Sex Objects Page 6

  She drank in the sight of him, hardly daring to believe he was really here, his jaw gilded by the sun, his eyes dark as graphite, bringing her back to life like the sun swells a flower.

  He kissed her again. “I saved some money. I plan to start my own place some day. I’d like you with me. But first you have to get well. I can help, if you’ll let me. You promise?”

  “But—I’m damaged.”

  He grinned. “You’re telling me. But your body will heal. The damage is all up here.” He touched her forehead. “You’ve been hurt. You’re too scared to love. Still don’t believe me? I fell for you the day we met. I’d never seen anyone like you. So—promise you’ll let me help?”

  Happiness seeped through her like warm honey. “Okay,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  Butled

  Delilah Devlin

  Grant came with the fine fieldstone house I’d purchased with my first fat royalty check. One of the many amenities the previous owner had willingly dumped when she’d decided she was tired of cold Virginia winters and purchased a villa in Italy.

  Something I’d never understood—how a servant could be passed from one owner to the next along with a deed. But Grant was a “legacy”—a fourth-generation butler at Parker House.

  I remember reading through the inventory of buildings and barns, tractors and horse tack, stumbling when I came to one name, Grant Preston. “Seriously, I own a butler now?” I’d asked the lawyer who drew up the contract.

  “You’ve bought his contract. It’s yours to break, but understand that if you do, you’ll have to purchase the remaining years.”

  “That sounds like indentured servitude.”

  “It’s how it’s done here, ma’am.”

  I’d learned later that he’d exaggerated. Grant was responsible for the language of the contract. He’d insisted on the verbiage with his previous employer, his way of assuring himself long-term employment in a highly fluid and dying career field.

  Grant had been raised at Parker House. The three-storied, twenty-one-room house was his home, if not in name. I’d come to understand that the first week after I’d moved in. I’d purchased every stick of furniture along with the house, but when I’d mentioned selling pieces to replace them with more modern furnishings, his back had stiffened. And after listening as he’d regaled me with every story behind every piece I wanted gone, I’d relented. How could I sell history?

  It wasn’t until I’d retreated, deflated, to my rooms that I realized he’d manipulated the conversation. Very politely and with a small, seemingly genuine smile, but I hadn’t been willing to douse the light of pride that shown in his eyes when he’d spoken. A simple maple desk chair had somehow become a treasure I’d be gauche to remove, cruel even. I didn’t want to disappoint him.

  At first, when I realized his game, I was angry. But as he slowly educated me regarding the history of the furniture and the house, and then gently but firmly guided me to an appreciation of the surrounding lands I’d purchases, I’d grown amused. Admiring, even. Grant was the true treasure of Parker House. Its living defender.

  Not that he didn’t understand the need for small changes. The claw-foot tub in my bathroom might have been used by a famous movie star or a president, but I’m short, and using stairs to get into the deep thing wasn’t practical. I wasn’t a bath sort of person anyway, so the tub was moved to another bathroom and he oversaw the construction of a large shower, tiled with natural stone from the fields, a lovely thing with nozzles at different heights to assure my pleasure.

  When he’d let me see the final result, I’d blushed, realizing he’d had it fitted to my measurements and the colors of the stones reflected my blonde hair and gray eyes. He’d personalized it to me. I had now become an integral part of the house’s history.

  However lovely and subtle that manipulation had been, I wasn’t ready to concede the larger battle for control of the house. Especially after he’d introduced me to the butler’s buttons.

  “If ever you should need me, you’ve only to press one of these buttons,” he’d said, indicating a small, metal-rimmed beige button fitted in every light switch beside the doors of every room. Plus one beside my bed. “A bell rings inside my quarters and in the kitchen area.”

  I’d nodded, at first thinking there was no way I would summon a man like Grant with the press of a button. How demeaning must that be?

  But he’d looked expectantly, an eyebrow raised. “It’s for your safety. This is a large house. You’re unfamiliar with its quirks. And I’m here to see to your comfort and well-being. If you’re hungry or not feeling well, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  His tone had been even and slow. Did he think I wasn’t intelligent enough to follow the conversation, or was there something else he was trying to relate, ever so politely? His job was to see to my comfort. The comforts I began to imagine were likely ones he’d be appalled to provide.

  However, the weeks that followed impressed upon me just what a jewel Grant really was. He didn’t hover and yet seemed to know what I needed the moment it popped into my mind. A cup of tea, a stack of towels beside the heated pool, meals ready the moment I decided I was hungry and served with an easy quiet grace: I quickly acclimated to the luxury of having someone seeing to my needs. Clothes disappeared from the floor where I left them as I bathed, and were returned to my closet, freshly laundered and pressed, as if by magic. And for a girl who just a couple years ago had lived in a one-room apartment that had seemed impossible to keep tidy, Grant’s constant oversight of the cook and the maid didn’t go unappreciated.

  Neither did the man himself.

  While I worked in the library, seated at a Georgian writing desk Grant had moved to the window at my request, half my mind was consumed with the new story I was writing, the other half distracted by my butler.

  He’d worn a cashmere sweater over dark trousers today, rather than his usual uniform of pale dress shirt beneath a dark jacket. The sweater had hugged his upper torso lovingly, the sage green a perfect match for his eyes. Something I hadn’t noticed until this day: Grant was a handsome man. Not in any garish overstated way, but his eyes were kind, his hair thick and dark, and his jaw firm with a wedge of a dimple at the center of his chin.

  For the rest of the morning, I skimmed Pinterest for “handsome men” until I found his doppelganger, “Elijah” from The Immortals, minus the British accent. After that, my workday was sunk, as instead of writing the next chapter of my Capitol Hill thriller, I wrote scene after scene of smutty encounters between my hero and his Girl Friday. Scenes I’d never be able to use unless I decided to hop genres to write erotica.

  I swiveled in a slow circle, eyeing the bookcases filled with books I’d never read, past the deep leather couch and armchairs that showed a little wear, but were beyond comfortable. I wondered if Grant liked this room. Whether he’d read the books. I could imagine him sitting there, his feet on an ottoman, him in his sage-green sweater, a lock of his dark hair escaping to dangle over an eye. I wondered what he’d look like when he really smiled—a wide smile, not his usual small, polite smile. Whether his chest was hairy. More and more, his lean frame drew my eye. He was tall, well built. What did he look like naked?

  Swiveling again, I stopped as I eyed the metal-rimmed button beneath the light switch. If only I had the nerve….

  Grant stepped into the doorway, one of his small smiles curving his perfect, firm lips. “I was passing by, is there anything I can do for you?”

  He rarely asked. I moved to make sure the pictures of Elijah were hidden behind me. “Do you like this room, Grant?”

  He arched a brow, wariness entering his expression until his neutral mask fell into place. “Is there something that doesn’t please you? Do you need at lamp at your desk?”

  Pursing my lips and narrowing my eyes, I stared. It had been a while since I’d been engaged in another of his manipulations over furnishings. “There are too many books,” I said, and then grinned. I couldn’t help it
. An edgy horniness was willing me to misbehave.

  “It is a library, ma’am.”

  “Kendall, Grant. We share a house.”

  ‘‘I’m in your service, ma’am.”

  I blew out a breath between my pursed lips and wished instantly that I’d bothered to slick my lips with something more dramatic than a pale gloss.

  His head tilted to the side, those intelligent green eyes narrowing. “Ma’am, are you bored?”

  “And if I am?”

  “There are horses in the stable…”

  I gave a long dramatic sigh. “It’s cold outside.”

  “I could build you fire in the hearth, bring you a brandy.”

  “A brandy… I straightened and shook my head. I didn’t dare take let my thoughts stray any further. “That would be nice. Maybe you could choose something for me to read,” I murmured. “Something without too many big words.”

  His lips pressed together, but then he chuckled. “All right then, a fire, a brandy and good book…without too many big words. Ma’am.”

  I grinned back at him, feeling comfortable with his amusement and attention for the first time. “This house was too much for me, wasn’t it? I don’t know why I bought it.”

  “You have good taste,” he said, rubbing his hands together and entering the room. He strode for the fireplace, set three logs in the stand at the center of the large hearth and placed kindling beneath it. Minutes later flame licked at the bottoms of the logs.

  Striding toward a walnut sideboard, he poured a snifter of brandy, swirling it as he cupped the base to warm the liquid. “Would you like to move to the couch?”

  I stood, my body feeling fluid, my hips swaying as I approached him. Our gazes locked and then his flicked downward to the glass he held. “Why not pour one for yourself?” I said softly. “Join me.”

  Again, his gaze narrowed, his lips pursed, but he gave a slow nod. “If it pleases you.”

  “It does.”

  Together, we settled on the dark leather, on opposite ends, me with my knees drawn up and sitting sideways to stare at him, while Grant sat, one arm draped on the back, the other holding his glass, studying me.

  Suddenly, I was uncomfortable. Didn’t the man know how to make polite conversation? Or did he really want to be somewhere else? “You should ask me how the writing is going?”

  “How is the writing going?”

  “Slowly. I thought I’d be able to write with the quiet in the country.”

  “But you’re bored.”

  “Not precisely…”

  “Not precisely bored…?”

  “I keep thinking about your butler’s buttons…” I said, letting my gaze drift away as a blush warmed my cheeks.

  “As a clue or a thread in your story?”

  I shook my head. “I guess the problem is that for the most part we’re alone in this house. You off in your…quarters. Me, alone, in mine.”

  His head rose, then dipped. “I see.”

  Did he really?

  “You haven’t used the buttons. Not once.”

  “Because I’m afraid I’ll be tempted to use them for more than the…customary services.”

  “As you’ve said,” he murmured. “We’re alone in this house. And I am here to serve…” His gaze met mine squarely.

  I wasn’t sure he’d understood the subtext. But my heart didn’t seem to care. It began to throb, a heavy pounding I could hear in my own ears. I cleared my throat. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, taking a quick sip of my brandy.

  “For my former employer, she was much older than you, I provided massage therapy. I prepared her baths. She enjoyed the intimacy of my care. You’ve only to ask.”

  Asking would be impossible. For me. I was adept at putting words to paper, but speaking my needs… I nodded. “Thank you, Grant.”

  He gave me his butler’s smile and rose. “If there’s nothing else you’d like to discuss, I’ll see to preparations for dinner.”

  I nodded and he faded away, leaving me with my mind whirling over all the tantalizing, personal services I should never ever request. I set my glass aside and pushed up. A shower was in order. The handheld nozzle with its dozen pulsating settings might help me with my current, very personal need.

  “Was the steak not to your taste?”

  I glanced at my uneaten food. “Tell cook everything was perfect.” I cleared my throat. “I’d like more of the wine, served in the salon.” I had to curb the urge to say please. Something Grant had said wasn’t expected.

  Alone, I headed to the salon, a beautifully appointed space, large enough that furniture could be moved for a dance, but still it was an intimate space. It must have been all the plush velvet upholstery, something an owner without Grant’s more conservative tastes had done during the Victorian era. Rich reds and purples, an ornate wooden mantle, heavy curtains and a lush Persian carpet atop the oak flooring.

  I sat on a high-backed chaise and slid my legs onto the cushion. I’d dressed for dinner, wanting his attention, but he hadn’t blinked at my thigh-high navy silk sheath. His gaze hadn’t lingered over my long legs or the four-inch heels that were killing my feet now.

  I wriggled my toes and let the heels drop to the carpet. Grant would pick them up.

  “You should have worn your bunny slippers,” he said from the doorway.

  “They are blue,” I said, smoothing a hand over the silk. Then I saw that he held two glasses in one hand, the French burgundy I hadn’t finished in the other. “You’re joining me?”

  “It’s a large room. I didn’t want you feeling lonely.”

  The most intimate thing he’d ever said to me. I held out my hand for the glass and waited while he poured.

  He settled on the chaise beside my feet. “I know that you’re accustomed to isolation, due to your work, but you needn’t feel lonely here.”

  “Don’t give me a list of guests to invite again. I don’t like throwing parties for people I don’t know.”

  “I understand. If I overstep, you’ll let me know. But I wasn’t going to suggest another dinner party.” He set his glass on a side table and angled his body toward mine. Then with slow precision, he placed his hands on my knees and parted them.

  His palms were hot, as though he’d warmed them before a fire before coming to me.

  “Would you like me to massage your feet, or would you prefer my touch elsewhere?”

  A choice. Simply stated. No room for misinterpretation. “Elsewhere,” I blurted, my gaze locking with his. Good Lord, was this part of his service? Did he even desire me?

  “You’re younger than I’d thought you’d be. Most authors Photoshop their pictures. You’re very attractive.”

  “So are you. I didn’t notice at first. Everything was so new.” I was babbling, but his small smile said he didn’t mind. His hands caressed my ankles, then glided upward, over the tops of my thighs. His thumbs tucked under the hem of skirt and pushed it upward.

  Leaning on one hand, I lifted my bottom, allowing him to push it farther up. I’d worn thigh-top hose and small, sheer bikini panties.

  He scooted closer and placed his hand between my legs.

  I don’t know what I’d expected. Hell, that was a lie. I’d hoped he’d come over me, that he’d kiss me, and then fuck me. Instead, he slowly worked two fingers inside me, then pressed his thumb against my clit.

  Sitting quietly, my body tense, I allowed it, but anger began to flush my face, my neck. This was his service? Clinical, passionless touches to bring me orgasms whenever I ordered one up? Or was this a lesson? He’d never refuse my requests, but was this tiny rebellion meant to quell any future urge I might have to play with the help?

  I reached down to push his hand away, but his unengaged hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around mine, holding me carefully, but firmly away. Grant wasn’t permitting me to stop this.

  My arousal surged. Something he couldn’t miss, because I squeezed around the fingers thrusting steadily inside me. I tried t
o keep my expression every bit as neutral as his, but his thumb pressed harder against my clit, and my eyelids fluttered and closed. I stopped caring what he might see, what I might give away. I raised my legs, knees bent and spreading, and surrendered to the pleasure of his service.

  When three thick digits thrust inside, I gasped and lifted my hips, pumping in opposition to his gentle thrusts while my excitement wet his hand. One last firm flick of his thumb, and I exploded, crying out.

  When I opened my eyes, he took the wineglass I’d very nearly spilled and set it on the table. He rose and extended a hand, helping me up and pulling down my dress. When he let go of my hand, he straightened, his expression still set, but his green eyes gleaming. “I’ll clear the table, ma’am.”

  My jaw dropped as he walked away. But I quickly clamped it closed. A slow smile tugged at the corners of my mouth. I understood this game now.

  I made my way upstairs, tossing clothing as I went. Naked by the time I’d reached my bedroom. After securing my hair in a clip, I showered, using the lovely floral soaps he’d provided. When I shut the tap, I reached out to the small plate with the metal-rimmed button and pressed it.

  Moments later, Grant tapped at my door then let himself in. I exited the shower, dripping water on the baseboards. “I need a towel,” I said, pointing toward the cabinet.

  Grant retrieved one, then quietly rubbed my body down, drying away the water, and lingering only slightly as he rubbed the soft Turkish linen between my legs and over my bottom.

  And then he straightened. “Will that be all?”

  “Would you turn down the covers?”

  “Of course,” he murmured, moving away toward the bed. I followed closely, stepping lightly, but by the slight turn of his head, he knew I was on his heels.

  At the bed, he pulled down the covers, displaying an inviting triangle of comfort of soft embroidered duvet and matelasse blanket, and crisp cotton sheets.

  “I need my bed warmed.” I pulled at the back of his soft sweater. “You won’t need this,” I said, standing on tiptoe to lean against his back and whisper in his ear.