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She was still wearing her elaborate ball gown because she obviously had nothing else to sleep in, which couldn’t have been comfortable, along with her heels that peeked from beneath the hem of her dress. Her hands were tucked under her cheek on the pillow, her soft lips parted as she inhaled and exhaled deep, even breaths. All curled up, she looked so small and vulnerable and defenseless, even though he’d seen for himself what a tough, strong-willed, and stubborn little spitfire she’d been during her father’s ordeal, and even after that when she’d dealt with Maddux alone.
But silently watching her now, with his animosity and bitterness dulled by alcohol, he was hit hard by the knowledge that she’d been through an enormous and unexpected emotional trauma tonight, and he’d been nothing short of a hostile asshole who’d lashed out at her for her father’s sins. She’d undoubtedly come to the fairy-tale ball expecting to enjoy a fun, fanciful evening and had ended up a prisoner to a man who wanted to hate her . . . but he just couldn’t summon the contempt.
He rubbed his forehead wearily, then before he could change his bourbon-soaked mind, he retrieved one of his T-shirts from the closet, then walked around the big four-poster bed to where Arabella was dozing. Her back was now facing him, and wanting to at least make her comfortable while she slept, he first removed her heels, then started unzipping her dress from where it began mid-back, all the way down to the base of her spine, until the fabric loosened from her body.
The first thing that registered was all that soft, creamy-looking skin he wanted to caress with his fingers, or even better yet, lower his head and skim his lips from her bare shoulders down to the curve of her ass, where a pair of cream-colored lace panties settled on her hips. Steeling himself against the rush of heat that went straight to his aching groin, he gently rolled her to her back and began working the sleeves and the bodice of her dress down her arms and chest.
She moaned softly, her lashes slowly fluttering open. Confused, disoriented eyes stared up at him, and he immediately stopped removing her gown, because the last thing he wanted Arabella to think was that he was trying to take advantage of her. He might have been a grade-A bastard to her earlier tonight, but he’d meant what he said when he’d told her he’d never force her.
Her head tipped drowsily to the side on the pillow, a frown creasing her brow. “What are you doing?”
There was no panic in her voice, just a calm, trusting curiosity that slayed him. “Putting you in something more comfortable to sleep in,” he said, his tone gruff. “Is that okay?”
She blinked up at him, still seemingly half-asleep. “I don’t have my nightgown.”
“I know.” He felt the slightest tug of a smile at how cute she was, then managed to suppress it before it fully formed. “You can wear one of my T-shirts for now.” Tomorrow, he’d send for her clothes and other personal items.
“Thank you.” She sighed with gratitude. “The top of the dress was tight.”
She sat up and pushed the voluptuous gown down her petite form, kicking off all those layers of fabric with her feet. Maddux sucked in a quick breath. Jesus Christ, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Nor was she particularly modest about exposing her small, pert breasts and barely there underwear . . . or maybe she was so emotionally and mentally tired that she didn’t realize how complacent she currently was, or she just didn’t care.
But to him, she was pure, sinful temptation, and he quickly yanked his T-shirt over her head and arranged it to her thighs. Then he pulled down the covers so she could slip between the sheets and comforter, and she didn’t hesitate to snuggle into his bed as though she fucking belonged there.
When he was certain she’d drifted off to slumber again, he removed his own clothes down to his boxer briefs, then settled onto his side of the mattress, though there was a good four feet between them. He reached over and switched off the nightstand light, then tried to relax enough to let the last remnants of alcohol lull him to a nice, passed-out state of sleep. It was probably the only peace he was going to get for a good while.
He was nearly there when Arabella’s soft, husky voice jarred him awake.
“Maddux?”
He turned his head on the pillow to look at her, but her face was in shadows and he couldn’t see her expression. “Yes?” he replied, his tone brusque, mostly because he was annoyed that she’d made his body completely aware of her all over again.
He heard her exhale a soft breath. “Whatever my father did to you and your family . . . I want you to know that I’m very sorry.”
Well, shit. What the hell did he say to that sincere acknowledgement and apology? It wasn’t her fault that, beneath her father’s expensive suits and fancy trappings, Theodore was nothing more than a cruel, cold-blooded, self-centered man. But responding with a pat it’s okay response wasn’t going to happen, either, because no amount of contrition would ever change the past or bring Maddux’s parents back or be enough to forgive her father for his heartless, vindictive ways.
So, he evaded the issue all together. “Go to sleep, Bella,” he said, and was grateful when he was met with blessed silence.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Arabella had no idea what time it was when she finally woke up the following morning. There were no clocks in Maddux’s room, and her cell phone, which she’d kept in a hidden pocket that had been sewn into her gown so she didn’t have to carry a purse all night at the ball, was somewhere tangled up in the heap of material on the floor . . . while she was wearing one of Maddux’s T-shirts.
She could have gotten out of bed to retrieve her phone, but moving in any way meant risking awakening her bedmate, who was sleeping on his side, facing
her. And right now, with the light of day streaming in through the glass slider leading to a master suite terrace, Maddux looked so calm and peaceful without animosity and anger slashing across his face and blazing in his eyes.
He was a stunningly gorgeous man. His features were perfectly defined and masculine, but in slumber, all those rough edges were softer, the harsh clench of his jaw now relaxed. His lips looked full and sensual, and her stomach tumbled with awareness when she thought about that hot, provocative kiss they’d shared.
His dark, longish hair was a tousled mess around his head, and morning stubble covered his jawline, which only added to how attractive and sexy he was. The covers were bunched around his waist, and since he was without clothes, she had an unobstructed view of his broad shoulders, his wide, muscled chest, and the impressive bicep in his arm that looked as big as a melon, even unflexed.
He was utterly flawless . . . except for the large, unsightly scar on the side of his neck that ran down his shoulder and encompassed part of his arm. Whatever had happened to cause that now healed wound, it had to have been painful and hellish, because his skin was disfigured enough in that one area to indicate some kind of major trauma at some point in his life.
Her heart tightened in compassion at the horrible thought, at the possible agony he’d suffered. Without thinking of consequences, she reached out and lightly brushed her fingers along the marred flesh that covered the curve of his shoulder, as if touching it might lessen the severity of whatever had caused the multiple scars.
Belying his restful pose, Maddux’s fingers instantly grabbed her wrist and jerked her hand away at the same time his eyes fully opened, looking directly at her, his gaze far more cognizant than she would have thought.
“Don’t.”
The one-word warning was sharp enough to cut glass, and she swallowed hard but didn’t flinch or cower. “Does it . . . hurt?”
