Overture (North Security, #1)

Even though I know it won’t.

Besides, I’m too wired to actually sleep. The white lace coverlet is both delicate and comfy. It’s actually what I would have picked out for myself, except I didn’t pick it out. I’ve been incapable of picking anything, of choosing anything, of deciding anything as part of some deep-seated fear that I’ll be abandoned.

The coverlet, like everything else in my life, simply appeared.

And the person responsible for its appearance? Liam North.

I climb under the blanket and stare at the ceiling. My body feels overly warm, but it still feels good to be tucked into the blankets. The blankets he picked out for me.

It’s really so wrong to think of him in a sexual way. He’s my guardian, literally. Legally. And he has never done anything to make me think he sees me in a sexual way.

This is it. This is the answer.

I don’t need to go skinny dipping in the lake down the hill. Thinking about Liam North in a sexual way is my fast car. My parachute out of a plane.

My eyes squeeze shut.

That’s all it takes to see Liam’s stern expression, those fathomless green eyes and the glint of dark blond whiskers that are always there by late afternoon. And then there’s the way he touched me. My forehead, sure, but it’s more than he’s done before. That broad palm on my sensitive skin.

My thighs press together. They want something between them, and I give them a pillow. Even the way I masturbate is small and timid, never making a sound, barely moving at all, but I can’t change it now. I can’t moan or throw back my head even for the sake of rebellion.

But I can push my hips against the pillow, rocking my whole body as I imagine Liam doing more than touching my forehead. He would trail his hand down my cheek, my neck, my shoulder.

Repressed. I’m so repressed it’s hard to imagine more than that.

I make myself do it, make myself trail my hand down between my breasts, where it’s warm and velvety soft, where I imagine Liam would know exactly how to touch me.

You’re so beautiful, he would say. Your breasts are perfect.

Because Imaginary Liam wouldn’t care about big breasts. He would like them small and soft with pale nipples. That would be the absolute perfect pair of breasts for him.

And he would probably do something obscene and rude. Like lick them.

My hips press against the pillow, almost pushing it down to the mattress, rocking and rocking. There’s not anything sexy or graceful about what I’m doing. It’s pure instinct. Pure need.

The beginning of a climax wraps itself around me. Claws sink into my skin. There’s almost certain death, and I’m fighting, fighting, fighting for it with the pillow clenched hard.

“Oh fuck.”

The words come soft enough someone else might not hear them. They’re more exhalation of breath, the consonants a faint break in the sound. I have excellent hearing. Ridiculous, crazy good hearing that had me tuning instruments before I could ride a bike.

My eyes snap open, and there’s Liam, standing there, frozen. Those green eyes locked on mine. His body clenched tight only three feet away from me. He doesn’t come closer, but he doesn’t leave.

Orgasm breaks me apart, and I cry out in surprise and denial and relief. “Liam.”

It goes on and on, the terrible pleasure of it. The wrenching embarrassment of coming while looking into the eyes of the man who raised me for the past six years.

My hips pump against the mattress, pulling out the last few pulses between my legs.

And then I’m lying there, wrapped tight around a pillow, unable to move, panting.

I’ve never seen Liam looking anything other than calm and cool and capable. He can handle anything with a command that’s almost terrifying in its competency. Right now he looks at a loss.

His voice is low and rough. “We should talk about this.”

I can’t think of anything in the world I’d rather do less. “Or we could just…” I hate that I still somehow sound breathy and turned on. There are little quivers in my thighs. “Pretend this never happened?”

“Come downstairs when you’re—”

The sentence hangs between us, leaving me to fill in the blank. Come downstairs when you’re done fucking yourself in the bed I bought for you. Come downstairs when you’re done humiliating yourself.

He gives a short nod, as if the unspoken answer is the right one.

Then he turns, an about-face appropriate to any military ceremony.

Alone in the room I have no choice but to face the mechanics of untangling myself. Unclenching my fists from the pillow. Pulling apart my legs. Acknowledging the dampness between my thighs.

“Please be a dream,” I whisper, but my face is too hot. Burning up. This is real.

On shaky legs I stand up from the bed and cross to the bathroom, where I wash my hands. Then my face. Then brush my teeth. I’m going into battle downstairs, and apparently good hygiene is my armor.

Or maybe I’m just delaying the inevitable.





CHAPTER SEVEN





Harvard University found that early training in the violin improves memory.


LIAM

FUBAR. That’s military speak for fucked up beyond all recognition. I’ve seen a lot of situations where the term applies, but none as fucked up as this one. As seeing a sexy woman hump a goddamn pillow while moaning my name, her soulful brown eyes locked on mine. Jesus.

And the worst part, the truly terrible fucking part, is how my cock is iron hard.

It’s like walking around with a goddamn club between my legs. It would be way too big and angry to put inside a woman right now, especially one as delicate, as innocent as Samantha Brooks. So it’s a real good thing that it’s never going to happen. We’re not a regular man and woman. This isn’t a casual fuck. This is a person I’m responsible for raising. My ward.

I press the heel of my hand against my cock, willing it to go down. For someone with a ridiculous amount of control over his body, I’m acting like a horny teenager who’s just seen a pair of tits for the first time.

Samantha appears at the door of my office, her cheeks an adorable shade of pink.

“Have a seat,” I tell her, wondering if I should have had this conversation in the living room or maybe the conservatory. Where do normal families talk about the birds and the bees? Then again, we’re about the furthest fucking thing from a normal family.

She crosses her ankles and folds her hands together, the picture of a good little student. Even though her little cunt must still be soft from orgasm, the folds still damp with arousal. It would be so easy to make her climax again, already warm and set and ready for me.

I lean back against the desk, trying not to think about how those hands looked clutching the pillow. “First of all, I’m sorry for walking in on you. I was worried and didn’t think… well, you have a right to privacy, and I want you to know that.”

Her flush deepens to red. “Please, sir—”

“Liam. We’ve talked about this.” At the beginning I didn’t want her to call me sir because she shouldn’t have to do that. Lately there’s a different reason. Because of the way my cock jerks every time she says the word. God, she’s almost begging. Please, sir. That’s how she would sound if I spread her wide on her bed, tasting her little pussy.

She coughs. “Can we just… is there any way we can pretend that never happened?”

Christ. The memory of her sweet little body writhing on the bed is forever burned into my brain. I see it every time I close my eyes. I can’t imagine that changing any time soon. “Look, I should have talked to you about sex a long time ago.”

“What?” The word comes out as a squeak.

“It’s part of my responsibility as your guardian.” And it’s not my responsibility to demonstrate any of this personally—not, not, not. I can’t touch her, but I can make sure she’s educated about it.