His Inexperienced Mistress. Chantelle Shaw
him feel sick. He should have been more gentle. Would have been if he’d known.
A virgin!
She had been a virgin, and afterwards he had been disgusted with himself for taking her with all the finesse of a rutting animal against a wall.
Damn.
If there had ever been a time he’d felt this badly he couldn’t remember it. Maybe when he’d come across her in his father’s study doing cocaine—or so he had thought at the time—with some loser she had just had sex with.
Correction: hadn’t had sex with.
Damn.
His head was a mess, and last night, after the deed was done, he’d stood in front of her like some gauche schoolboy with no idea how to fix what had just happened. Which was a first. But what could he have said? Hey, thanks. How about we use a bed next time?
And what about her response? Don’t say anything, she’d said, and, I could do without a post-mortem.
Damn.
He couldn’t have been any more shocked by her off-handedness if she’d hit him over the head with a block of wood. On some level he knew it was a defence mechanism, but it was clear she also regretted what they’d done together and that had made him feel doubly guilty.
Not that it should. She was an adult and had wanted it just as much. Things had just come to a natural head with two people available and finding themselves attracted to each other.
So he would have gone about things a little differently if he’d guessed the extent of her inexperience? If she’d told him! But that hadn’t happened, and he didn’t do regrets.
Tristan rubbed at a spot between his brows.
He might not do regret, but he owed her one hell of an apology for his condescending behaviour of the last two days. As well as his readiness to accept all the garbage that was written about her.
But hadn’t it been easier to accept she was an outrageous attention-seeker like his mother so he didn’t have to face how she made him feel?
Which was what, exactly?
Confused? Off-balance?
He took a swill of his coffee and grimaced as cold liquid pooled in his mouth.
He put his cup in the sink and stopped to look again at the morning papers on his kitchen table.
An earlier perusal of the headlines on the internet had confirmed that Lily’s concerns the previous night had been well founded. A photo of their kiss was plastered over every two-bit tabloid and interested blog in the Western world.
On top of that someone had snapped their photo at the airport right before he had put her in the back of his limousine that first day. She’d had her hand on his chest and the caption in that particular paper had read ‘Lord Garrett picks up something Wild at Heathrow’.
Cute.
So what to do about her? Try and play it cool? Pretend he wasn’t still burning up for her? And why was he? Once was often more than enough with a woman, because for him sex was just sex no matter which way you spun it.
But it hadn’t felt like just sex with Lily, and that was one more reason to stay away from her.
The thought that this was more than just an attraction chilled him. He didn’t do love either.
Damn. Who’d mentioned anything about love?
He blew out a breath and snatched the papers off the bench. One good deed. That was all he’d tried to do. And now his life was more complicated than a world-class Sudoku.
When Lily woke that morning she remembered everything that had happened the night before in minute detail. Every single thing. Every touch, every kiss, the scent of him, the feel of him…
She rolled onto her back and stared at the crystal chandelier above her bed. She loved that these perfect antiques were woven into the ultra-modern décor of his amazing home.
Part of her wanted to regret last night. The part that had been hurt by his obvious rejection straight afterwards. But another part told her to get over it. She’d had sex. Big deal. People did it every day. Granted, it probably wasn’t the smartest thing to have sex with a playboy type who thought she belonged in a sewer…but at least she hadn’t made her mother’s grave error and fallen in love with him.
And in a way it had been necessary. Tristan had been right when he’d said there was unfinished business between them. As much as she’d tried to deny it there had been, and now it was gone. Finished—as it were.
It wasn’t as if Tristan had promised her a happy-ever-after. And even if he had she didn’t want one. So what was there to regret? Except having to face him again. That could be awkward. Oh, and the small matter of an unplanned pregnancy. She didn’t know how that had slipped her mind. Not that she was worried. She trusted the universe too much to believe that was a possibility, and she was still in the early part of her cycle so that was safe—wasn’t it? She’d never had to consider it before, and those sketchy high school lessons on the birds and bees weren’t holding up very well ten years down the track.
Pushing aside her thoughts, she glanced around the elegant, tastefully decorated room. His whole house was like that. State-of-the-art and hideously expensive. Lots of wide open spaces, acres of polished surfaces, toe-curlingly soft carpets against contrasting art and antiquities. And it was neat. Super neat. But that was most likely his housekeeper’s doing, because his office was another story altogether.
It made her wonder at the person he was. Because as much as she wanted to hate him she knew she didn’t. Most of his actions, she knew, were driven by a deep-seated sense of responsibility and a desire to look out for his sister, and even though he had been harsh with her he’d also been incredibly tender. If she was being completely honest with herself, his sharp intellect and take-no-prisoners attitude had always excited her.
Lily felt herself soften, and swung her legs onto the boldly striped Tai Ping carpet and headed for the shower, her body tender from his powerful lovemaking.
She showered quickly and smoothed rosehip oil all over her face and arms, running a critical eye over herself. She knew her face was much lauded, but like anyone she had her problems. A tendency for her skin to look sallow, and dark circles that materialised under her eyes as soon as she even thought about not getting eight hours sleep a night. Right now they looked like bottomless craters, and she reached for her magic concealer pen to hide the damage of another night with very little sleep.
Discarding the towel she had wrapped around her body, she donned her silk robe and felt the flow of the fabric across her sensitised skin. Her breasts firmed and peaked, and just like that she was back in Tristan’s living room with his mouth sweetly tugging on her flesh.
Stop thinking about it, she berated herself. She was an intelligent woman who paid her own bills and made her own bed, and yet the only bed she could think of at the minute was Tristan’s—with both of them in it! And since he wasn’t thinking the same thing why torture herself with fantasies? She should be thinking about how she was going to face him still feeling so…so aroused!
A knock on the outer door brought her head around and she turned sharply towards the bedroom. It would be Tristan because she knew it was still too early for his housekeeper to have arrived, and she berated herself for dithering in front of the mirror for so long. It would have been more prudent to meet him downstairs, fully clothed.
‘Come in,’ she called reluctantly, tightening the sash around her robe and crossing her arms over her chest.
He did. And he looked gorgeous and refreshed. Just how she wanted to feel.
He walked over and dropped a couple of newspapers on her bed, and then stood regarding her, his hands buried in his pockets. His hair, still damp, curled enticingly around the nape of his neck and his olive skin gleamed darkly against his pale blue shirt. But it was his