**Author's Note: Suggested listening- "Shiver" by Maroon 5
CHAPTER SIXTEEN- Walking on Eggshells
She watched him when he wasn't watching her, in the moments when he deigned to show his true intelligence, sketching out the details for a term paper in a quick, decisive hand, talking out loud as he made analytical jumps, comparing different events in different periods to end up with conclusions that were not only innovative, but good.
He watched her when she wasn't watching him, in the moments when she leaned over to decipher a word he'd written just a bit too quickly, afraid to ask him what it was for fear of sniping from him, or even worse, from her. She would tuck long locks of red hair behind her ear to keep it from blocking her line of sight, and damn it all, he would want to do that for her.
Drake's hands itched to touch and he scoffed inwardly at her rules.
Rules.
As though they'd ever meant a shilling to him.
But as he watched her out of the corner of his pale eyes, he let her have her rules-for a few moments, at least-for he could see she felt the comfort that had suddenly and inexplicably bloomed between them on this neutral ground, the occasional sheepish smiles she sent his way, the encouraging murmurs she gave as she looked over the work he did. He didn't need her for a tutor; they both knew he was smarter than that. But somewhere-where, exactly?-they'd slipped, and they were starting to enjoy themselves.
He peered at a freckle just above her knee and wondered how torture could seem downright pleasant at times.
He would be gentle with her this time, slow. He'd plead and she'd yield and he'd take his time, this time rid her of that teasing little uniform completely. He'd have her warm under his hands with no barriers and no-
She spoke then, yanking him out of his plans and clouding his face with anger. Did she have to interrupt him while he was thinking about her? "What?" he snapped, half aroused and a mite unhappy about it. He was fantasizing with her sitting right there, for fuck's sake. What was going on with him?
Gen stood, gathering her books from the dining room table with jerky motions, her breath short. God, the way he'd been looking at her, like he wanted to gobble her up in one big bite…
The big bad wolf, she thought, though the eyes that had her pinned were not gold, but silver. "I'm going," she reiterated, long since ready to beat her retreat. "We seem to be finished here, and I-" Can what? she pondered miserably. Walk home?
He raised his hand and caught the cuff of her jacket-his jacket. Seeing the warning look on her face, he cocked his head pointedly, his _expression perfectly clear. He'd broken no rules with this simple movement, since he wasn't touching here, but only his own article of clothing.
He'd broken no rules yet.
He'd meant to rally with a clever remark, something witty, biting, some sultry innuendo, but as his brain was still rattling right along with seduction, the only thing his lips could form was a simple, nearly wistful question. "Do you hate me so much, then?"
He winced at the desperation of it, trying hastily to justify, to tell himself it was all part of his plan, just a way to soften her up, but he was already leaning forward to hear her answer.
The surprise on her face was evident, and nipping at its heels was confusion, then some wistfulness of her own. It was easy to forget, Gen thought, they all had vulnerabilities.
"No more than you hate me, I would imagine," she spoke softly, yanking her arm away from him just a bit and raising her chin with the defiant answer. That, at least, would give him something to chew on.
But instead of retreating, Drake stood, still leaning toward her, eyes intent and predatory. A smile curved his lips but did not reach his eyes, and he peered at her as though trying to find something, trying to seek out something. "Clever girl, to turn it around on me," he said, moving out from his chair to circle her. "So where does that leave you if I don't hate you at all?"
It was enjoyable, he thought, to see her mental parry-and-thrust, the defensive moves, the footwork that kept her on her toes. She was fighting him, and he her, and it just got more and more interesting by the second.
He was winning, he thought.
It was easy for him to think that from his own shelter of conceit and hauteur.
"Of course you hate me," Gen shot back, turning away from him with her cheeks burning. Why did he have to tease her so, to bait her? She wasn't a fool, she knew nothing but pheromones, hormones, had changed since their encounter of the evening before. Nothing had changed but the pace of her breathing, the rate of her pulse, the sensitivity of her skin.
Perhaps everything had changed but her heart and his.
Or, she amended, taking a deep breath to steel herself for the final retreat, the exit, perhaps everything had changed but his heart.
Damn it all.
And then he was in front of her, bright spots of color burning in his cheeks, incongruous anger where only moments before there had been impenetrable calm.
Things just would not go as he wanted, would not go smoothly. She wouldn't cooperate, she wouldn't slow down, she wouldn't give him more than the barest of glances-but she had the nerve to hand him his hatred and tell him what he did and did not feel?
"Hate?" he repeated, grabbing the lapels of his coat and bringing her to her toes so they were eye to eye. "Yes. I hate that skirt, and I hate your know-it-all attitude. I hate the way your legs look and that I know they're smooth. I hate that this bloody coat-" he emphasized his statement with a shake, "-looks better on you than me."
He brought his face close to hers, wanting to see his own want in her eyes. He'd meant to finish speaking, meant to finish his thought, but he pulled just a bit more on the heavy fabric, watched her eyes widen and her mouth drop open on a gasp, on a denial, on an exclamation, just as he covered it with his, tasting and testing and throwing all his carefully laid plans out the window as she kissed him back, her small tongue lapping at his lips with both regret and reverence. He pushed her away, fists still anchored in clothing, and he finished his statement, his own breath now tearing out of him. "I hate wanting you, and I hate not having you. I hate this bloody fucking awful feeling, and once all that's out of the way, pauper, there's no bloody room left to hate you."
He released his grip, let her slide back to the flats of her feet, moving his hands to her back, to kiss her again, softly this time, gently as he'd meant to. Neutral ground was set aflame as he put his hands under his uniform coat to feel what he'd felt last evening in haste and in heat, using wide palms and long fingers to slip the overlarge garment off her shoulders and into a puddle on the floor.
Gen moaned into the kiss, her hands splaying over his as he covered her breasts through the white cotton of her blouse, not wanting to give in and touch him, but not willing to be passive. She'd feared this and she'd wanted it, she'd convinced herself she'd dreamed it when it had happened before.
When his lips moved from her lips to her face, tracing her features hungrily, the touches of a starving blind man, she finally touched him, her fingers threaded through hair that was usually stiff, impeccable under layers of some incomprehensible lacquer, but today was soft, just for her.
Mine, she thought, tightening her grip and making him draw hissing air through his teeth.
He stooped, sliding his hands from her back to her bottom in one quick, possessive swoop, picking her up and burying his face in her neck as she wrapped long, strong legs around his waist.
Slow, he reminded himself. Slow this time, and he placed tiny bites along the soft, white skin of her neck, feeling the dark beauty of the quiet gasps moving through her chest.
"It'll be better this time," he whispered, not realizing he'd said it out loud until she turned wide, wet brown eyes to his. And with her questioning look, he nodded, not quite knowing what he was agreeing to, but knowing at this moment he'd agree to anything.
This is what he'd wanted.
And she wanted him back, though she'd pretended otherwise.
He laid her on the sofa and loosed her legs, leaving her on the couch as he stood and looked down at her. It hadn't been so different last night, their places, their choreography. But instead of making her unbutton her shirt herself, he knelt beside her and unfastened each button with slow and deliberate movements, the difference apparent to them both.
No touching, she thought as her heart gave a painful little hitch. What the hell was that supposed to mean, anyway?
Drake tugged her shirt off, familiar enough with the uniforms of Holforth to unbutton the cuffs before he slipped it over her arms-didn't want her hands to get stuck, after all-and he pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses along her ribcage, pausing once to feel the heavy thump of her heart under his tongue.
I did that, he thought with a triumphant countenance. That is for me.
And he totally missed the possessive note, the ownership of his thought.
She was shy all over again as he removed her bra, using long thumbs and graceful fingers to knead out the lines worn into her skin.
"Drake, please," Gen finally voiced, her first words since he'd begun, and she was embarrassed-not for what they were doing, but for her ragged clothes and the body she'd never quite gotten used to, the skin in which she sometimes felt uneasy.
He quieted her, not with words, but with movement, grinning up at her even as he kissed the concavity between her breasts, trailing a line down to her navel. Drake paused at the waistband of her skirt, leaving it be for a moment. Instead, he skidded his palms up her thighs, head tilted back to watch her watching him-he couldn't believe she wasn't stopping him-and he drew her underwear down her legs, the plain cotton soft against his fingers, the gentle step something he hadn't taken the time with yesterday.
Gen watched him with trepidation, embarrassment, her thoughts too confused to pin down-but one stood clear, that this wasn't him, this wasn't how Drake Mallory acted, this wasn't the man she despised but instead the man she wanted-and then he winked that sly wink, quirked his lips in his trademark smirk, and stuck the panties in his pocket.
Same man after all.
He breathed in, sighting her freckles and smelling her arousal, smelling the heat and the want and the sheer insanity of the idea of the two of them, wanting to taste the madness he'd wrought. So entranced was Drake he didn't notice the two pale, freckled, trembling hands-Gen unfastened her own skirt and parted the halves, left to right, so she could watch what he was doing.
It felt as though all of her had quickened, every part of her-brain, breath, pulse-ricocheting out of control at every graze of his fingertips, at every look he gave her. Her stomach contracted in one white-hot ball, the muscles flexed to the point of pain, her eyes wide and nearly blind as he lowered his often-scathing mouth to the slick, hot skin of her inner thighs, tracing the crease at the top of her thigh with a willingness bordering craving.
There were too many things to feel, Gen thought. She was ashamed, her entire body flushing with the force of arousal and embarrassment at his proximity to her; she felt like moving, like freezing, like screaming, like her breath was about to stop.
This could be addictive.
This could be dangerous.
Drake drew back, clenching his teeth as he took a deep breath of her, gasped as he grasped for self-control, his eyes crossing slightly as he felt his erection pressing against the fabric of his slacks.
Just one more thing, he promised himself, one more thing to do before he started on sating himself.
He had to sate her first.
He slid his hands under the smooth, hot skin of her bottom, teasing his fingertips over the cleft there, chuckling as she hissed and slapped at his head in censure and encouragement. Slapping hands turned to gripping fists as he thrust forward, bumping his nose into the curls gathered at her center and bringing his lips to the slick, aching lips of her arousal, separating her with his tongue and closing his eyes, reveling at the taste of her.
He took in everything, senses heightened as he pushed her, shoved her, ruthlessly drove her to the edge with tongue and teeth and lips, not only smelling and tasting, but feeling every texture of her, seeing every muscle tremble, and listening to the sounds of her arousal.
As it turned out, when you got Genevieve Wesley good and truly worked up, she cursed like a stevedore.
He was using his mouth on her. That had been her first thought, but it had only lasted a fraction of a second, the
barest sliver of a moment, before she was rocketed from restless arousal into keening, thoughtless need. She'd come
for him yesterday-even as experienced as she was, she recognized an orgasm-but this?
Calling this a climax would have been like calling that Jaguar of his a pram.
Words were spilling from her lips, but she was too pleased, too high, to be ashamed of her bawdy language, the expressions of her most shocked and most speechless moments coming out effortlessly.
And it didn't seem to be bothering him any.
Unable to take it any more, Gen followed instinct and let her back arch off the sofa in a tight bow, strung so tightly she thought she might just explode. Her hair stuck to her face in damp, erratic tendrils, her eyes wild and rolling.
As she thrust herself toward him, mindless keening spilling from her lips, Drake raised his head, beaded with sweat, and knew he was a goner. Even now, when his only contact with her was the barest brush of fingertips along her bottom, her hips were jerking and rolling with their own rhythm, one he intended to join.
This was just where he'd wanted her, but he never thought he'd reach desperation. Desperation, however, was just where he had peaked as he freed himself with hands shaking so badly it took three tries to unfasten his slacks, and his breathing more resembled a sob than anything else as he applied protection and entered her in a fumbling, shaking motion he hadn't executed since his first time. She clenched around him on another peak, her nails drawing long, shallow furrows down his back and she sought purchase against a downslide of madness.
"Yes," she whispered, and repeated the word with fervor as he finally found a faulty, driving rhythm, shallow strokes coupled with deep, probing thrusts, shaking them both to the core. Drake sought her lips with his, and their kiss was sloppy, shaky, frightened, broken by whimpers and pants and sobs and encouragement, but they were locked together lip to lip and body to body when he reached his own summit, giving her one last, jagged point of pleasure as he tipped over himself.
And neither one of them could ignore the way the kiss softened into an exploring, gentle sweep as they both rode the waves down, her arms now relaxed around him, his hands cradled to the sides of her face.