Page 49 of Lair

So. She is glad, then. She is glad I’ve chosen to stay.

As I shut the door, I can’t help but wonder when I’ll see him again. Sundown? Sooner? And the urge comes—as if in reaction to the nature of what he is—to feel alive, to feel the sun on my skin.

After a solitary breakfast I change into a frilly black bikini with cheeky bottoms and head for the sun lounge at the bow of the Lair. As I pass the bridge a side door slides open and Captain Redfearn pulls up short when he sees me. He opens his mouth to speak, then tips his hat. “Miss Strand,” he intones in a cautious sea-dog growl, and slips past as if terrified of breaking me.

He knows, then. He knows I’m seeing Adrian.

A far different reaction from the gaggle of deckhands polishing the anchor housing. They gape as I practice my catwalk sass to the sun lounge. Whispers fly—“I thought he got rid of her?”, “Where did she come from?”—and Jason pales mid-bark, looking sick to his stomach at the sight of me. I smirk and lift my chin—“As you were, boys”—and strut on, ass cheeks jiggling, exulting in my own skin. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I feel renewed, transformed, giddy with nerves.

I feel hot.

But no, it’s not just a feeling. It’s realizing at long last: I am hot.

Perhaps it’s the glow of being singled out, so unexpectedly chosen. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that I’m the model on the boat now. My turn to shine.

Or perhaps it’s simply that making a choice for myself has finally given me a taste of what real power feels like. The power of knowing I could turn Adrian in at any moment.

Jason is powerless against it. He drifts toward me with a determined look, his question like an opening salvo. “So you’re back.”

I arch a brow at him. “What makes you think I ever left?”

His face slackens in disbelief. “You chose to stay?”

“Haven’t you?” I sass right back.

He scowls and shifts his weight, taken aback. “I just—” He crosses his burly arms, the dragon on his bicep coiling angrily. “I didn’t think you would.”

A small, complex indignance stirs in me. “Oh? And why’s that?”

But he presses his lips together.

I let out a breath through my nose with a derisive “I see.” And then, “It’s different because I’m a girl, huh? But you get a free pass?”

He only simmers, and I wonder how long he’s been stewing on this. Or had he thought I’d gone the way of Adrian’s previous playthings? Perhaps he’d been torn up about it, his relief was now mixed up with his jealousy and this was how it was coming out.

But I don’t have the patience to sort this out. I cock a hip. “Did you have anything else to say?” I lift a bottle of suntan lotion. “Or were you just hoping I’d let you lather me up?”

His eyes flash. He takes a step forward, finger lifted—and freezes, glancing over his shoulder. Something happens in his face and he gives me one last conflicted look before turning away, teeth gritted. What stopped him?

That’s when I feel Adrian’s eyes on me.

I lift my gaze to check, and it’s true. A lone shadow in a suit stands at the darkly tinted windows lining the forward observation deck. There's something odd, even unsettling, about his face. As if he were wearing a gas mask. And it comes to me: binoculars. His face is half-hidden by the binoculars he is looking through. Looking through to watch me.

I am trembling when I lie down on the warm sun pad and watch the bow glide smoothly over the waves.

My mind turns expansive, reflective. I force my hands to lie still on the pad on either side of me. I have a hard time controlling my breathing. My taut tummy trembles, sucking in and out, swelling my ribcage. This is how it must be. These are the factors that give tension to this game. Him, trapped inside by the sun, unable to do anything but watch. Me, out here, torturing him with my body. This is our unspoken agreement.

I am aware Jason is looking on, sick with jealousy, but I do not think of that. He is not a part of this.

I wait, and wonder—idly, distantly—how I will react to Adrian Voper’s eyes on me.

I can’t help it. I shift and adjust in a self-conscious settling of my flesh, sweat-tacky skin sticking to the pad—the uneasiness of a mate, or prey. I stretch my arms indolent and catlike above me, and my outthrust breasts pillow generously in my bikini top. My knees, drawn up, show off the womanly angle of my thighs. I don’t have to look to sense the concentrated intensity of his excitement, and my toes curl into the sun pad. I can feel a glow suffusing me, my body quivering in a series of involuntary twitches. I am flushed with the giddiness of offering myself up to this assault—of implying an invitation. I am mesmerized, blasted with amazement. It is unbearable.

So. This is what he can do. This is the effect he can still have on me.

This is the place he still has in my world.

TWENTY-SEVEN

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