She swallows hard and I’m certain tears aren’t far away, but she manages to blink them away. “He doesn’t always prop me up.”
“Yes. He does. And you know it.”
“God,” she mutters, standing. “You are such a bastard. I came here for your support and you say this shit to me.”
I watch her as she reaches for her bag, and I stand as she takes a few steps in the direction of the hallway. “Aly, you know it’s true.”
Spinning around, she glares at me. “No, what I know is that you never have my back where Malcolm is concerned. You’ve always sided with him when we’ve fought. I thought this time you might let me talk and listen to my side, but I was wrong. You never change, Ashton.”
I grip her arm and halt her progress as she tries to leave. “There aren't sides in this. There’s you and Malcolm—two people trying to make a marriage work, and all I’m interested in is helping you do that. I don’t want to see you struggle in your marriage, and to do that you need to face the facts.”
“And what are the facts?” Tension settles over us and it would be easy for me to mistake it for anger, but I know that it’s really fear.
“You’re afraid to give yourself completely to Malcolm. You don’t let him all the way in, Alessandra, and it’s time you did. Because not letting him in is what’s causing all these fights and doubts in your marriage.”
She yanks her arm out of my grip. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. God, you haven’t even been married or hardly had a real relationship, so how do you even get to say that stuff to me?”
“I get to say that stuff because I’m your brother and no one else says it to you. Everyone else in your life just panders to you, but what you really need to hear is what I just said.”
“Yeah, well I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to stay here tonight.” With that, she stalks out of my house, slamming the front door behind her.
Lorelei joins me in the living room after Alessandra leaves. I sigh as I take in the expression on her face. “If you’re going to give me hell for what I just said, I don’t want to hear it.”
She shakes her head. “No, I’m not going to give you hell. You just said all that to her for two reasons, didn’t you? Because you believe it to be true, and because you knew it would force her to go home. To her husband.”
I snake my hand around her waist and pull her close. “You’re a smart woman, Lorelei.” I press my mouth to hers and kiss her, before adding, “I’m not waiting for tomorrow to fuck you.”
A sexy smile settles on her face. “Those are the best words that have come out of your mouth tonight.”
“No, the best words to come out of my mouth are these—take your clothes off.”
17
Lorelei
A shiver runs through me at Ashton’s words and I suddenly feel shy in front of him. Weird, because the man stripped me last night and made me come. But the way he’s looking at me now is making me self-conscious and all kinds of confused.
I move out of his hold and take a step back. “I’m not stripping for you in here. Jack could walk in at any moment.”
“True.”
He guides me out of the room and down the hallway to a flight of stairs that are encased in glass. Indicating for me to go first, he follows closely behind as I do my best to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.
Why am I so damn nervous?
It’s not like I haven’t slept with a man before. But there’s something about Ashton that I’ve never experienced with a man, and right now it’s crashing into me in a big way.
He’s so dominant.
I’m beginning to think that Ashton might be the kind of man I could lose myself in, because if he doesn’t give me space now to keep him at arm’s length, he’s sure as hell not going to give me space once I’ve handed him my heart. I’m not sure I can survive him if this relationship turns into something that consumes me like that.
We enter what I presume is his bedroom, and as he closes the door behind us, I turn and face him. “This room is stunning.”
Ashton has expensive taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows fill one wall of his room, the view a jaw-dropping panorama of Sydney. The city lights up his space in a beautiful wash of colour, highlighting the opulence that even his minimalist style can’t hide. Only a few pieces of furniture occupy the room—a bed that I’m pretty sure is larger than a king, bedside tables, and a leather armchair—with a couple of lamps scattered around. He has a preference for the rich tones of brown; various shades of the colour are splashed throughout. But it’s the large pieces of art adorning the walls and the textured grey paint that really make this room.
He doesn’t stop or acknowledge what I’ve said, but rather keeps moving towards me. The hard set of his jaw and shoulders, coupled with his stride causes my heart to beat faster.
I swallow hard.