Brazen Mistakes (Brazen Boys #3)

25. Trips

Chapter 25

Trips

H er dark eyes glitter from across the room. Her hair is piled on her head, a few chunks spiraling against her neck, and when I make no other move, she pulls out her knot and drags them all back up until everything about her is contained.

Feet in neat black heels. Legs wrapped in tight spandex. An oversized sweater that isn’t hers breaks the fucking illusion of control she’s trying to project, but even that looks planned, not accidental.

The smudged darkness around her eyes tells a different story, the tightness around her mouth, the way she’s drumming her fingers against her thigh as I stand here like a broken toy.

But we’ll need her illusion of control. I’ll need it if I’m expected to bring her into my world. Because nothing is ever controlled in the Westerhouse family unless it’s in my father’s anal retentive fist, but it sure as shit had better look like we’re exactly what is expected.

Rich. Powerful. Ruthless.

And I have to teach her to project those same values.

Fuck.

I bob my chin, and Clara takes a long stride before correcting, moving with a sinuous grace that is still way too eye-catching, but I can’t seem to say that it’s not quite right.

I like watching her move too much.

“Okay,” I say, hands suddenly sweaty. “What do you know about the waltz?”

“It’s a vaguely scandalous dance that couples did hundreds of years ago?”

It was very scandalous. Only one partner, and you touch both hands and body? It was the height of foreplay way back when, according to my old etiquette teacher. But Clara doesn’t need a history lesson. We don’t have time for it. “Listen to the music. Tell me what feels different about it.”

Her eyes flutter closed, and the sound of Jansen crunching on popcorn makes me want to kick them out of the living room. She sways with the music, and I force myself to watch her without touching her, without fucking wanting her any more than I already do.

Softly, I count the beat, and her head bobs along. “One, two, three. One, two, three.”

“It feels uneven,” she says, eyes still closed.

“Most songs are in four-four time. Waltzes are in three-four. Don’t worry about the theory of it, though. It just means the dance is kind of uneven. Every measure, you start with a different foot. The downbeat will switch from side to side. Now step on the beat. One, two, three. One, two, three.”

Her gaze catches mine after her feet move, and damn it, it’s hard to breathe. “Why do you say ‘one’ so loudly?”

“It’s the downbeat and the moving step. The other two are less important. For now, take a big step to the side on the ones.”

Because she’s a dancer at heart, even if she never got any fancy-ass training like the other girls I’ve known, she catches on almost immediately, and I don’t know if I’m happy that waltzing lessons will be quick and easy, or disappointed that I won’t have to hold her in my arms for hours while I teach her. “Okay, that’s good. Do you think you could catch the downbeat again if you stopped?”

She pauses, then picks back up again right on the beat. “Yeah. I feel it.”

“Good.” The waltz playlist I found switches to something more modern, a touch faster, and her steps match the tempo change without a single stumble.

And I have no more delay options. I’m going to have to hold her. “Now, I need you to put your left hand on my shoulder, and I’m going to put my right above your waist. I’m leading, so I’ll put pressure there to move you where you need to be.”

“What happens if I don’t let you lead?” she asks, a teasing grin making it even harder to pretend this is casual, meaningless.

“We stumble and make fools of ourselves.”

“I take it there’s no way for me to lead?”

“Nope. I’ll have a hold of your center of gravity. You’ll just have a hand on my shoulder, which, as you know, doesn’t do shit for moving me around how you’d like to. You’ve tried before.”

A hint of pink colors her cheeks, and I know she’s remembering the time she did manage to move me with a good shove, but ended up gloriously fucking naked in the hallway.

And now I’m remembering how soft her skin looked, how badly I wanted to ignore all the chains that keep me from losing my shit and instead stretch her over the bathroom counter and take what I want. What she’s offered.

Which reminds me of the time I loosened those chains and fingered her in a fucking study room, and how her scent stuck to my hand for hours after.

My fucking cock was sore for days.

And right as my cock gets on board with my damn wet dream of a trip down memory lane, Clara steps up to me, one hand on my shoulder, the other sliding into my left hand.

God-fucking-damn-it.

“Like this?” she asks.

No. Not like this. Like you plastered against the wall while I make you scream , the chained beast in me screams. I swallow back the urge to just let go, then fix both of her hands until they’re right, pretending that being this close, that touching, is just business.

It’s not.

It never has been with her.

Having her naked, glistening pussy sprung on me after midnight two nights ago? I should get some kind of fucking trophy for self-restraint.

But I’m not running away. I can’t. I don’t know exactly what my father is up to, but if he wants to meet Clara, she has to be the version of her my father won’t find offensive. Or God forbid, intriguing.

She’ll have to be nothing but pretty, a docile doll with no aspirations or goals for herself. She’ll need to blend in with a world of mindless gossip and dangerous secrets while not encouraging a second thought.

It’s always better to be invisible than seen in the Westerhouse family.

Making this beautiful, dynamic, brilliant woman invisible might be impossible. But I have to try.

If not for her or for me, then for the rest of my team that has all fallen for her. Her safety is paramount. Their lives matter. So my dick is just going to have to take a backseat and let my brain drive.

“Okay, take those one, two, three steps again so we can get a feeling of how we move together,” I say.

She nods, then takes a few steps with me, her eyes darting from her feet to my chest, to our linked hands. “Where am I supposed to look?”

Fuck. “At me.”

“Oh.” Those dark eyes glow with intention, like always, but this time, all that intention is pointed at me, and I almost forget to breathe.

I manage a shaky one, slowly upping the pressure on her back, controlling our steps, first side to side, then front to back, finally executing a simple four-point turn, her eyes never wavering.

So much emotion there, and I know that too much of mine is showing, too .

The drive to claim her is too much to hide from her intuition. The fear. The fury. The barely contained restraint that I want so fucking badly to throw aside.

She sees it.

Tears collect in her eyes, but they don’t fall. Because she won’t look weak anymore. It’s the bravado that’s gotten her into trouble. The same bravado that’s gotten her out of it, too.

It’s as familiar as my own.

Stepping back, I clench my fists, wishing I could remove the feeling of her skin against mine, the way she moves with me like we were always meant to be a single unit. “That’s good for today. If we want to go shopping, we should head out soon.”

I try not to jump when I see Walker on the couch beside Jansen and RJ, the popcorn long gone.

Worse than me not noticing the change while I was caught up in Clara is the way they’re not joking anymore. Differing degrees of curiosity and pity range on each of their faces, but it’s clear: I couldn’t hide from Clara, and I can’t hide from them.

Clara’s soft touch on my arm brings my attention back to her.

“Thanks for teaching me. I didn’t expect to like this kind of dancing much, but it’s…”

She trails off, and I wonder if it felt as much like a beginning to her.

And as much of an ending.

Too much fucking angst. I give the room a nod. “We’ll head out shopping in fifteen, grab dinner while we’re out, and play some poker tonight if we still have the energy for it. ”

I’m not fooling anyone.

Fuck this.

The stairs vanish under me as I take them three at a time, barely closing my door without slamming it behind me.

Why the fuck can’t I just have something real?

Why are the stakes always too high?

Why did I have to be born a goddamn fucking Westerhouse?

Too bad hard questions never have simple answers.