EDEN (Eden series Book 2) (12 page)

Carefully, so my body never touches anything but his cock, I clench and tighten my muscles around him and drag myself up and down that deliciously thick shaft. The nightmare falls away in pieces like leaves in autumn and makes me forget the tide of emotion that was aching to come out.

I whimper with pure pleasure and feel him get harder and bigger deep inside me. I know he will soon be at the point of no return. I feel his fingers move and locate my moist, swollen clit straining and protruding from its hood.

As his seed rushes upwards through his shaft he firmly grasps the tight bud between his fingers and squeezes it hard. The sudden furious sensation is so different from my gentle manipulations that it triggers my climax. I try not to buck too violently as the blissful spasms of my orgasm shake me from head to foot, b
ut with his own climax upon him he instinctively forces more of his shaft into me, causing my buttocks to land on his thighs.

His groan is one of explosive ecstasy tempered by pain. For some time I hold him trapped within my body until our bodies are finally quiet. I remember once reading that the heart is like a tendril—it cannot flourish alone. It will always lean toward the nearest and loveliest thing it can twine itself with and cling to it. When I try to gently lift my body away he makes a sound of protest.

‘What is it?’ I whisper, thinking I have hurt him.

‘I am so…’ He hesitates. ‘Proud of you.’

SEVENTEEN

A
week after the fight, when only yellow bruises and unhealed ribs remain, we go to Jake’s mother’s house for lunch. She lives in a cottage with a charming English garden. English gardens are always best in spring but hers still looks good. There are hanging baskets of purple petunias by her front door. The door opens before we can knock and a surprisingly small woman, perhaps five feet three inches, with extraordinarily bright green eyes, smiles at us.

She kisses her son warmly on both his cheeks and formally extends her hand toward me. I am relieved by this show of formality. Her hands are small but strong—a gardener’s hands. Jake introduces us.

‘Nice to meet you, Lily,’ she says. Her voice is soft but her accent is more pronounced than her son’s.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mara,’ I reply.

She withdraws her hand rather quickly and clasps it along with the other close to her chest.

‘You better come in,’ she says, and leads us into her living room. It is exactly as I expected it to be. As clean as two new pins with net curtains, family photos galore, and dainty china figurines on the windowsill.

‘Take a seat,’ she invites, and hovering uncertainly at the door asks if we would like something to drink.

‘No, you sit down and I’ll fix us all a drink. What will you have, Mother?’

I take the sofa and she perches on the end of a velour-covered Queen Anne chair. ‘I’ll have a sherry,’ she says. I notice that her hands are tightly clenched in her lap.

‘Lily?’ Jake looks at me with a raised eyebrow.

‘I’ll have whatever you’re having then.’

Jake walks to the carved armoire and opens it. One shelf holds an impressive selection of alcohol.

‘So how did the two of you meet?’ Mara probes.

I return my gaze to her. She is smiling politely, but her eyes are sharp. ‘Shane introduced us,’ I reply.

She frowns. ‘Shane?’

‘Yes, I was working as a dancer at Eden.’

‘Dancer?’

Ah! Malice disguised as moral outrage. She just about stopped herself from crossing herself.

‘She was,’ Jake interrupts smoothly. ‘She doesn’t dance anymore.’

His mother turns to him. There is a puzzled, curious expression on her face. ‘Oh!’

‘Now she works for me.’

‘Really?’ she says softly, taking her glass of sherry from her son.

I have the urge to down the entire contents of my glass, but I don’t. Instead I hold the glass in my hand and endure fifteen minutes of interrogation disguised as polite chat.

Finally, his mother stands. ‘Please excuse me. I think lunch might be ready.’ She disappears into the kitchen and I feel the tenseness in my shoulders go.

‘I think she likes you,’ Jake whispers.

‘I think she doesn’t,’ I whisper back.

‘I think she’ll come around,’ he consoles, and kisses me on the nose.

For some weird reason, his words touch me. I look into his eyes and he looks back and we are both so lost in each other’s gaze that we don’t hear his mother come back into the room.

She clears her throat and both of us turn to look at her. Her face is white and she seems shocked by something.

Even Jake notices. ‘What’s the matter, Mum?’ he asks, standing up and going to her. He puts his arm around her narrow shoulders, making her appear smaller and quite fragile.

She shakes her head and smiles weakly. ‘Someone walking over my grave.’

I stand, too, but I am conscious that she doesn’t want me near her. The truth is that she can barely bring herself to look at me.

‘Come on, lunch is ready,’ she says briskly.

‘Would you like some help?’ I ask, knowing what the answer will be.

‘Absolutely not. Everything is done.’

So Jake and I take our seats at a dark wood dining table. The room faces her beautiful back garden full of flowers and fruit trees. His mother then disappears from the room and returns with a trolley.

‘Be careful, the plates are hot,’ she warns, setting our plates of a lamb chop, peas, carrots and potatoes in front of us. She places a basket of bread rolls and a gravy boat in the middle of the table and sits herself.

‘May it do you good,’ she says.

‘May we all be together at the same time next year,’ Jake says.

An expression of alarm crosses her face.

‘Bon appétit,’ I say.

Jake picks up his knife and fork.

His mother turns toward me. There is something in her eyes. For a second I think it is envy, the normal envy a mother feels for her son’s chosen mate, and then I realize it is not envy. It is fear. She finds me terrifying. I am still staring at her in shock when her eyes slide away. She busies herself with tearing at a piece of bread, which she then lays down on the plate.

I turn to look at Jake. He has missed it all. He is cutting into a piece of meat. He catches my eyes as he carries it to his lips.

‘What?’ he asks

‘Nothing.’

I look down at my plate. She wants to rub me out. Like a pencil mark that has been made in error. She cannot know who or what I really am, but some instinct is driving her. Telling her I am not to be trusted. Not to be taken into her family.

The meal is a disaster. Both his mother and I hardly eat. As soon as Jake puts his knife and fork down, his mother turns to him. ‘I need more ice. Will you get a bag from the freezer, Jake?’

‘Sure.’ Jake gets up and makes for the kitchen.

‘Can you get it from the big freezer in the shed?’ she says.

‘Would you also like me to walk back very slowly?’ he asks with a grin.

‘That would be nice,’ his mother replies, but there is no mischief in her voice. Only worry and trepidation.

As soon as the door closes she says, ‘I’ve always preferred sketches to paintings. Paintings are closed, finished things that hide layers of lies. Sketches are the bones of what will be. They are more honest. They haven’t learned to lie. What do you prefer?’

‘If we are truly talking about sketches and paintings, then I prefer paintings. I know the finished product is a series of accidents, but I appreciate that the grand design of life allows accidents to become beautiful.’

She frowns. ‘I want to have grandchildren. I want them to think of me as the old woman who wears shawls and silly hats and reads tea leaves. Are you the woman to give me that?’

I swallow. ‘Look, Jake and I have just met. It’s too early. It’s not on the cards.’

‘What do you want from my son, then?’

I shift uncomfortably. ‘Did you ask this of all women he brought home?’

‘He has never brought a woman home before.’

My mouth drops open.

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

‘I don’t want anything from your son. We’re just in a relationship.’

‘Liar,’ she says very softly.

‘What did you just call me?’

‘You heard. You are a dangerously manipulative woman, Miss Hart. And I am here to tell you that I will never allow you to break this family, or my son for that matter.’

EIGHTEEN

A
s we fly into Las Vegas airport, I look out of my cabin window, and the sparkling city appears almost magically from the miles of desert surrounding it. The heat outside the airport hits me like a wall. We walk quickly toward a gleaming purple SUV, which is waiting outside for us. It is wonderfully cool inside.

‘Purple?’ I ask with a laugh.

‘It’s the Hard Rock touch,’ Jake says.

We are in Las Vegas for the weekend, because I have never been, and when I told Jake that, he said, ‘Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve been on the Strip.’

The journey to the Strip is only about fifteen minutes. I gaze at the infamous street with wide eyes. It is an over the top, glamorous fantasy playground, almost like a giant Hollywood movie set with its miniatures of the Sphinx, pyramids, the Statue of Liberty and the Eiffel Tower. I even take a photo of the M & M store to show my mother.

I wonder what she will make of it. She once told me a shocking thing about the gorgeous black torch performer Lena Horne, who was allowed to stay at the Flamingo as long as she was not seen at the casino, restaurants or public areas. When she checked out, her bed sheets and towels were burned.

Over the massive, gold guitar door handles are the words:
When this house is rocking, don’t bother knocking. Come on in.
And it really is rocking in there for Jake. There is no check-in for Jake and me. He is greeted by name by a smiling host and we are quickly and efficiently whisked past the awesome, fifty-five feet digital screen stretched behind the reception desk, straight to the elevator bank and up to the Provocateur penthouse suite.

The Provocateur suite is like no other hotel room I’ve been to.

We are greeted by walls covered in black vinyl embossed to look like crocodile skin in the foyer. In that deliberately darkened hallway there is a birdcage, large enough and strong enough to hold a grown man and a whipping cross! With handcuffs!

On our left, silhouettes of naked women start swaying provocatively in the shower as motion sensors pick up our movements. There can be no doubt that the design is fetish orientated and I turn to look at Jake.

Beyond the foyer are claret walls and sophisticated shiny black furniture and more dominatrix accessories. We are shown the heated plunge pool in the balcony and taken to the bedroom with three beds pushed together, presumably perfect for orgies. The other master bedroom has an enormous four-poster bed and a mirrored, trellised ceiling. The man shows us how to work the 3D projector system behind the bed to make it throw patterns and themes onto the walls.

At the flick of a button the shades come down, the lights dim and two women wantonly writhing are projected onto the bed. It is so over the top and creepy-crazy I start giggling. My laughter doesn’t deter our host. We are taken to a secret vault full of toys, equipment and costumes for sex play.

When he is gone I go to stand by the ceiling-to-floor windows. The view is fabulous. Down below, the swimming pool is heaving with beautiful bodies on purple floats. I turn around to look at Jake.

‘Like it?’ he asks.

‘Are you trying to tell me something Fifty Shades-ish?’

He laughs. ‘No fucking way. I don’t need to beat a woman to get my kicks. I just thought you’d enjoy this more than the Venetian. It’s all Liberace style opulence, chocolate-covered strawberries and beluga caviar served by butlers with white gloves over there.’

‘And you don’t have to pay for any of this?’

He grins, at once boyish and delicious. ‘Nope.’

‘How come they treat you so good?’

He shrugs. ‘My claim to fame is that I once lost a whole million at their baccarat table and they’re hoping I’ll repeat that lack of judgment,’ he says dryly.

My eyes widen. ‘One million? Dollars?’

‘Yup. I used to be what they call a whale.’

‘What’s a whale?’

‘At the lower end a high roller is someone who bets between a thousand to five thousand dollars a hand. A serious high roller would play upwards of five grand to about twenty, twenty-five thousand. A big high roller would spend between twenty-five and fifty thousand.’ He stops and smiles. ‘And then you have the whales. Whales start at seventy-five thousand dollars a hand.’

‘And you were one of them?’

‘I was. But now I only come two, maybe three times a year.’