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Springing for the door, I rock back on my heels when Mr. Rowe stands up. He’s not blocking the exit, not really but he’s not making it any easier for me to get out.
“Please I have to g...go,” I stutter, “I have a...”
“Headache?” He smiles but his eyes remain iced up. “No more excuses. I’m sick of them.” He nudges his chin toward the couch. “Please sit.”
With my jaw on the floor, I sit down and look up at him with cautious eyes and my throat is thick with apprehension.
“Give me your hand,” he asks and his voice is soothing, so I reach out. He twists it, exposing my wrist and he puts his mouth to it, making me fiddle from some newly awakened need.
“Why must you do it like that?” I whisper and his eyes flare to mine.
“Your pulse is always so frantic whenever you’re around me. I like the way it feels against my lips.” His eyes shudder like I am a delight to him. “And it lets me imagine how your other secret pulses will feel against my mouth.”
A throbbing rips between my legs, strong as thunder and I let out a stranded sound, yanking my hand back.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I vex even though I have an idea of what he was referring to.
The corners of his mouth twitches and he’s gorgeous and terrifying and provoking. Averting my gaze, I clasp my hands in my knees and this time when he sits down, he gives me some space.
Space I thought I wanted but deep down don’t because when he pulls away it feels like there’s a draft somewhere.
“Mr. Rowe...” I murmur when he pours us another round of drinks and hands me the glass but he interrupts me,
“It’s Bram.”
“All right then...Bram,” I inhale because this is a nerve wrecking question, “what do you want with me?”
“For you to not see me as a stranger.” He looks down into his glass and I realize that I was wrong to think that his eyes are pure blackness. There’s some copper in them too, close to the rim. “I want you to let me in.”
My fingers tap around my glass. “I have. You’re in my house.” Technically he’s in the house that I live in but that’s close enough.
“That’s not what I meant,” he says in a low voice and suddenly it feels like we’re too far apart and I inch just a little bit closer. It’s still appropriate.
“Bram...” I whisper, “I have to marry Morton.” I make it sound like it’s obligatory. And I suppose it is.
“Careful now,” Bram warns gently, “his name on your lips makes me want to do bad things.”
I move the glass to my mouth and I swipe my drink, using the back of my hand as a napkin. “Can I have another one?”
Bram shakes his head. “You’re a small girl and you can’t handle your liquor. I don’t want you to get drunk.”
“Oh, come on,” I murmur with suppliant eyes and he seems to have a hard time standing up to them, leading to him pouring me another one. It tastes so good that I’m already getting a little bit dizzy and everything starts to look less defined. It relaxes me and I cuddle into the cushions.
“If you don’t want to be a stranger then you’re going to have to tell me some things about yourself,” I muse and he nods.
“What do you want to know?”
“Do you have a big family? Siblings?”
“No,” he replies in a strange voice and I’m a little disappointed because I love it when people have big families since I’ve never had one of my own.
“What do you work with?”
“I’m an industrialist and an heir to the Syracuse fortune.”
I have no idea exactly what an industrialist does or what the Syracuse fortune is but Bram sounds wealthy. Much, much more wealthier than the Bryce’s. But Bram is still a mystery and I can still feel like there’s something he’s not telling me.
We spend the rest of the afternoon listening to music and then we play poker. I’m thrilled for a worthy opponent and Bram is so skilled that if he hadn’t been an industrialist he could have been a professional poker player. A part of me is wary and another part unsurprised at how much I’m starting to like him.
