“I need you,” he murmurs. His breath warms the skin below my ear, making my skin tingle. A soft sigh escapes my lips. “Stop pushing me away,” he continues, and I feel his hand skim the side of my breast. His fingers barely touch me, but my nipples harden, the tight peaks pushing out from under my clothes, begging for more.
His breath comes out in a hard rush, and his lips trail a sweet path along my hairline. Heat pulses between my legs, and through the layers of clothes between us, I can feel his need for me, hard and thick, guaranteed to give me the pleasure I need.
“I want you.” His voice is bewitching, mesmerizing… the voice of temptation. “I want all of you, and I’m going crazy with the need to touch you. I want to bury myself so deep inside you, it would be impossible to tell where you end and I begin. I want to hear you scream when you come. I can hardly think of anything else.
My body clenches with raw, insistent need. I can’t find enough air to fill my lungs. I close my eyes, the combination of his proximity and the things he’s saying making me unable to think of anything but wild multi-orgasmic sex.
“I remember everything,” he whispers in my ear. The sounds you make in your throat, the exquisite taste of your pussy, the way you cry out when you come, the perfect curve of your breast in my hand.” He looks into my face, his eyes heated and imploring. “I remember what it’s like to sleep with you in my arms, Rachel. And sometimes I don’t know what I want more, to fuck you or just to hold you.
I feel like if he keeps talking, I might just come from the sound of his voice in my ear. “Please,” I whisper. I don’t know what I’m begging for. I don’t know if I want him to do everything my body is screaming for, or if I want him to leave.
“Please, what?” One hand moves to my waist, his fingers flexing at my back. I gasp as the pulse of arousal and heat intensifies between my legs.
I look helplessly into his face… “Please,” I croak. “Please leave.”
His eyes close, and he straightens, taking a step back. He turns his face away when he opens his eyes, concentrating on the windows for a few moments. When he looks back at me, his expression is one of resignation.
I clench my fists, resisting the desperate urge to surrender myself to him. We’re both silent, and I’m almost afraid to move. He gestures towards the door at my back, and I slowly step away from it, watching him, feeling a profound loss, as well as excruciating, devastating pain.
“I’m…” he sighs. “God!” He smiles then, and it’s a humorless smile. “I’m sorry,” he says bitterly.
Then he’s gone, the door closing with a soft click behind him. Immediately I burst into tears, unable to hold it in anymore. The sobs wrack my body as I slide down onto the floor, wondering why everything has to be so fucking difficult.
IN fifty years, this building will no longer be here,” my mom declares. “There’ll be some ugly glass monolith instead.”
“You don’t know that,” my dad replies. He’s looking distinguished in a black tux. My mom, in a burgundy evening gown, with her hair in a stylish chignon, looks elegant. I really think she could pass for my sister if she tried. We’re in the old ballroom of the Remington house. It’s a lovely place, decorated in the beaux-arts style, with high ceilings, arched windows, ornamental wall carvings, and patterned marble floors. There are paintings from different eras hanging on the walls, all part of the Remington collection. In the front of the room, the two Cornelia Eames paintings are set up and covered with some kind of cloth.
“So the Remingtons lost the paintings in a bet?” Laurie asks my mom.
“Yes,” Mom says. “Of course they weren’t as valuable then as they are now, but the artist was already something of a personality. She was a… free spirit and her lovers were some of the most prominent men of the time.” She pauses. “Anyway, I was told the family of the man who won the paintings offered to give them back to the collection.”
I wonder how valuable the paintings are. “Why would they return them?”
She looks at me, her eyes doing the journey from my face to my dress once again. She’s already told me that I’ve lost weight and that she’s worried about me. She sighs. “Well, the Remington Foundation depends on the income from this place. Cornelia Eames is a famous painter, adding her work to the roster brings more people here. It helps to keep the foundation running and to postpone the inevitable day when the bulldozers come for this place.”
“So dramatic.” Dad laughs, looking indulgently at her, and she smiles up at him, her face lighting up. Get a room already, I think almost resentfully, taking a sip from the glass of champagne I took from a passing waiter. Looking around, I notice that the room isn’t packed full, but the turnout is impressive. The guests are not only arty types, though it’s hard to tell from the clothes since everyone is dressed up. I recognize a few socialites with well-reported interests in art, and I imagine that there may also be some distant Remington relations in the crowd.
I’m about to turn back to my parents when I see a familiar face. It lights up in recognition and makes a beeline for us.
“Rachel!” He looks surprised and pleased to see me, and I smile at him, though I’m finding it difficult to look at the handsome, familiar features. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I feel the same way. He drops a kiss on my cheeks then faces my family, his manner relaxed and confident, just like his brother.
“I’m Aidan Court,” he says, holding out a hand to shake my father.
“Trent Foster,” Dad replies pleasantly, taking Aidan’s proffered hand. “I’m Rachel’s dad. This is my wife, Lynne, and my niece, Laurie.” He cocks his head contemplatively. “Any rela
tion to Landon Court?”
“They’re brothers,” I offer politely.
Aidan confirms with a nod. “We had the pleasure of meeting your brother,” my dad tells him, unaware that even this small reminder of Landon’s existence has taken me back to the state of emotional turmoil I can’t seem to escape for long.
“Landon’s somewhere outside,” Aidan says. “Talking with the director. He should be here any moment.”
“Landon is here?” I hate how panicked my voice sounds.
“He’s donating the paintings,” Aidan winks. “My grandfather was a skilled gambler, winning whatnot from unsuspecting friends.”