. I’m not supposed to be attracted to her, distracted by her. But here I am, having to deal with her instead of keeping to my mission.

“Barrett!” I storm into my office, fuming with anger and frustration. Anger that I found her wandering. If she’d seen something it could have ruined everything. And frustration that I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to crush my mouth against hers, to taste her, to feel her soft and supple body. She’s like an addiction I can’t stop thinking about. Even when I don’t want to, even when I’m away from her, visions float into my mind of all the things I want to do. But I won’t. I’m stronger than that. She’s here for a purpose and if I feed my desires, give in to temptation, I will become weak and it will put it all in jeopardy.

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