Her Wicked Heart (14 page)

“Are you…? I didn’t mean to…” My hand flutters toward his nose, but he catches me by the wrist.

“Fuck it,” he says.

And then his mouth is on mine again, just as eager as before. His tongue slips between my lips, and a moan escapes my throat. And then we’re moving backward until I’m pressed up against the wall of leaves and branches. He tugs at my blouse with his good hand, and I help pull it over my head. I claw at his T-shirt, but with his sling it’s too hard to pull it off. We only manage to get his good arm free before he curses and attacks my mouth again. I don’t care either way. My hands grab at the exposed part of his chest, my fingers aching to touch every hard muscle. Meanwhile, he makes easy work of my bra, unclasping it with one hand. The straps fall from my shoulders and I toss the garment aside.

His lips move from my mouth to my neck, and every kiss is desperate, ravenous. His teeth catch at the tender skin of my throat as his fingers dig into my bare back. I arch against him, throwing my head back to encourage him along his hungry path. One of my hands clutches at his shoulder and the other buries itself in his hair. My body burns with sensation. Every nip of his teeth or touch of his lips brings my nerves to life in ways I never thought possible.

His mouth moves along my collarbone, and I dig my fingers into his scalp. I’m intoxicated by the smell of him, the feel of him in my arms.

He seems intoxicated by me as well. Just when I think his face is about to dip down to my breast, he tilts his head up and takes my mouth again. He kisses me as if he can’t get enough of the taste of me.

“Addis—”

I bite down on his lip. I don’t want to hear that name right now.

He doesn’t seem to mind my objection. He growls and moves his mouth more forcefully against mine. I dig my fingers into his shoulders. It feels like we’re fighting against each other, the way our hands and lips struggle, but we’re both ultimately after the same goal.

After a moment, I can’t take it anymore, and my hands fall to his belt. If I can’t remove his shirt, then I want to see the rest of him. It only takes me a moment to loosen the buckle, and then I’m reaching for his fly.

Ward has a similar goal. Rather than fish for the tiny zipper at the back of my skirt, however, he’s tugging the fabric up around my hips. When it’s high enough, he slips his hand beneath and hooks a finger around the waistband of my panties.

I’ve pushed his jeans down his legs at this point. He’s wearing boxers underneath, and the thin cotton does little to hide his body’s reaction to me. I run my hand over him through the fabric, and he moans. He jerks his hand, yanking my panties down in one motion. And then his fingers are on me—teasing, stroking, exploring. I was already aroused before he touched me, but now I’m dizzy with it. My legs begin to shake and I’m grateful for the hedge at my back.

His boxers move easily at the insistence of my hands. I push them down around his knees, then close my hand around his hard length.

He growls and bites down on my lip. His finger presses deeper between my legs, sliding inside of me.

“Asshole…” I say, the word a moan.

He moves his finger deeper, and I throw my head back against the hedge. My hand tightens around his shaft, and when I’ve regained motor function, I twist my grip and begin stroking him.

It gives me no small amount of satisfaction to see that his body’s responding to me as eagerly as mine’s responding to him. He drops his face once more to my neck and his teeth lock around the exposed skin. His finger continues its explorations, and I squirm, trying to handle the sensations coursing through me. My entire body is aching.

But I want more.

I twist, pulling away from him slightly. His glazed eyes follow me, and I grab the T-shirt dangling from his arm and pull him after me. When the back of my legs hit the bench, I gently lower myself down.

He braces himself on his good arm, slowly settling his weight on top of me. He dips his head, kissing me again, and I feel his arousal throb between my legs. I spread my thighs and hook my knees around his hips, pulling him down closer.

His breath is ragged, his mouth even more aggressive than before. I feel like he’s going to devour me whole—and there’s nothing in this moment that I want more. I cross my ankles above his thighs and raise my hips to meet him.

He groans, but what starts as a sound of hunger and pleasure turns quickly into a sound of frustration. He pushes himself up off of me.

I lie there on the bench, breathless and confused. Why did he stop? I cross my arms across my chest, feeling exposed.

The look on his face, just visible in the moonlight, is still full of desire.

“I don’t have a condom,” he says. He gives a small, bitter laugh. “I didn’t realize I’d need one.”

I close my eyes, relief warring with disappointment in my chest. On the one hand, I’m pleased to know that he wasn’t having second thoughts about this. On the other, I’m ashamed to admit that protection was the last thing on my mind, that if he hadn’t had the presence of mind to pause, I wouldn’t have stopped him from doing anything he wanted with me, with or without a condom.

I prop myself up on the bench, one arm still across my chest. “I guess we got a little carried away.”

He leans over and lifts my chin.

“There are still plenty of other things we can do,” he says, his voice husky. “Lie back down.”

I don’t question him and lower myself back onto the bench. He kneels, and my legs part at his touch.

I know what he’s going to do, and yet it’s still a shock when his tongue meets my bare flesh. I suck in a breath as a burst of flame shoots up through my belly, and he takes to his task as hungrily as he took to my lips. My hands fly down to his head, my fingers twining in his hair, and my head tilts back. Above me, the moon and stars shine brightly in the dark sky. I stare at them as the muscles tighten in my core, and the lights dance and twinkle in time with the sensations pulsing through my body. Only when the pleasure finally overtakes me do I shut my eyes. With the pleasure comes the peace, and I give it all up to the sky.

CHAPTER TEN

The next morning, I
’m still in a daze.

I’m exhilarated and confused and… I don’t know what. Completely addled. Maybe last night was a mistake. Maybe I’m just doing it again—distracting myself with physical sensation when I should be sorting myself out.

But something about this thing with Ward feels different. Crazy, yes, but not crazy in my normal way. Crazy in a my-world’s-been-turned-upside-down kind of way. It feels like I’ve been flipped around and set on my feet in a strange new place.

Maybe it’s just some side effect of coming back to the estate. All of my emotions have been on overdrive these past couple of weeks. It’s no wonder I should have a strong reaction to my new delicious acquaintance. But the funny thing is, I’m not even sure
what
that reaction is. I’m not sure whether I want to yell at him some more or spill everything to him or just throw myself into his arms for another round.

And honestly, this morning I don’t really feel like questioning it too closely. I’d rather continue to float on this buzz. Every time I close my eyes, I can feel his hands on me, awakening my nerves one by one with his touch. I can feel the warm wetness of his mouth, his lips, his tongue. I feel drunk, and at the same time so alive that I might burst at the seams.

Watch out, Lou. Don’t lose your head.
The last thing I need right now is to get caught up in some guy. Especially one as intense as Ward. I have other things I need to focus on.

Mr. Haymore’s doing a Q&A session for our visitors this morning, and instead of dragging me along as usual, he asks me to look over a few last-minute things. It’s a small boon from the universe. I have a feeling I’m not going to be very productive today, and I’d rather not have my boss breathing down my neck.

So that’s how I end up all by myself in the Welcome Center, with plenty of free time to cause trouble.

They’ve added some things to this room since the last time I was here. There are a number of new signs and displays, including a life-sized cardboard cutout of what appears to be a butler. They’ve also added a second rack next to the main desk for brochures, and I wander over, curious how they could have enough to fill them all. I’ve seen many of these brochures before—the large glossy fold-out map, the one describing all of the spa amenities, the “Self-Guided Garden Tour”—but my eyes fall on the one entitled “History of Huntington Manor.” No doubt this is the pocket version of that book they have on the other side of the shop. The one with all the paparazzi photos of my family. I know I shouldn’t look any closer, but I can’t help myself. I pull it down and flip it open.

As I guessed, it gives a brief overview of the history and construction of the house. There’s no way for them to avoid mentioning my family, but thankfully there aren’t any pictures of any of us. There is, however, a portrait-style image of the Carolson clan. I stare down at it for a minute, trying to fight down my disgust at their plastic smiles and resisting the urge to tear the whole lot of them off the wall.

But I can’t risk doing something so obvious. Instead, I find myself reaching into my pocket for my pen.

It only takes a minute to deface the picture in my hand. It’s a small task, even pettier than stealing the wine, but I don’t care. I give every member of the Carolson family a curly handlebar mustache, and I black out a couple of Edward Carolson’s teeth as well. It’s very satisfying work, so much so that when I’m done with the first brochure, I pull the rest down off the wall and start to go through them one by one.

In the second brochure, I make all of them pirates (complete with eye patches and parrots, of course). In the following photo, I give all of them racy tattoos. I make them into clowns and cowboys and mutants. I give them bulbous noses and giant ears and fish lips. By the time I’m halfway through the stack, I’ve gone through all my usual doodles, but I don’t stop. It’s childish, maybe, and more than a little bit dumb, but I can’t help myself. I’ll take any small victory against Carolson and Huntington Manor. It makes it even better to imagine some unsuspecting tourist stumbling across one of my fine pieces of art.

I’m so occupied with my work that I don’t hear anyone enter the room. Suddenly there’s the sound of a step behind me, and I jump, dropping the whole stack of brochures at my feet.

Crap.

I instantly fall to my knees, scrambling to gather them before my petty revenge is revealed, but it’s too late. I’ve been caught.

Fortunately, it was by the only person in this entire place who couldn’t care less about the fact that I’ve just defaced a bunch of pictures of Huntington Manor’s owner. Ward kneels down in front of me, that disarming grin of his on his face.

“Geez!” I say. “You scared the crap out of me.”

He laughs and grabs one of the brochures off the ground—the one where I gave the entire family elephant trunks. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise when he sees my work. And then he looks up at me and barks out a laugh.

“Seriously?” he says. “Elephants?”

“What? I thought it was clever.” I snatch the brochure out of his hand and fold it up again. “What are you doing up here anyway?”

“It’s my lunch break and I thought I’d come find you,” he says. “It only took me twenty minutes. I was afraid you were trapped with Haymore somewhere.”

I laugh. “No, thank God.”

He’s sifting through the brochures on the ground, studying my handiwork.

“So you don’t just stop at stealing wine,” he says, clearly amused. “You’re also into vandalism.”

“Drawing on a brochure is hardly vandalism.”

He picks up another one. “It is when you draw dicks all over a photograph of the people who own this place.”

I open my mouth to protest, but he reaches out and touches my cheek.

“Actually,” he says, “I think rebelliousness is sexy.”

“Do you now?”

“Very.”

He’s looking at me in a way that brings back all of those sensations from last night. I don’t think it’s exactly a good idea to jump him here in the Welcome Center, so I quickly look down and grab another brochure.

“What do you think of this one?” I ask.

Ward’s eyes crinkle as he looks down at my drawing. “What are those supposed to be? Antlers?”

I snatch it back away from him. “I was running out of ideas. So sue me. You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”

He laughs. “Jealous?”

I hold the pen out to him. “Come on. You know you want to do one.”

He resists for about ten seconds. Then he snatches the pen out of my hand and grabs one of the brochures I haven’t defaced yet.

“Don’t get your hopes up, though,” I say, gathering the rest of the brochures. “You’re never going to top my moose Carolsons.”

“Moose people are amateur,” he replies without looking up.

I grin. For a moment, I just watch him work. His head’s bent over the brochure, his mop of red-brown hair on full display. I want to reach out and run my fingers through it.

But I don’t. In my opinion—whatever that’s worth—he needs to do this. He needs to feel a little of that sick satisfaction I experienced when I gave Carolson a third arm and a huge head of curly hair. Channel some of his anger into something crazy but relatively harmless.

Finally, he grins and holds out his work. I grab the brochure eagerly.

He’s given everyone in the family devil horns. Carolson himself also got a forked tongue and spiny tail.

“What’s this on the end of the pitchfork?” I ask.

“A human heart.”

I laugh. “Gross.”

“And look at the bottom,” he says. “He’s stepping on a couple of puppies. And that’s a wad of hundred dollar bills in the fire.”

“Ah, I get it. He’s burning money.”

“Clever, huh?”

“Genius.” I smile, but there’s a knot in my stomach as I look at the drawing.

I glance back up at Ward. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but after the things that happened between us last night, I need to know something.

“You know that not all rich people are like him, right?” I say.

He raises a single eyebrow and gives a short laugh.

“Maybe not quite his level of evil,” he admits, “but money doesn’t exactly breed compassion.”

I know I should shut up, that this isn’t the time for this conversation, but I can’t help myself. “Sometimes it does.”

He looks at me like I’ve just told him the world is flat.

“Name one rich person who’s also what the general public would consider a
good
person,” he says.

There was a time when people seemed to think that
I
was a good person. That every time my name was printed in a magazine or on a website, they’d mention my work with Cunningham Cares International. But that just proves his point, doesn’t it? I was never a good person. I was a fraud, a girl who smiled sweetly and humbly for the cameras like some saint but broke down the minute all the trappings of her privileged life were torn away from her.

But not everyone’s like me. And I need to know the blunt truth about how Ward sees my family.

“Wentworth Cunningham did a ton of philanthropy,” I say carefully. “He worked with a dozen charities and made sizable donations regularly to medical research centers and museums.”

Ward wrinkles his nose. “Has Haymore been brainwashing you or something? You sound like a PR person.”

“I’m just… just stating the facts.”
Pull it together, Lou.
“Wentworth Cunningham spent a lot of money on admirable causes.”

“Throwing some change at a good cause doesn’t make you a good person. It might make you feel a little better about yourself for a while, but that’s it. How many of these ‘philanthropists’ are actually out there, getting their hands dirty? And half of them wouldn’t even bother with the donations if the general public didn’t expect it of them.”

It doesn’t matter that I’ve thought the same thing over and over again—that I’ve accused myself of the very same things. Hearing someone else confirm it—hearing
Ward
confirm it—makes me feel like I’ve been punched.

“What about his daughter?” I say before I can stop myself.

“Whose daughter?”

“Cunningham’s.” I stand, brochures in hand. “What about Louisa Cunningham?” I shove the brochures back onto the rack. I’m afraid to hear his answer, but I have to know.

But the universe has other plans. Just as he’s opening his mouth to respond, my phone goes off.

I sigh and reach down into my pocket. I swear, if Mr. Haymore is calling me, I might quit right now.

But it’s worse. It’s Ian.

The bottom drops out of my stomach. It’s been several days since I left him that message. Why is he calling me now?

“What’s wrong?” Ward asks.

I shake my head, not knowing how to answer. I also don’t know what to do—answer it and deal with the way I ended things? Or ignore it and enforce this whole cutoff thing? I’m not sure which one is the stronger path.

“Addison?”

I look up at Ward. There’s concern in his azure eyes. What am I supposed to say here?

“I… probably should deal with this,” I tell him.

He nods, but he doesn’t look satisfied by that answer. “I should probably be getting back to work anyway.”

I wait until Ward’s gone before answering.

“Hey,” I say nervously.

There’s a long silence on the other end, and for a minute I’m afraid I’ve missed the call. But then I hear the slow release of Ian’s breath.

“That’s it, then?” he says finally. “After everything, you’re going to break up with me in a
message
?”

My heart seizes. He’s right, of course—it was a crappy thing to do. At the time, I told myself I was being responsible, refusing to drag it out any longer than I already had. But that was just another opportunity to take the easy way out, wasn’t it?

“Ian, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Another exhale, barely controlled. “I waited a few days, thinking you might come to your senses. Thinking you might at least have the decency to come talk to me in person.” He makes a short, bitter sound of disbelief. “What happened to you, Lou? When did you become the kind of person who just blows people off like garbage?”

The truth is, I don’t know. Maybe I’ve always been this way.

“I’m so sorry, Ian,” I say.

“No. An apology isn’t going to cut it this time.” I’ve never heard him sound this angry, not even back in Chiang Mai. “Look, I don’t care if you want to be with me or not. But fuck me if I’m going to let you treat me like some fucking puppy you can just lead around by the nose.”

As he’s already mentioned, noth
ing I say is going to cut it. Nothing is going to erase the way I’ve treated him.

“I’m trying to be better,” I whisper finally. “I’m trying, I promise I am.”

“By what? Playing house at your old estate? By breaking the law and lying to everyone? That part of your life is over, Lou. You have to grow up and face that.”