Page 38 of Taking The Virgin

Then again, whenever he’s with me in the bedroom, he never seems to mind being that way, at least in the heat of the moment.

Still in bed, I lean toward him, silent but wanting oh-so badly to help. He looks absolutely lost, and my heart aches forhim.

I let a minute pass, then another until he finally glances over atme.

I don’t think I need to say anything, because that dark look is an acknowledgement of what just happened. I only know that it’s okay now if I slide out of bed and slip onto hislap.

As I cuddle against him, my flesh against his, he pulls me close. I nestle my face into his neck. The sweat on his skin feels cool against mine, his body hard against my softone.

I feel his heartbeat knocking against my lips, and I kiss his tensed vein. He holds me tighter.

What makes you this way?I want to ask. What happened to you in thepast?

“I woke you up,” he finally murmurs.

“I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” Before your nightmareI was watching you, wishing you’d wake up and tell me everything about you and how you feel aboutme.

“Work is stressful right now,” he says. “It carries over into my personaltime.”

I’m pretty sure he’s making excuses, but I don’t question him. I only want to lighten hisload.

“Well,” I say while easing my arm around his wide chest and hugging him, “that’s why I majored in art history. Low stress, high reward.”

I already feel his muscles getting looser, like ropes that have been given some slack. “Are you sure about that? I don’t think any serious career is absent of stress.”

“In my naïve, optimistic mind, yes. I’m very sure that I’ll have the best of both worlds. Eventually.”

He laughs a little, as if testing to see if it feels right.

It must, because he strokes a finger over my hip. “And what do you think the rewards will be in your future?”

Do you mean after I get my siblings back in our family home? But I rub my face against his neck instead of saying it outloud.

“Eventually,” I repeat, “I want to be a curator, either for museums or private art collectors. Or I’ll teach.”

“I can have Nat put together a list of my business associates who could use a good art advisor.”

His generosity stuns me. But then I parse out his words.

Business associates. Not friends. I’m not sure this man has the time or inclination for those, and I hold him tighter. In response, he brings me even closer tohim.

I sigh. I could stay here forever, in his secure, iron-bandedarms.

“Owen,” I say, “you’ve done enough for me already. You don’t have to start a client list, too.”

“It’d be anonymouslydone.”

It’s like a splash of cold water on the moment, a reminder that I’m still his Highest Bidder escort and there’ll be no future betweenus.

He seems to realize that, and he rocks me slightly, pressing his lips to my head and consoling me as if I’m the one who had the bad dream. But isn’t that true? Isn’t that my life in a nutshell? A nightmare that’s only been interrupted by this wonderful yet perplexing time withhim.

Through the air vents, the heat blows on, white noise that sounds so comforting as he continues to cuddle with me. We don’t need to say anything else—for now, this is enough for me, and I think it’s enough forhim.

It’s almost as if the bad dream never happened.

At least I think that for a while, because eventually I feel him start to tense up again. I think he’s becoming aware that our cuddling is too intimate. Or maybe he’s getting agitated about our naked skin on his velvet chair. Both that and our intimacy are two big messes that will need to be cleanedup.

He rises to his feet with me in his arms then carries me to the bed. He gently lays me down on the mattress. As he draws the sheet and bedspread over my body to tuck me in, my blood sings a sad tune. From the look on his face, I know that he’s disturbed, and it’s not only because of the germs we’ve left behind on the silver velvet chair.

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