‘I need... I need to wash,’ she said, heat climbing into her cheeks as she became all too aware of the sticky residue of their lovemaking between her thighs.
He hadn’t used a condom. And she hadn’t asked him to.
She dismissed the new ripple of panic. She couldn’t think about any consequences now. She’d deal with those later. First, she had to get away from that assessing, intense gaze. And regroup, rethink, re-evaluate her position—her thoughts were so tangled now she could hardly breathe, let alone think.
Could she still stay here? Did she deserve to live in Pierre’s home after sleeping with his enemy? But how could she not when she was the only thing standing between La Maison de la Lune and destruction?
She tugged her arm but Maxim held on, his thumb stroking the inside of her elbow and making the prickle of renewed desire distress her even more.
‘Please, I need to...’ she began.
‘Let me help you clean up.’ He sat up, swung his long legs to the floor and stood in one smooth move, still keeping a firm grip on her arm.
While she was frantic and awash with guilt, he seemed composed and unperturbed by what had just happened. Her panic increased.
‘What?’ she asked, the blush burning her cheeks as she tried to avoid looking at his nakedness and deny the melting sensation in her chest—and her sex—at the abrupt but painfully intimate offer to help her wash herself.
How could her body still want him when everything they’d just done was wrong? On so many levels. She’d never really considered her virginity of particular importance. But if that were the case, why had she held onto it for so long? And how had this man been able to destroy all her fears about intimacy so easily—and so quickly?
He tugged her off the bed until she was standing in front of him, then cradled her cheek in his palm. ‘Did I hurt you, Cara?’
She shook her head, but the gruff question had the tears she couldn’t shed burning the back of her throat. She swallowed hard.
Don’t cry, don’t you dare cry. It doesn’t mean anything. It happened and now it’s over and it was a massive mistake.
Her chest felt as if it were imploding.
Not a mistake, an aberration. Brought about by stress, and chemistry. And incredible stupidity.
He doesn’t care about you. All he cares about are the vines. And his feud with Pierre. And you don’t care about him. Not really. You don’t even know him. Your loyalty is to La Maison now. It has to be.
Just because he was Pierre’s son. And Pierre had neglected him. He was powerful and successful now. And he’d slept with hundreds of women.
Just because he was your first, it doesn’t make this special. First is just a number.
He planned to destroy La Maison, and she couldn’t let that happen. That made them enemies, no matter what had just happened in her bed.
‘Really, I need to...’ She couldn’t seem to find the words, so ashamed now she could hardly talk. She should ask him to leave, but she was so shaky, so confused, she couldn’t seem to say anything.
‘Breathe, Cara,’ he said, taking control, just as he had before.
He threaded his fingers through hers and led her into the bedroom’s small and spartan en suite bathroom. Snagging the robe she kept hooked on the door, he handed it to her. She shrugged it on, pathetically grateful for the layer of protection. And even more grateful when he lifted a towel from the pile she kept by the sink and hooked it around his waist.
He slapped down the toilet seat. ‘Sit.’
She perched on the seat, trying to focus, trying to find her equilibrium again. But all she seemed capable of doing was gazing at him, mesmerised by his assured, efficient movements.
If he’d made La Maison’s reception room look small he made her bathroom look minuscule. Finding soap and a flannel, he ran water into the sink until it was warm, then soaked and lathered the washcloth.
He squatted in front of her and drew apart the robe to expose her tightly closed legs. His gaze met hers as he placed a warm hand on her knee.
‘Open for me, Cara,’ he murmured, the husky words reminding her of a similar demand earlier, which she had obeyed without question.
‘I can... I can do it,’ she said, stuttering, her blush radioactive as she reached for the flannel.
‘I would like to,’ he said. ‘I want to be sure I did not hurt you.’
It wasn’t a demand, she could have refused him, but the yearning in her chest had her dropping her hand. And allowing him to ease her knees apart.