Eight Ways to Ecstasy (15 page)

There were a lot of things Rylan had kissed good-bye the day he'd walked out of a courtroom and onto a plane, on a one-way trip to Paris with no intention to return. As the smoking ruins of his father's dreams for him had disappeared beyond the horizon, he'd made his peace with it. He'd miss his sister and Chase and maybe, at least to a certain extent, his work. But the rest of it could rot.

Nothing more so than this place.

The churning in his gut hit a whole new peak as he came in view of the big, wrought-iron gate that surrounded the property. The ivy had always been thick, but it was overgrown to the point where he could scarcely see inside at all now, and that was good. That was right. No one should be able to look at what was left of his family.

At the empty, lonely house where he had once been a boy. But where he had never, ever been allowed to be a child.

He swallowed hard as he approached the entrance. Balancing the coffees he was holding in one hand, he got his key ring out. Flipped through it until he hit the old brass one that for some reason he'd never taken off.

The door to the gate was as smooth and silent as ever as it swung open. For all that the gardening had apparently been let go, the caretakers responsible for the mansion's upkeep continued to do their job. He should probably be grateful for that.

He gazed inside at the brick and stone monstrosity his father had built as a monument to his own damn ego, and his entire chest went tight.

He froze, there on the boundary.

And he should go in. The movers would be here soon.
Kate
would be here even sooner. There were a million things to do.

In the end, he made it as far as a low stone bench in the center of the courtyard. He sat down hard, gazing out across the barren grass, and then up.

Instinctively, his gaze went to the southeast corner, second floor. His father's study. How many times had he stared up at that as he came home? Peering in to see if it was still alight.

Hoping that it would be as a boy. That his father would still be up, and maybe he'd want to talk. To give Rylan just an ounce of his attention.

Praying it wouldn't, those few awful months he'd lived here as an adult. That he wouldn't have to hear another fucking word about how he was wasting his life at these parties. He needed to work harder, be more, do more. Forget he already put in eighty-hour weeks. The future of the company was depending on him, for fuck's sake.

He put the coffees down on the bench and braced his elbows on his knees.

The future of the company still depended on him—probably even more than it had back then.

But that was a line of thought for another day. For now, he was here. At his father's home. To take what was his.

And to build something new from the salvage.

Movement at the edge of his vision had him jerking his head upward. Fuck, he was so tense. As the gentle ringing sound of knuckles rapping on iron echoed across the courtyard, he uncurled his fingers from his fists, the white crescents his nails had left in his palms bleeding back to rosy flesh.

The gate he'd left ajar swung wider, and a second later, Kate poked her head in through the gap.

A little more of the stiffness in Rylan's spine faded away. He didn't even have to force a smile.

“Hey,” he said, sitting up straighter.

“Hey yourself.” Kate slipped inside and eased the gate back into place.

His grin grew as he took her in. She looked ready to work, for all that he'd assured her he had people coming to do the heavy lifting. Her long, dark hair was tied back in a simple braid, and he envisioned untying it later, combing his fingers through the loose locks. He licked his lips, looking forward to taking off her jeans.

Sliding those little purple Converse from her feet.

But first, he had to get them to that point. Not for the first time, he second-guessed his decision to ask her to meet him here. If anything would scare her off, it would be his father's mansion. It typified all the things he'd originally imagined she'd abhor. Huge and hollow and useless. A waste.

Like he had been, when she'd met him. She'd accepted him then all the same.

He had to give her credit—she did a pretty good job of pretending not to notice her surroundings as she made her way over to him. Her stride remained casual, her shoulders loose. But her gaze kept wandering, her brows gradually creeping toward her hairline. He could almost see the questions bubbling up to her lips.

He patted the space beside him as she neared, beckoning her to sit.

She did, pointing at the coffees to the other side of him. “Is one of those for me?”

“It might be.” He picked hers up and held it out to her, but as she went to take it from him, he grabbed it back. “It isn't free, though.”

“Oh, no?”

“Nope.” He presented his cheek for a kiss in payment.

Rolling her eyes, she sighed, but she leaned in easily enough. Her lips lingered against his skin, and he reached up to clasp the side of her neck, holding her in place as he turned.

Her mouth opened beneath his, and he hummed into the kiss, darting out his tongue to taste the soft pout of her lower lip. She smelled shower-fresh, sweet and warm, and her hair had the tiniest bit of dampness to it as he slid his palm higher, cradling the back of her head.

She pulled away a long second later, blinking slowly at him, her eyes a little glazed. She came back to herself quickly enough. “That was an expensive cup of coffee.”

Chuckling, he handed it over and watched as she brought it to her lips. The gentle pink curve of them eased upward.

Her gaze darted over to him. “You remember.”

Of course he did. Two more sugars than he thought was a good idea and enough cream to turn it a pale, milky tan.

He remembered everything that gave her pleasure. Everything he could do to make her smile.

He couldn't help the wistfulness that crept into his voice. “I've been hoping I'd be able to fetch it for you some morning.”

After he stayed over or after she did. Leaving her naked in bed, maybe still sleeping while he went off to the bakery down the street, or even just to the kitchen. Returning to her, mug in hand, and peeling back the sheet. Waking her up with the press of his lips all down the line of her spine…

Her smile faded. “If you ever want to meet for breakfast…”

“Not what I meant.” He wasn't in any mood to pussyfoot around.

“I know.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments, sipping their coffees, before she cleared her throat and looked around. “Are your other friends here already?”

He shook his head. “They're meeting us at the house. This…” He faltered for a moment. How precisely was he supposed to explain? “This is just you and me.”

Her gaze slipped past him, finally alighting on the elephant in the room. “Is this your family's home?”

“It was.”

It had only been his father's at the end. Rylan and Lexie had moved out years ago. Evan usually spent his breaks at Lexie's if he chose to spend them on this coast at all. Their mother was still off to destinations unknown.

And anyway. It had been so long since it had felt like a home.

“Wow.” She worked her jaw back and forth a couple of times, and there was that discomfort he'd sensed in her as she'd made her way up the walk.

“It's just a house,” he said, an unwelcome note of pleading working its way into his voice.

“Right.”

His stomach dropped. But he refused to apologize, either for who he was or for inviting her here. Part of this whole trial period was getting to know each other better, and like it or not, this place was a part of his history. A part of him. He'd wanted her to see it.

And selfishly, he hadn't wanted to face it on his own.

Rising, he grasped his coffee in one hand and held the other out to her. “Come on.” He kept his tone firm. “I have something I want to show you.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in consideration, but before his heart could stutter too badly, she slipped her palm into his and let him help her to her feet.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as they made their way to the big bronze doors. He took a deep breath before he let them in.

The wall of memory and silence that met him at the threshold tore the air from his lungs regardless.

“Are you okay?” Kate asked, looking up at him.

“Fine.” He gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. His ribs squeezed like a vise in his chest. “It's just been a while.”

Since his father's sentencing, at the very least. He peered past the foyer, into dusty rooms, at the furniture and lighting fixtures all draped with big white cloths. Someone must have come and closed the place up after he had gone. As he led them forward, their footsteps echoed off the marble, the whole place feeling empty and cavernous.

And haunted. He shivered at the memory of his father's voice calling from the top of the stairs. The faded peals of his brother and sister's laughter. Their mother, home for once, and scurrying past in her heels.

Overwhelmed, he fought to block it out. Giving her his best, most reassuring smile, he headed for the grand staircase in the center of the room. Up and up, spiraling higher, and with every step, he breathed a little better. Felt a little less like his history was pressing in. They were past the worst of it, the parts of the house for entertaining and impressing guests. Past his parents' rooms on the fourth floor.

At the fifth, he finally relaxed. This was where he and his siblings had lived. All in little suites, with an apartment for the nanny, too. The whole way up, Kate had kept craning her neck, trying to slow him down or to glimpse around corners, and here, at least, he didn't mind.

He turned, taking both their coffees and setting them down on an empty shelf. Walking backward down the hall, he loosely clasped her hands in his.

“Those rooms were my sister's,” he said as they passed the open door. The pink walls.

“Lexie, right?”

He nodded, then tilted his head toward the left. “And those were my brother, Evan's.”

“The artist.”

“You have a good memory.”

She slowed her gait, veering as if to peek in. “Are any of his sculptures still here?”

Rylan's heart gave a little pang. “I doubt it. He never kept much of it around the house.”

And with good reason. After Evan had left for school, Rylan had crated up what little he could find and shipped it to him. So he wouldn't lose it. Not the way that Rylan had…

He forced the corner of his mouth up as he pulled her on. Back into the final set of rooms. “And these”—he spread his arm wide—“were mine.”

“Oh.” She dropped her hands as he released them, letting them fall by her sides.

He didn't miss the disappointment to her tone. He couldn't blame her for it, either.

Taking a slow turn, he tried to see the place through her eyes. The tasteful, bare blue walls and the beige carpet. Ivory linen curtains with a pinstripe to match the paint. He was half-surprised they hadn't even found drop cloths to go with the color scheme.

He wandered over to the bed, covered in another flat white sheet, and flopped himself onto it, lying back to stare at the ceiling. It was a familiar view.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I thought it would be more…” She trailed off. He could finish the sentence well enough himself.

She'd thought it would be more interesting. More revealing. More
anything
, except what it was.

A blank slate.

For a long moment, he chewed on the inside of his cheek.

When he spoke, the words were low. The hurt a still long-simmering thing. “They sent me off to boarding school, you know.”

“Oh?” And there was the interest he'd been waiting for.

“Yup. Exeter. Just like my old man. I was gone nine months of the year. Studying.” Making connections. Getting a head start on the life his father had arranged for him to lead. He closed his eyes, and the back of his throat burned. “I came home for winter break that first year, and everything…” All his pictures. What little he still had left of his toys. “It was all gone.”

They'd said they had turned it into a man's room. They'd turned it into
anyone
's room.

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

Old enough to be thinking about his future. About who he wanted to be. As if that had ever mattered.

“So what, they just boxed it all up?”

“I don't even know.” His father said they'd gotten rid of it. For all he knew, it could be up in the attic somewhere. He doubted it, though.

The bed dipped as she sat down beside him, and he opened his eyes. She was so lovely. Especially when she looked at him like that.

Not like a poor little rich boy who'd been told to grow up too soon.

But like she understood.

Placing her hand on his chest, she frowned. “That's awful.”

“It could be worse.”

Her gaze rose to settle on his face. “Still sucks, though.”

His mouth cracked into a smile, and he was suddenly so damn glad he'd brought her here. For the first time all day, with her, here, staring at him and touching him, he could breathe.

He clasped a hand over hers. Let the rest of it drain from his mind. Let his expression go soft. “Doesn't seem all that bad right now.”

Still holding on to her, he lifted his other arm to curl around her neck and tug her down. He tasted her mouth and slid his palm toward her shoulder. Down her side to cup her hip and sneak his thumb beneath her shirt to touch her flesh.

She came along so much more easily than she had in the past. At his nudge, she swung a leg over him, straddling his waist. Bracing her hands to either side of his head and parting her lips as he swept forward with his tongue. He cupped the bare skin of her side, pushing her top up and out of the way, and it would be so easy to lose himself like this. To forget where they were or what he still had to do.