Page 37 of Daughter of a Monster

He doesn’t say anymore as he pushes into the water, dipping his head under the surface and swimming all the way to the other end with one breath. He gulps in air as he twists to push against the side with his feet, the extra propulsion cutting him through the water faster. He does this without breaks until I realize I’m doing nothing but watching him, so I too, push off from the side. He must notice I’m in the water, because his relentless pace slows, and he comes to the surface, his strokes matching mine.

I swear I can feel the warmth of him reach me. It’s like he heats the water. We lock eyes each time we lift our heads to take in a breath. The presence of him is heavy. Heavy and warm.

I do ten more lengths before I decide to stop. It’s too hard to breathe with him around. Too hard to concentrate on what I’m doing. His swimming slows even more when I walk toward the edge of the pool. The splash of the water stops as I grip the handles of the ladder and pull myself upwards. I can’t help but turn around to see if he’s watching. And he is. He’s down the other end, his back pressed to the side, arms looped over the edge. His eyes scan my body as I pull myself up. He doesn’t say anything when his gaze finally lifts to my eyes, but there’s no need to, everything is written in his expression.

Hunger. Lust. Temptation. Longing.

His eyes follow me as I pad along the side of the pool, heading toward the changing room. I have to walk past him, but before I reach him, he turns, placing his hands on the edge and pulls himself out of the water in one fluid motion to stand before me. The move is filled with such confidence and arrogance, it makes me tremble. His cock is stiff, standing to attention as he blocks the path in front of me. I lick my lips.

Why am I like this around him?

Why does every part of me ache for him?

“How are you enjoying your time here with us, Miss Berkley?”

And there it goes again. Miss Berkley. There’s just something about the way he says it. I swallow whatever it is that’s lodged in my throat.

“Fine. It’s fine.”

He smiles then. Well, actually it’s more of a smirk, the corners of his mouth just lifting slightly. It looks good on him. I need to keep looking at it. I can’t look down.

“Fine?”

“Yes, fine.” I go to step past him, but he moves, blocking my way. “Is there something you wanted?” I ask, needing to get away from him so I can breathe again.

“Usually you’re a lot more direct, blunt. Is there something on your mind, Miss Berkley?”

It’s not fair what the sight of him does to me. The familiar tingling sensation starts in my gut and I silently beg it to stop. Please, not here.

His lips drag over my skin, leaving a trail of moisture in their wake.

Not with him staring at me so intently.

They travel lower and lower, teasing and nipping, his teeth grazing over my flesh.

Not while I’m directly caught in his gaze and he’s looking at me the way he is.

His low groan fills the air as he parts my legs, tasting me.

Even though I’m wearing a regular sport swimsuit, I feel as though I may as well be as naked as he is under the brush of his gaze. His gaze sweeps up to my face, taking in the flush of my throat, the warmth in my cheeks, the glaze of my eyes and the way my breath has heightened.

“Are you okay?” He takes a step forward, close enough that I can feel the dampness of him. “You’re looking a little flushed.”

“I’m fine.”

He chuckles. “There it is again. Fine. You don’t strike me as the sort of woman who usually describes things as fine, Miss Berkley.”

I push my shoulders back, attempting to regain some of the ground I feel I’ve somehow lost. “Well, clearly I am.” Lifting my chin, I push past him, ignoring the heat that scorches when our skin touches.

I can feel his gaze on me as I retreat, but I refuse to turn around. My entire body is on fire. I’m certain my face will be burning red. But I keep walking, refusing to look behind me until I’m back safe in my room and flopped on my bed with the image of him seared into my brain.

It’s like there’s a cloud surrounding me for the rest of the day. I’m in a haze. One that’s difficult to push through. My thoughts are interspersed between Jericho and my father. It’s confusing and conflicting.

When I ask Ette what she wants to do before bed, her answer is instant. She wants to dance like we did in that first lesson. So far, I’ve been sticking to what Jericho said. We’d been going over the basic ballet feet positions. Adding arm movements was a little too ambitious at this stage. Ette was not impressed. She complained almost every day, but she always ended up doing what she was told. But this was not a lesson. And I am doing Jericho Priest a favor by looking after Ette outside my normal hours. Not that it is unusual. I often spend time with her of my free will. But it is my excuse for going against his wishes and letting Ette dance without structure or rules.

But as she dances, I’m distracted, my mind caught on Jericho and my conversation with Gideon the day before. And fighting swans. And missing fathers. And wet, glorious, naked bodies.

What if this is all an elaborate ruse to keep me under my father’s control? What if it’s him who told Jericho to hire me? Maybe Jericho knew my father. Maybe that’s what was going on down in the basement.

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