Red Hot Obsessions (15 page)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

An hour later, I lie naked in Calder's bed.

Calder himself stands next to a cart of food that Martin brought up a little while ago. I can't decide where to look: at the gorgeous plates of food he’s revealing one by one or the equally gorgeous vision of his well-muscled body. In this light, his tanned skin is a pale bronze, and his hair looks even darker—almost black. The shadows play across his pecs and abs in a way that highlights every groove, every firm round edge of muscle beneath his taut skin. I finally have the chance to notice the dusting of hair on his chest, and the way his waist narrows from his broad shoulders into a perfect V. By my estimation, he's the perfect specimen of a man—why no one's tried to carve a copy of this one out of marble yet, I can't guess.

“Like what you see?”

I glance up to find Calder smiling at me with amusement. I sit up quickly on the bed, embarrassed to be caught staring.

“I'm only eager for the food,” I say, but I know he knows better, even if the heat on my cheeks doesn't give me away.

Calder sets down the dish he's holding and walks over to the bed.

“There's nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says. His fingers slip beneath my hair and he tilts my head back to look at him. Our eyes lock, and he holds my gaze as his thumb drifts up and down the column of my throat.

“There's nothing wrong with looking,” he tells me. “I've spent the better part of these past few days looking at you.”

I feel like I should say something, but I can't find the words.

“You're beautiful, Lily. A goddess. Does it bother you that I want to admire your body?”

Not at all, truth be told. But I've never had a guy come out and ask me a question like that so bluntly before.

“It doesn't bother me,” I manage.

The corner of Calder's mouth twists up, but it's no longer amusement that marks his features—rather something ravenous and wicked. He lowers me gently onto my back on the bed and drags the comforter away from my body.

His eyes dance over my skin, starting with my neck and moving all the way down to my toes. His gaze is so intense that I swear I can almost feel the heat of that smolder on my skin. There's a trail of tingling nerves down the length of my body, and he hasn't even touched me yet.

When he does touch me, just above the collarbone, it's like my flesh jumps to meet him. Still, I remain perfectly motionless as his finger brushes back and forth.

“At first,” he says softly, “I thought your neck was the loveliest part of your body.” His mouth curls lazily. “It was back at that fundraiser you threw for your organization. You wore this black gown, and your hair was up. I remember thinking how long and graceful your neck looked.”

I must make a face because his eyebrow quirks up.

“What? Don't believe me?”

“You remember what I wore to Arts & Hearts?”

“Of course.”

“But you looked so bored.”

He laughs. “I’d just stepped off a flight from Rome. I was fighting a jetlag headache from hell. Anyway,” he says, tracing my lower lip with his fingers, “how could I be bored when I got to watch you all night?”

I want to believe him, but I have a feeling he’s just feeding me a line.

“Even if you’re telling the truth about that,” I say. “I don’t believe for a minute that you were checking out my neck, of all things. Men don’t think that way. The first things men notice are your breasts or your ass, depending on which way you're facing.”

He chuckles and runs his fingers across the curve of my shoulder.

“I'm not going to dispute what other men may or may not admire first. But I remember you very clearly, Ms. Frazer. As I said, you were wearing a black gown. Your neck and shoulders were completely bare. No jewelry or anything.” He reaches up and weaves his hand in my hair. “Your hair was up, but one tendril managed to escape and fall along here.” He twists a section of my hair around his finger and lays it against the column of my neck.

My heart is fluttering in my chest. I reach up and grab the section of hair from his hand and toss it back in with the rest. The passionate, dominant Calder I can handle—the one who leaves bruises on my skin and shoves my shirt into my mouth to keep me silent—but I don't know how to deal with this gentler version of him. Yes, I wore a black gown to the Arts & Hearts fundraiser. I'd meant to wear a strand of pearls, but in the rush of preparations I'd forgotten to put them on. I'd done my hair myself, and I'm not surprised to hear that a tendril escaped, but I
am
surprised that he noticed. That he remembers, even now.

“Why didn’t you say anything then?”

“I promised my father I’d behave myself,” he replies, “and I was afraid your man-friend would start a fight if I stole you away.”

My man-friend?
Oh, of course—I was still with Garrett at the time. I’m glad Calder had the sense to stay away. As controlling as my ex was at the end, he would definitely have caused a scene if he thought another man was coming on to me.

“Is he the one who’s been calling you?” Calder says, reading into my silence.

“It’s long over, if that’s what you’re wondering,” I assure him. “But I don’t want to talk about him. I want you to continue explaining how you didn’t notice my breasts.”

He laughs.

“I'll admit,” he continues, drawing his finger down my body, “that I noticed your breasts, too.” To emphasize his point, he curls a hand around one of my breasts, filling his palm. “So soft, so round, so perfect…” He brushes his thumb across the tender skin of my areola. “With such delicate pink nipples…”

I suck in a breath as he rolls my nipple between his fingers. He gives me another one of his grins and then continues down my body. His hands move down across my skin slowly, delicately, as if I'm a precious, breakable thing that might shatter at his touch. He traces each of my ribs in turn, as if has all the time in the world to explore my body, not just this night I’ve promised him.

“And your arms,” he says, taking me by the wrist and lifting my arm from the sheets. “Such long, lovely arms, with soft, perfect hands.” He raises my fingers to his lips and kisses them one by one.

“They look so innocent,” he continues, “but I know very well what pleasure and what pain they can cause.” He brings my fingers around to his back, placing them on the scratch marks I made this morning. Was that only this morning? It feels like a lifetime ago.

I look up at Calder. How many days have I been here now? Two? Three? They're all running together. I hardly know this man, and what I do know isn't particularly good, but I feel something when I look at him, when he looks at me—it's strange. There's
something
, some understanding, some connection that I don't think either of us could put a name to, even if we tried.

“And your legs,” he says, sliding further down my body. He takes a single finger and traces me, light as a feather, from hip to ankle, and then back up again. It tickles, but I don't feel the urge to laugh. I feel like a blade of grass shaking and helpless beneath the wind.

Calder leans down and kisses my toes, one by one, as he kissed my fingers.

“Every inch of you is beautiful.”

I close my eyes for a moment, letting his words wash over me, but I don't let myself enjoy them too long.

“That's a pretty line,” I say, eyes still closed. “But you don't have to try so hard. I'm already at your mercy.”

He doesn't say anything for a moment.

“It's not a line,” he offers finally. His hand sweeps over my throat once more. “Do you think I'm exaggerating?”

I peer up at him through my lashes. “Maybe. Maybe not. I think you're a man who's had a lot of practice charming women into bed with him.”

My bluntness seems to surprise him for the briefest of moments.

“I've been with other women, of course. But I’m here with you now, and every word I speak is the truth.”

I raise my eyebrow. I don't think I'm unattractive, by any means—in fact, I've always been a little proud of my figure—but I know better than to trust the compliments of a silver-tongued billionaire playboy, especially one who’s admitted to romancing starlets and supermodels.

“You hardly know me,” I say.

“And that means I can't think you're beautiful?”

I suppose it doesn't.

“Besides, it's not fair to compare yourself to any other women anyway.” His thumb roams lazily along the line of my jaw. “I've never had a woman force her way onto my property before, and I've never had to tackle one in the mud.”

I roll my eyes, but he catches me by the chin and forces me to look up at him.

“And I've certainly never had so much fun playing hide and seek with one. You're something else completely.”

My neck and cheeks go hot at his words, but he still has me by the chin and I can't look away.

“You're something else yourself,” I manage after a moment.

His eyes darken at my words. “Oh?”

Where do I begin? He's the most infuriating man I've ever met—and the sexiest. In any given moment I can't decide whether I want to scream at him or stick my tongue in his mouth.

I reach up and place my hands on his bare skin. He's propped on his arms, leaning over me, and all the muscles of his chest are firm, contracted. I slide my hands down his belly, reveling in the hardness of his body.

Then, without warning, I give him a shove. He topples off me, landing on his back beside me, and before he can recover I've sprung up and reversed our positions. Now I'm leaning over him and he's helpless beneath me.

“You don't always get to be the one in control.” I gaze down the length of him, taking in every delicious inch of his body. “I think it's my turn to explore you.”

The hunger on his face is unmistakable, but he makes no move to stop me as I sidle up his body and place my finger on his collarbone, exactly where he began his inspection of me.

He truly is spectacular. I’m getting turned on already, and I haven't even moved past the PG section of his body. His skin is soft and warm beneath my touch, and I brush the pads of my fingers lightly down his chest. I glance up at his face, and I find him staring down at me, his eyes dark and half-lidded. His breathing is heavy.

I continue my exploration down over his ribs, across his stomach. I want to feel every muscle, to know the power of his body beneath my fingers. This body could hold me down, take me again and again until I begged for mercy.

His arms come next, and his warm hands. I close his fingers in my own, marveling at the calluses I find: stories, each one. Where did this rough patch on his thumb come from? How did he earn this mark on his palm? They're the hands of a man who's done things.

It only reminds me how little I know about this man in front of me. What was he doing, a week ago from now? A year? Five? He has a life outside his business with the Center. A life outside his interactions with me.

There's another mark on his left hand. A red streak on his palm.

“What is it?” he asks when he notices me lingering.

I flip over his hand and trace the scar with my finger. “What's this from?”

He gives a chuckle and twists his hand slightly in my grasp, stretching the scar and making it stand out all the more against his golden skin.

“I was nineteen when I got that. I was an idiot. Got a little over-zealous trying to fix the rudder on our boat.” He flexes his fingers. “My father said I was trying too hard to impress my date.”

“I didn’t realize you had a boat.” Not that I should be surprised. He probably inherited an entire fleet. My mind automatically tries to calculate the value of a boat compared to the size of his father’s pledge, but I suppress the thought. I don’t want to think about it.

“Not anymore,” Calder replies to my question, suddenly somber. “I sold it a couple of months ago.”

Oh.
A “couple of months” means he probably got rid of it shortly after his father died. Maybe he thought he’d never use it himself, or maybe it reminded him too much of his dad. I don’t know what to say. I didn’t mean to bring up memories of his father, especially not while we’re here in bed together. His eyes are distant, sad, and I reach down and touch him gently on the cheek.

His gaze snaps to me, and the melancholy disappears as quickly as it appeared. In its place is something akin to annoyance.

He bats my hand away. “I'm fine.”

I sit back, startled at his sudden shift in mood.

“You don't seem fine,” I say carefully.

“Don't start that.” He twists away from me and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He pauses for a moment—just long enough to sweep his hand across his face—then rises and goes back to the cart of food.

I remain frozen, stunned. I was only trying to offer my compassion, but if he doesn't want it, then fine. I won't pretend to give a damn.

I force myself to unclench my fists and sit back on the bed. I'm not his girlfriend. I'm not even his friend. We even said it out in my car—after this weekend, we'll probably never see each other again. There's no reason for me to get worked up over his moods or try to help him with his daddy issues.

Still, I can't help but feel saddened at the pain he's clearly suppressing. I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he resumes the task of laying out the food. His shoulders are stiff, his normally sensual mouth drawn in a hard line. I can't read the expression in his dark eyes, but he looks like he's about to explode with some dark emotion.

I sigh and close my eyes. Who am I to judge how someone deals with the loss of their father? I'd be a mess, too.

I know better than to raise the issue with him again, but I don't think it's a good idea to let him stew on his feelings, either.

“What did Martin send?” I say pleasantly.

It’s a risk. For a moment he doesn't respond, and I wonder if I crossed the line, but then he lets out a slow breath.

“Oysters,” he says casually. “And pasta in a light cream sauce.” He moves the trays over to a small table set against the wall. “I hope you're hungry?”

“Starving.”

When he looks up at me again, all hints of his previous surliness are gone. Instead he smiles at me, and the expression makes my insides twist.