Chapter 11
Unbelievable
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I’ve always favored control. That seems more important now than ever before. If only I’d employed such restraint last night. Jonathan hadn’t succeeded in sending me home with anyone, but he had managed to get me totally pissed. I had the headache to prove it.
Rolling over I spot a glass of orange juice and a few pills. Apparently my debauchery had not gone unnoticed. I ignore a flash of memory that involves me and a bottle of Scotch and one of the palace’s many reception rooms. Who knows who saw me? I take the medicine gratefully, ignoring how much I might pay for them later.
My cock is stiff, painfully hard and heavy. I stroke it absently even though I know nothing will come of it. I have no desire to jack off, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not horny. I’ve never wanted to fuck so badly in my life.
The issue is that there is only one person I’m interested in fucking and I’ve promised to stay away. It’s a move I made in her best interests. Now I’m wondering if I’d thought enough about my own interests.
I’m interested in the freckles that dust her shoulders and flutter down to her breasts. Breasts I need in my mouth while she clings to me. I recall how her body writhed, how she’d fallen undone over and over.
“Fuck,” I groan as my climax covers my palm. But the pleasure is dulled like its been filtered through a sieve. All the good bits are absent, what’s left is weak and unwanted.
For one startling moment, my eyes still blurry from sleep, my head still pounding from my hangover, I wonder if I’ll ever get off again properly. I’d told myself before that I’d screw her out of my system. I hadn’t gotten the chance to do that.
But what if Clara Bishop is a woman you can never have enough? That’s the trouble. I can’t risk more. I won’t put her through this. I’m not about to lead an innocent into hell just to get my rocks off.
Then again, it is our secret. We’d agreed to that. If no one knows I’m still seeing her, then I can ride this out—ride her—until I’m finally sated.
I sit up, determined to find her, and clutch my head immediately. I need breakfast first. That will give me time to come up with a plan. Clara fears me. I need her to see she shouldn’t. I can be different for her. I can need less if that’s what it takes to have her.
When I finally exit my apartment, dressed in t-shirt and jeans, I find the cleaning staff patiently waiting to access it. I shoot them an apologetic smile before heading towards the kitchens. I’d opted for a casual look, banking on my ability to blend in with the crowd more easily.
Edward catches me before I’m past our family wing.
“He’s on a rampage,” he warns me, shoving a stack of tabloids into my arms. “Hit the stands an hour ago.”
“What did I do now?” No doubt someone took a picture of me at the club, stumbling drunkenly out, and sold it to pay for a few pints of their own.
My body constricts when I spot the first headline, each muscle tightening as though if I stand still long enough, the rage seeping through me will evaporate.
It doesn’t.
Scanning the report, if one can even call this rubbish that, doesn’t help either. I have no idea how they did it. Or who is responsible. All I know is that every personal text message I sent to Clara—every filthy, wicked thought I’d used to tempt her to my bed—is there in black and white.
“Father will be here any moment,” Edward continues. “I expect”—
“I don’t give a fuck what he thinks,” I growl, ripping the papers in half. “I need to go.”
I stalk off before he can stop me. There’s only one person I owe an explanation—and I know exactly where to find her.
Norris isn’t speaking to me. I gathered he was upset when I gave him the address of where I needed to go. He’s seen the report on her. He knows where she works. He knows she’s just started her job.
“Let it out,” I finally bark from the back seat of the Rolls. I can avoid my father’s wrath. Hell, I even revel in it a bit. But Norris doesn’t usually give me the cold shoulder. He’s more into the standard lecture.
“I don’t see the point.” His eyes stay on the road. His control makes me feel like a wild card. There’s no emotion betrayed in his voice. His body remains relaxed. I assume this is a holdover from years in military and private service. I don’t ask.
“But you don’t think I should go to her.” He’d made his feelings on this known. He didn’t approve of me checking up on Clara Bishop on paper. Why would he encourage me to seek her out in person, especially after this fiasco?
“Timing is an art form few humans master. None of them are male.” There’s an unexpected dryness in his tone. Norris is cracking a joke. There might be hope for us yet.
“I need to see that she’s okay. I got her into this mess.”
“By not staying away. Will going to her improve matters?”
He has a point. I refuse to admit it. “Just drive.”
This time I catch his lips twitching in the rearview mirror. Maybe he’s human after all.
Peters & Clarkwell takes up one floor of a nondescript office building not far from Westminster. The benefit of this is that everyone here is busy going about their days. Work and lunch and whatever else normal people did during the week.
I shove my hands into my jeans and stroll toward the lift, pleased that no one seems to notice my appearance. Apparently, the paparazzi hasn’t caught up to where she works. Yet.
There’s no use pretending that she’ll remain a secret now. They’ll follow her incessantly. My father will demand answers. I didn’t lead her into hell gently. I’d dropped her into the inferno. She needs me to protect her now.
I’m planning to tell her—planning to explain exactly how things are going to be when the lift slides open revealing her. Her knuckles are white on her bag’s strap. Her cheeks burning a lovely shade of embarrassed. Every ounce of me wants to shove her against a wall, hike up her skirt, and show her that I’m capable of all the things I’d promised in those sodding text messages.
She stumbles when she spots me, but before I can respond, she straightens and heads straight for me. I hadn’t expected that.
Clara Bishop is strong.
Good.
She needs to be.
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