X: Command Me through Alexander's Eyes - Geneva Lee Page 0,60
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to let someone in.”
That seems to be the theme of the day. First, Norris. Now my brother. Clara seems to be the only one not planning our wedding. Still, she’d gone too far last night. And I let her.
I slip off my coat and trousers and toss them onto the bed, my shirt and pants following before I head into my attached bath. I stop there, looking at the man reflected in the mirror.
Most of him is nothing to be ashamed of. Years in the military—living off what they deem food, running drills, and carrying heavy equipment—had shaped him into a powerful man. Biceps, abs, the hewn V of an Adonis belt narrowing to my cock, legs that could carry him miles through the desert. But as my body transformed into the man before me, the scars from my accident had gotten worse. The pink, ruined flesh had stretched to cover one side of my body, and the harsh, cutting lines of my muscles only highlighted them. If I’d earned them in battle, I might look on them with pride.
But they were a reminder of the worst thing I’d ever done and the lie I kept to protect my family’s darkest secret. I’d lived with both so long that I barely thought of either. I hated when others saw my scars because they only dredged up their existence and all they represent.
And Clara had touched them last night. She claimed them. She claimed me.
It’s not how it’s supposed to work, but still, I couldn’t deny her. And worse? I didn’t want to. Perhaps, that’s why I can’t shake what Norris said, nor Edward’s offhanded remark.
I turn the shower to its hottest setting, but even it can’t scald away the memory of her touch on my skin. My cock gets hard as I recall her touch pushing me past my boundaries. I’d come inside her so long, I thought it might never stop. I lean into the scorching water, planting my hands on the wall, and wait for my erection to wane. But there are only flashes of her. Porcelain skin and freckles. The soft hair curling over her cunt. Her teeth biting into the flesh of her plump, lower lip. Reaching down with one hand, I grip my shaft and stroke roughly—hard enough that it hurts. Unforgiving. Punishing. The water burning the sensitive skin. But I don’t stop. I can’t. Not while she’s in my head. I have to get her out. My mind replays fucking her on a loop as I work myself toward release. When I reach the moment where I asked if she wanted me to stop, when she told me no, her blue eyes are there, wide and afraid and certain—and full of love.
I come at the memory. It roars out of me, and I brace against the wall, pumping it from me as the shower washes away the truth.
I’ll never get Clara out of my system.
She’s inside of me. She’s my blood. She’s my bones. She’s the rotten organ beating in my chest.
Clara is my curse and my salvation. I hate her. I love her. She can never know.
I finish washing up and grab a towel. Wrapping it around my waist, I go to find clothes. After that, I need to figure this out. Maybe I should talk to Edward. He understands the impossibility of our position better than most. But as soon as I set foot inside my bedroom, I stop.
“It’s disgraceful,” my father says, his eyes flickering away from me. He’s in his usual Harris tweed weekend wear. It’s as close as the bastard gets to casual.
I don’t bother to ask him what he finds disgraceful now. My scars? My behavior? Listening to my jack off in the shower? It hardly matters. Where he’s concerned, every breath I take is a disappointment.
I continue to the closet and grab the first clothes I find—a pair of old jeans and a t-shirt. After I’m clothed, I find him standing near the window in my room—the one that overlooks the back gardens.
“You left my party without saying goodnight,” he says, as though I need a reminder of how the evening had gone.
“You had plenty of people there to worship you. You didn’t need me.” I sit on my bed and tug on a pair of black leather lace-ups.
“As though you would ever bow to me,” he says with a laugh. “Nor should you.”