Do Your Worst(29)
He fucked his fist, letting himself recall the ridiculous way she applied lipstick, slowing the memory down, zooming in on her shiny, dark pink lips.
In his fantasy he waited until she put the cap back on, touched the corner of her mouth with a single finger to make sure the application was pristine.
Then he stepped in front of her and slowly, deliberately used his thumb to smear the bright, tacky substance toward her cheek.
Get on your knees.
He’d watch her fight the impulse. But in the end, Riley would do it, her eyes flashing as she took him between her lips, ruining her own makeup on his cock.
Clark licked his palm, made his strokes slick, imaging the wet heat of her mouth.
Fine. If he was gonna do this, he might as well do it—
Think about pinning her down on his bed and getting his mouth on her pussy. Having her clench his comforter in her fists. Her legs over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back.
He’d finger fuck her until it was dripping down his wrist. Make her watch, glassy-eyed, while he licked it off. Riley would beg for release, weep for it.
Clark groaned, the sound loud in the camper, obscene in his own ears. He threw his head back, banging it against the side of the camper, stars dancing in front of his eyes. Shit. The pain worked for him right now, melded in with all the other good-bad emotions. The wrongness of the orgasm building at the base of his spine.
No. Not yet.
He slowed his strokes to keep from spilling.
She thinks you’re awful, mate. His hips hitched. I am.
Because just when Riley got close, right on the edge, sobbing for how badly she needed to come, he’d flip her over and spank her, take that ripe ass in hand and make it sting.
Clark would get her to count the strokes. Have her apologize for driving him to distraction. For not taking enough care with herself. For lying to him and destroying his peace.
Even after she finally promised to be good for him, he’d decline to bring her over the edge, instead manhandling her so she straddled his thigh, granting her the small mercy of finishing herself off grinding against his denims.
Riley would think it was punishment, that he refused to touch her. But really Clark didn’t trust himself, even in his fantasies. He wanted too much. It was all-consuming, made him forget.
The worst part was, Clark pictured her face as he came, splashing hot across his fist. Her face that first night when he kissed her. The way her cheeks had been crimson from the cold, her hair mussed from his hands, her smile bright and soft and hopeful.
After, as he cleaned up, he told himself he wouldn’t do that again. Wouldn’t let his body get used to thinking about Riley, associating pleasure with her name.
She was a trap, perfectly set, designed for his undoing. But Clark wasn’t an animal.
He wouldn’t fall for the honeyed illusion of her. No. He would get up tomorrow, early enough to make up for the progress he lost today. He’d earn back the respect he’d fumbled, slowly but surely.
If he really loved his work, he couldn’t risk it again.
His father had gotten him this fucking job, he reminded himself as he brushed his teeth. His father, who’d promised to come visit, to see the progress he hadn’t made.
Shame burned hot across Clark’s back as he climbed into bed, as he shivered, trying to shake the memory of Riley’s hands.
I can prove it, she’d said to him that day with the dagger. And perhaps that was where he’d gone so wrong. Letting her.
Giving her chances to weave a fabrication about curse breaking instead of cutting to the chase and pulling back the curtain. Leaving them both no choice but to confront stark reality. Enough was enough. Already he’d let her go too far.
As talented a pretender as Riley was, Clark couldn’t let her act stand unchallenged.
Chapter Nine
Late the next morning, hopped up on a cocktail of resentment and sexual frustration, Riley headed for the pub.
Eilean looked up when the cheerfully tolling bell above the door announced her arrival. “Curse breaker.” It was still early enough that the lunch rush hadn’t hit, only a few singles sat at the bar with sandwiches. “Done for the day already?”
“Actually, I’m here on business. I was hoping you might be able to introduce me to a local who can tell me a bit more about Philippa Campbell.”
Clark Edgeware could suck an egg. Riley didn’t need him or his research to figure out this curse. The village was full of people who had grown up surrounded by the lore of the mysterious Arden Castle.
“Ah.” Eilean beckoned her farther in with a smile. “So, you’ve subscribed to the theory of the last daughter, have you? That one was always my favorite as well. I’ve long suspected the reason it’s not the definitive origin story for the curse has to do with the fact that people underestimate a woman’s will to survive. Anyway”—she flipped up the side of the bar and slid out from behind it—“you’re in luck. Ceilidh’s working today.” (Eilean took the time to explain that even though it was pronounced like Kay-lee, the spelling was Gaelic.)
Eilean led Riley to the back of the pub and introduced her to a tall redhead filling saltshakers. “I’m sure she’d be happy to chat your ear off if you give her a hand.”
As it turned out, Eilean was right on all counts. Born and raised in Torridon, Ceilidh Wynn worked at the Hare’s Heart part-time while doing her master’s in European history at the local university. While Riley helped her restock condiments, she learned that Ceilidh’s thesis was actually on the curse—specifically the legend of the last daughter. She’d spent years studying the castle’s history and even moonlighted as a tour guide in Inverness in the summer, where she told the story of the curse over and over along with other parts of local supernatural folklore.