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“You aren’t making this easy, either,” he says into my hair. He kisses my neck again, and this time he moves his hips slightly, shifting himself between my legs.
I try to stifle my small cry of pleasure, but it’s no use. My fingers curl against his back, bunching up his T-shirt.
“Slide your legs together,” he murmurs.
I’m torn between relief and disappointment, thinking he’s asking me to help relieve a bit of the temptation. But as I slide my thighs back toward each other, I realize that it’s only wedging his arousal more tightly against me. We each suck in a breath at the same time.
“Are you trying to torture me?” I growl into his ear.
His good hand grips my hip. “If I’m going to suffer, then you are, too.”
He shifts his hips again, withdrawing slightly. I want to cry out, to beg him to stay where he was, but I don’t even need to voice my need. He presses forward, sliding himself back between my legs again. Once more the hard, hot length of him rubs against my panties.
Forget what I said before. This is torture. Sweet, beautiful, agonizing torture.
He moves again, pulling back and sliding forward, simulating what we both want. Every rock of his hips sends a pulse of pleasure through me, and I press my lips together, fighting back my moans. He braces himself against me, moving with a steady rhythm, and every stroke of his body brings me closer to the edge. My underwear is soaked through, the thin fabric so damp that I can feel the heat of him as if there’s nothing separating us at all. I clutch his shoulders, trying to keep myself above water.
He seems just as desperate. His breathing is ragged in my ear, and his good hand digs into my hip. He’s sweating again, and a bead of it drips from his neck onto my collarbone. My skin is so hot that the drop feels like ice as it slides down my body.
I’ve never had sex without, well, having sex. It’s not the same, and at the same time there’s something undeniably exhilarating about this. About finding pleasure in our desperation. My body is tightening, building toward release, and I throw my head back against the wall. Ward growls and quickens his pace. His mouth moves along my neck, sucking and kissing until all of the sensations in my body flow together and pleasure crashes through me.
He pulls back before his own peak, and in spite of my disappointment, I’m grateful he has the presence of mind to take the extra precaution. I don’t need any more complications right now.
His support gone, I allow myself to sink down the wall and sit on the hard ground of the passage. Ward carefully removes his damp boxers and tugs on his jeans again before lowering himself beside me.
“Wow,” he says.
I smile. “Wow is right.” My heart is still beating a thousand times a minute, and my limbs feel light and tingly. “I need some time to recover from that.”
He laughs. “I hope you weren’t working on anything important this morning.”
“Everything is important to Mr. Haymore,” I say.
“Well,” Ward says, pulling me up against his side, “he’s just going to have to let a few things go today.”
Let a few things go. Ward’s words bring up my conversation with Ian: This isn’t about running. This is about learning to let things go. All at once, the shame, the confusion rushes back into my gut, and I turn and bury my face in the crook between Ward’s head and shoulder. He tightens his arm around me and gives a laugh.
“What, we don’t even have sex and we’re still required to cuddle?”
I shove away from him and start to get to my feet. “Fine. If you don’t want to—”
“Wait.” He grabs my hand and tugs me back, still laughing. “I was just joking. Come here.”
He pulls me against his chest, and I sink into him. His good arm circles my back, holding me close, while his fingers toy with the ends of my hair. I press my face into his shoulder, still shaking, but not just because of our almost-sex anymore. After a moment, Ward seems to realize it, too. His hand slides up to the back of my head, gently stroking my hair.
“What is it?” he asks softly.
Where do I begin? It’s everything.
“I just don’t want to go back out there,” I say after a moment. I’m not completely deluded. I might find a temporary reprieve here and there, but my problems aren’t just going to disappear. Moments of joy or pleasure aren’t going to bring back my father, my home, my financial security. They aren’t going to suddenly point me down the path to self-actualization. They aren’t going to erase what I did to Ian.
“No one wants to be out there,” Ward says gently. It’s a wiser, truer thing than I expected to hear. I let my hand drift across his T-shirt. The fabric is damp with sweat.
For a moment, I consider telling him everything. About my family. About my time in Thailand. About my crazy reasons for coming back here and pretending to be someone else. I might have lied about my name, but everything else I’ve said to him has been true.
But I hardly know this guy. I only met him a couple of weeks ago. Until last night, neither of us had shown the other anything past the most surface-level of emotions. For all I know, I’m nothing more than another passing fling for him. And that’s okay. It’s better this way, actually, focusing on the pleasure and forgetting about the feelings. The last thing I want is to create another situation like the one with Ian. I need a healthy outlet for my frustration and confusion while I sort through my emotions on my own.
I lift my lips to his ear. “When do you think you can get to the store?”
I know from the sudden quickening of his breath that he knows exactly what I’m asking.
“I’m heading into Barberville this afternoon for some supplies,” he says. “I should be able to run a personal errand.”
“Tonight, then?”
He gives a low laugh and his grip tightens. “The maze?”
I smile. “Where else?”
* * *
Unfortunately, even the promise of some breathless release this evening doesn’t erase the fact that my house is crawling with people. It was hard enough dealing with the idea when it was just the staff. Now there are people everywhere. Snapping photos. Taking notes about every little thing. Peeking in every corner, trying to absorb all of this place’s secrets. For generations my family kept this place to ourselves—it was our home, after all. Not something to be gawked at. Now that need for privacy has backfired. Awakened a curiosity.
This is only the beginning, I know. We’re only talking about a handful of press members here. What happens during the grand opening next week when the paying guests arrive? Or when all the articles and blurbs these journalists are so thoroughly researching go to press? This place is already booked for months. It will be a madhouse. Every bit the theme park I feared.
