Love in Fantasy (Skeleton Key) (6 page)

I hit the delete button over and over and over, until the pages on the computer screen before me are blank. I’m trying to work on my novel but every time I stop to read what I’ve written, the characters look remarkably like Oliver and me. I may have actually called the hero Oliver a few times.

Ugh. After spending the night in the throes of erotic fantasies about him, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I can’t even escape him in my sleep! I admit, I’ve often fantasized about him, but my imagination has never been so vivid, and definitely not as creative as it was last night. Despite all of the reading I do and research for the sexy scenes in my novels, there were definitely some things in my dreams I’ll be adding to my erotic novel repertoire.

Just thinking about my dreams from the night before, my body flushes with heat. I decide to take a break and skip down the stairs from my little writing nook in the attic. Not paying attention, I plow right into a hard body—warm arms close around me, holding me steady. Hot breath bathes my ear and I shiver as a low voice says, “If you want to be slammed into by me, baby, all you have to do is agree to marry me.”

I rear back, scowling and trying to break his hold, but he doesn’t let me go. Before I can open my mouth and snap a caustic reply, we are interrupted by Chloe and her bodyguard, Damon, as they walk into the room, bickering, as usual. Well, Chloe’s bickering; Damon only responds from time to time, otherwise wearing his usual
don’t-fuck-with-me
expression and practically ignoring her. These two are the only ones who can’t see the raging attraction between them. It’s ridiculous.

Oliver’s arms loosen and I take the opportunity to reluctantly—I mean—happily step away. I sternly lecture myself about the future I’d have with Oliver. I don’t need a man controlling my every move, no matter how sexy his alpha ways are. He doesn’t fight me when I move away. However, he does grab my hand, only allowing me to go so far. I peek at his face and see him watching Chloe and Damon thoughtfully.

The Next Contestant

Wilhelm is practically singing in my pocket when Chloe and Damon enter the room. I figured Chloe would be the next contestant on
Love Connection
, but by Wilhelm’s little routine, seems like Damon is about to fall head over heels. I contemplate how to get the key to Chloe, then mentally shrug. I’m sure Wilhelm will let me know when the right opportunity is in front of me.

I drag Pippa out to the gardens for a walk, noticing how weak her protests are, and trying not to gloat. I take her to her favorite spot, by a fountain that depicts a scene from a fairy tale about twelve sisters who dance each night away. Her father has a twisted sense of humor.

Sitting on one of the stone benches, I settle her onto my lap, swallowing any protests she has with my mouth over hers. I then spend the next fifteen minutes reminding her who she belongs to. It takes no time at all for her to melt and become an active participant as we basically make out like teenagers, until I am so worked up, I know it’s time to leave her. The first time she turned me down, I made the decision not to make love to her until we were married. I was determined that when our bodies finally become one, our hearts and souls will already be there. I wasn’t above using just about everything else to convince her, though.

She walks me to the front of the house and I give her a long, lingering kiss, completely satisfied by the dazed look on her face when I’m done. The front door suddenly swings open and Chloe comes down the steps, followed by her ever-present shadow. Wilhelm starts vibrating, and when Chloe pulls me into a hug, I take the opportunity to slip the key into her purse. “She never shuts up about you,” she whispers. “You’re doing just fine, don’t give up.” Then, she steps back and winks at me, her smile broadening when she glances at Pippa, who is standing with her arms across her chest, glaring at Chloe.

I reluctantly head home, fervently wishing I was taking my woman with me, and hoping Wilhelm knows what the fuck he’s doing. Then, I spend the rest of the night dreaming about her.

Meanwhile. . .

Chloe’s Fantasy

D
amon unlocks Chloe’s front door and steps in first, doing a quick check, before giving her the all-clear to enter. Chloe silently follows him inside, having dutifully waited without complaint. She’d hired Damon for a reason, and it would be ridiculous not to let him do his job. Except for the times when he was truly a pain in the ass.

“It’s late,” she says with a sigh. “I’m going to bed.” He nodded and watched her go, waiting until she reached the top step before turning and going down another hallway that led to his room. She liked Damon, most of the time. When they first met, she’d hoped they could be friends, and sometimes, she’d thought they were. The moments were fleeting, though, and she’d pretty much given up trying. Sometimes his tall, dark, and silent routine got on her nerves, and the sizzling attraction she felt, which was clearly not reciprocated, only made everything more complicated and hard to navigate. It tended to poke at her until she ended up irritated and . . . if she was honest with herself, quite bitchy. It never seemed to faze him, though. She supposed she should be grateful for his vigilance; he’d kept her safe when a stalker had almost killed her.

She’d been a rising star as the lead singer of a British pop group since she was seventeen and was full steam ahead, always. But, after the attempt on her life, she’d hired Damon and backed off from the more public scene. Now, she was ready to retire, though early in her career, she was simply exhausted and wanted to do something out of the limelight. Although, this meant her need for a bodyguard was practically non-existent. Despite their odd relationship, she was going to miss him. Or, maybe it was simply the constant presence of someone (not necessarily him) because she had no clue where her life was going or what she really wanted, but she did know she was lonely.

Walking into her bedroom, Chloe sets her purse on her dresser, then digs through it, looking for her phone. Her hand bumps something hard and cool. Running through the list of things she keeps in there, she has no idea what it could be. Lifting it out, she stares at the glass skeleton key, wondering where the hell it came from. It starts to glow a little and she almost drops it, but her mind disagrees with her bodily reflexes because her hand closes tightly around it, instead. She jumps when her bedroom door suddenly slams shut and looks around wildly for what might have caused it. Spying an open window, she wracks her brain trying to remember if she’d left it open.
Better safe than sorry.
She dashes to the door, intending to call out for Damon. Throwing her door open, she comes to a screeching halt, finding herself suddenly inside an opulent foyer with a massive set of double doors directly across from her.

Her hand tingles and she looks down, remembering the key she’s holding. Curiosity overcomes her and she crosses the stone floor to the ornate doors. The lock bears a carving matching the look of her key, so she inserts it and twists. The tumblers click, indicating the door is open. She pulls the handle and steps into . . . no, it can’t be. Stepping over the threshold, she rotates in a slow circle to examine, what is clearly, a bedroom meant to look as though it’s in the turret of a medieval castle. Completing the three hundred and sixty-degree turn, she stands in awe for a moment. A click breaks the silence, and she spins back to the door, but it’s gone. Only the rough stone of the rounded walls remains. Weird. Ok, so she’s trapped. Irritated, she marches over to the large bed, covered in embroidered silk and flops down on her back with a huff, staring at the matching curtains hung on the canopy.
Well, this is a pickle
. The room doesn’t have any more doors, but there are several large, arched windows in the stone walls. She approaches one to see if it offers any means of escape.

Yeah, that would a be a fuck no
. Her fear of heights has her staggering backward, dizzy from looking down at least twenty stories. It’s dark out, but the moon shines bright and illuminates the endless fall to the ground.
Was that a moat?
Returning to the bed and resuming her position from before, she breathes deep, trying to calm her racing heart. Her concentration makes her sleepy and soon she is drifting, but a clatter outside the window quickly brings her fully awake.

She knows she should go find out what the noise was, but well . . . it’s out the window. I’m sure you can see the predicament. Attempting to climb off of the bed, Chloe’s legs get tangled in her gown.
Wait, gown?
Her eyes drop to her clothes, and she stares in shock at the long, shimmering, opaque material. Obviously a nightgown, but it reminds her of the ones Pippa describes the “blushing brides” wearing in the historical romances she reads. There is a tall mirror propped against the wall next to the bed, and she turns to examine herself.
If these were what those chicks were wearing . . . “blushing,” indeed.

There is a hazy quality to the fabric, but her figure, her nipples, and the darker area between her legs are clearly made out. The lack of underwear isn’t shocking, though, since she rarely wears it anyway. If she pulls her hair forward, it will cover— Well, that’s new. Her hair, which is usually a curly mess that ends just above her shoulders, is now flowing out behind her like the train of a wedding gown. Her eyes dart around once more, trying to figure out what the hell is going on and it occurs to her that reading all of Pippa’s smutty historicals must be affecting her dreams. Because this
has
to be a dream. Right?

Someone starts to climb through one of the windows, and Chloe frantically looks for something to cover herself with. She takes hold of the silk coverlet on the bed, only to realize it’s a heavy quilt. She has to put all of her strength into tugging it in her direction. She isn’t quick enough and the spread is only halfway off when a man drops to his feet in the room. She recognizes him immediately and forgets all about her fight with the stubborn quilt. He faces her and his dark eyes flare with heat, causing her nipples to pebble and moisture to gather between her legs. His eyes fall to her breasts and darken even further at the sight of the hardened peaks.

Chloe fidgets, feeling exposed and unbelievably turned on. She may be famous and have a great amount of confidence in many areas, but, she is still a virgin. It doesn’t help her hormones to see he is only wearing breeches (which leave nothing to the imagination, by the way), and his muscular chest is bare, his ebony hair loose, hanging down his back. His beauty and masculinity are as intimidating as they are incredible. Ok . . . so the historical aspect of the fantasy makes more sense now.

“Um, what—what’s going on, Damon?” she stutters.

He begins to prowl towards her, his gaze fierce, like an animal stalking its prey. When he’s inches away, she loses the battle with her bravado and backs up to put more space between them.
Does he have to look so fucking delicious?

“As long as you are free, you are in danger,” he says. “I will always protect you.”

Her back hits the wall and he continues to close the gap between their bodies.