Chapter 45

45

Mira

"A lighthouse?" I gape at the structure looming above us. I was so absorbed in him I didn’t notice where he'd stopped. I didn’t even notice the building when I got out of the vehicle. He held out his hand to help me, and I hesitated before taking it, given his reaction earlier. But he stands there, his features unmoving, his body stiff, and I know he’ll stand there for hours, days if needed, until I take his hand. So I do.

Shockwaves scatter up my arm. I feel him tense further, the muscles of his forearm flexing under the ever-present suit he wears. Then, he tugs lightly and helps me to my feet. Small dots of snow float down and only melt when they touch my cheeks. A wave crashes against the shore. The sound is wild and desolate, but also welcoming. A contradiction. Like him.

"Come on." He begins to lead me over the rocky path toward the edifice standing sentry over us. It’s lit by a single spotlight from the ground. It turns the tower into something out of a painting.

"Wow." I blink. "This is your secret hideaway?"

"I come here at least once a month, to get away from it all."

How like him it is. A building that has the ability to warn sailors, to look out over the sea and surrounding land, to spot a storm before it hits. To stay tall, silent, unwavering in the face of challenges. To persevere. And cut a romantic figure. If there were ever a personification of Edward brought to life, it would be this lighthouse.

We reach the door at the bottom, and he lets go of my hand long enough to punch in a few buttons on the keypad set into the wall. Of course, he has an electronic lock, paranoid as he is about security. The door unlocks with a click; he walks in, hits a switch, and lights come on. I take in the spotless space—a surprisingly spacious hallway, with the walls painted white, a carpeted floor, and two chairs pushed up against the far wall with a window between them.

"I had the place converted after I bought it." He leads me to the spiral staircase in the center and gestures for me to go up.

I climb the stairs. By the time I reach the top, I’m out of breath, and I reckon we must be at least six stories up. I step onto the floor at the top and gasp. The entire space has been converted into a very spacious, open plan apartment. On one side is a kitchen, furnished with a cooking range, an oven, a refrigerator, and even an island. It flows into the living space with a sectional, and an armchair facing a fireplace, above which hangs a massive flat screen television. On the other side is a king-sized bed, with bedposts. And there are cleats embedded into each of them. The kind used to secure ropes. O-k-a-y? I tear my gaze away long enough to notice a door nearby. He steps over to it and pushes it open. "This is an ensuite bathroom."

I follow him and peer inside. It has everything, including a large shower space.

"And here"—he walks toward a set of sliding doors and pushes them open—"is the walk-in closet." It’s a miniature of the closet in his office. On one wall are his suits; on the other, women’s clothes and shoes.

"Are those?—"

"Your size."

"And you had these clothes brought all the way here for me?"

"I had a team get to work to have it all done in time."

I should be used to how he thinks forward, how he makes sure I’m always taken care of. A warmth invades my skin. I glance around at the floor-to-ceiling windows that form one side of the circular area. Set in front of it is a clawfoot bathtub. Everything is sparkling. Everything smells fresh. There are even flowers in a vase in the middle of the island. And there’s a bookcase between the bed and the living space. One I head toward. I run my fingers down the spines and gasp. "Spicy books?"

"It’s what you love to read."

"I guess you found out from Summer?" He doesn’t reply, and I know I'm right. There are more books on the shelf above: Shakespeare, Harry Potter, Sun Tzu and The Art of War , Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, Kafka, Oscar Wilde, Tennessee Williams, thrillers and murder mysteries. As eclectic as the man himself. I tear myself away from the books, walk toward the floor-to-ceiling windows and peer outside. It’s dark, but the spotlight illuminates the snowflakes which seem to have picked up in intensity. I turn and take in the entire space and Edward standing in the center of it watching me. Above us, there are skylights in the domed ceiling—currently dark, but I’m sure when the lights inside are switched off, I’ll be able to see the stars in the sky. "This place is gorgeous." I half smile.

He doesn’t smile back. His features are set in stern lines that pinch my nerves with anticipation. He prowls toward me, his steps deliberate, his gaze filled with intent, and when he stops in front of me, my breath catches. He slides his fingers around my waist, then down to grab a handful of my butt. A shudder grips me.

"You like that?"

I nod.

Then he cups my breast with his free hand and squeezes. "And this."

"Yes," I croak. "I mean, yes, I do."

"What about this?" He drags his hand down to slide it between my legs. He cups my pussy, and my heart drops to the place of contact. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a whine.

"I believe that’s a yes?"

I manage to nod. Manage to not give into the weakness invading my knees.

He releases his hold on my core, only to draw up the fabric of the skirt I opted to wear. And all I can think of is, thank god, I didn’t wear jeans or pants. But why did I have to wear stockings?

"Hold this up." He nods to where the skirt is bunched around my waist.

I scramble to do so, my movements so quick, it’s almost embarrassing. And when he grips the nylon at my crotch and tears a hole, I cry out. He shoves the gusset of my panties aside, stuffs two fingers inside my channel, and I’m so wet, and so swollen with desire, I almost come right then. He curves his fingers inside me, watching my features closely. I know he’s taking note of just how responsive I am, and it should embarrass me, but I’m beyond caring. I part my legs to give him better access, begin to ride his fingers. The climax weaves up my thighs. "I’m coming; I’m?—"

He pulls out his fingers, brings them to his mouth and sucks on them. My orgasm hovers there for a second, another. Come on, come on. I almost cry out in disappointment when it fades away. He removes his fingers with a popping sound. "Delicious."

"Is it?"

"Here, taste." He brings them to my mouth and when I suck on them, the sweet-umami taste of my cum coats my tongue. My stomach chooses that moment to growl. He tilts his head. "Hungry?"