“When I was growing up, the home had an arrangement with the school nearby. If we kept our noses clean, we could attend and have the same chance at scholarships and higher education as the rich kids. I gave it a shot, but I wasn’t a genius, just average. And I wasn’t rich. I always wore secondhand uniforms, never had trendy shoes, never got invited to parties. The kids weren’t trying to be mean. I just wasn’t one of them.”
Aleksy’s intense scrutiny nearly evaporated her voice. It was so hard to crack herself open and reveal this tainted, imperfect neediness inside her.
“When I got to London I wasn’t special there either. I worked three jobs to make rent, so I didn’t have time to date or party even if I’d wanted to. Then along came Victor. He treated me like I was the only one who could get things right. He needed me to be places for him and when I walked down the hall, people noticed me because they thought I was important.” The last part tasted bitter. She’d known she wasn’t important, but she’d liked that others had been deluded into thinking it. How pathetic.
Letting her hips rest on the edge of the desk, she gripped it with both hands, shoulders hunching as she spilled the rest. “He gave me things I’d never had, money for clothes. New clothes. He said he’d support the foundation.”
“I’m doing that. Do I make you feel special?” His harsh voice grated over her exposed, sensitive core.
It sounded like a trick question. “I realize I’m just another mistress to you. I don’t expect you to treat me as anything special,” she said.
“You should,” he shot back with startling vehemence. “You should expect every man alive to treat you as the smart, kind, remarkable woman you are. Do not sell yourself short and fall for scum like Victor.” He rubbed his jaw so his final remark came out muffled and almost indiscernible. “Or me.”
She took a moment to remind herself she’d only known him a few days, that he might know himself better than she did, but her urge to contradict him pushed her forward a few steps.
“Don’t sink yourself into his class,” she blurted, her hand going to his arm even though it was a risk of rebuff. “The way you make me feel—”
His arm was iron beneath her touch. She could feel his instant rejection, but his attention fixated on her mouth as though he was willing her to continue.
Clair had thought she’d been cleaved open to her very heart when talking about her secondhand upbringing. What she’d revealed so far was nothing, though, nothing, compared to confiding his effect on her.
Especially when he looked so severe, as if whatever she said would be refuted and thrown back at her. He was beautiful and dangerous, clad in black jeans and a black pullover that clung to hard pecs and biceps, someone who could squash her self-worth under a disparaging heel.
“I—” She had to clear her throat. Despite her terror at opening up, she was reacting to his closeness. Heat trickled into her fingers and toes, gathering in her loins. “The way you make me feel isn’t some adolescent need for approval or status or…whatever I was looking for then. It’s…good. I just feel so good when you touch me.”
Her voice dried up and he was talking over her anyway.
“Any man could make you feel like that.”
She flashed him a galled glare and snatched her hand back. “I’ve never reacted to anyone the way I do to you.”
Hurt started her pivoting away from him, but he snatched her back to face him.
“You haven’t been with anyone else—”
“I haven’t wanted to! That’s the point. You’re special. To me. To my body,” she clarified. “I don’t know why.”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “It’s the same for me. I don’t understand it either.”
“Really?” She shouldn’t have asked. She should be more confident, not beg for confirmation that he liked to be with her, but she desperately needed to hear it.
He seemed to waver over what to say to that. She might as well have been naked, standing there waiting.
“You must know how you affect me.”
She swallowed. His words arrowed sweetly into her heart, even though they only spoke of physical reaction.