Chapter 169 You Look Like Arthur

Chapter 169 You Look Like Arthur
Cecilia

My eyes cracked open to find myself cradled against a broad chest, the world tilting and swaying in a way that had nothing to do with movement and everything to do with the alcohol still coursing through my system.

We were in our bedroom at Black Peak Estate—I recognized the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean, the moonlight casting silver patterns across the hardwood floors.

A man set me down on the edge of the bed with careful precision, and I found myself staring up at him, my alcohol-fogged brain struggling to process the hard set of his jaw, the way his eyes had gone cold and distant.

He was angry. Really, really angry.

"You're not more interested in those male dancers?" His voice came out flat and controlled in that dangerous way that meant he was working very hard to keep his temper in check. "Why are you staring at me?"

The words should have stung, should have made me defensive or apologetic, but instead they just made me giggle—a sound that bubbled up from my chest before I could stop it.

Because he was being ridiculous. Standing there in his perfectly tailored suit, looking like some kind of avenging angel, acting like I'd committed some terrible betrayal by going to a nightclub with Alice.

"You look like Arthur," I heard myself say, the words coming out slurred and dreamy as I reached up toward his face. "My Arthur. So handsome."

I tried to lean forward, tried to close the distance between us so I could kiss him properly, but his hand came up to cover my mouth, his palm warm and firm against my lips.

"Don't," he said, his voice still that carefully controlled monotone. "Don't try to distract me with affection when I just spent the last hour tracking your location, only to find my fiancée passed out drunk in a VIP room surrounded by half-naked men."

The hand covering my mouth made it hard to breathe, made the room spin even faster, and I felt consciousness starting to slip away again—that warm, fuzzy darkness pulling at the edges of my vision.

I managed to turn my head, dislodging his hand, and blinked up at him with what I hoped was clarity but probably just looked like confusion. "You... you look so much like my fiancé," I said wonderingly, my hand reaching up to trace the sharp line of his jaw. "Are you related? Maybe his brother?"

Something flickered in his expression—frustration mixed with reluctant amusement—before he schooled his features back into that cold mask. "I'm not nearly as impressive as the head of the Winston family," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm that went completely over my drunk head. "Just a simple male dancer. Nothing special."

The words penetrated my alcohol-soaked brain slowly, and when they finally registered, I felt myself break into a wide smile. "A dancer? Really?" I grabbed his hand, threading my fingers through his with drunken enthusiasm. "That's perfect! I'm super rich, you know. I can take care of you. You can work for me instead!"

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a growl, his free hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache. "I'm quite expensive," he said dryly. "Are you sure you can afford me?"

I paused, my alcohol-addled brain trying to do math that was completely beyond my current capabilities. "Um... well..." I brightened suddenly, remembering. "I have my fiancé's money too! He's really rich. Like, really, really rich. So between my money and his money, I can definitely afford you!"

"Your fiancé," he repeated slowly, and there was something dangerous in his tone now, something that should have warned me to stop talking. "The one you're so eager to spend money on male dancers behind his back?"

"Nooo," I protested, my hands coming up to his chest, fingers finding the buttons of his shirt and starting to work them open with clumsy determination. "It's not like that. I'm just hanging out with Alice. And you—" I got the first button undone, revealing a strip of tanned skin. "You have such a nice body. Better than those dancers."

My hands moved lower, pushing his jacket off his shoulders, and I felt him go rigid beneath my touch, felt the way his breathing changed as I explored the hard planes of his chest through his shirt.

"Cecilia," he said, his voice strained now, "what are you doing?"

"Checking the merchandise," I said seriously, my fingers finding another button. "If I'm going to hire you, I need to make sure you're worth the investment."

I got the shirt halfway open before my coordination completely failed me, my fingers fumbling uselessly at the fabric. Frustrated, I decided on a more direct approach—I pushed forward with my whole body weight, sending both of us tumbling backward onto the bed.

He landed on his back with a surprised grunt, and I ended up sprawled across his chest, my dress riding up around my thighs in a way that definitely wasn't decent.

"Perfect," I announced, already reaching for the zipper of my dress. "Now we can—"

His hands caught my wrists, stopping me before I could get very far.

The rejection stung in a way my alcohol-soaked brain couldn't quite process, and I felt tears spring to my eyes immediately. "Why not?" I asked, my voice coming out small and hurt. "Why are you refusing me? Arthur never does—"

The tears spilled over, hot tracks down my cheeks, and suddenly I was sobbing—ugly, messy crying that shook my whole body. "There's someone—" I hiccupped, trying to pull away from him. "Someone's trying to—Arthur! My husband! Come save me!"

I tried to scramble off him, tried to escape from this stranger who looked like Arthur but was apparently just some dancer, but his arms came around me, holding me in place with gentle but inexorable strength.

"Shh," he murmured, one hand coming up to stroke through my hair. "I'm right here, baby. You're safe."

But I wasn't safe—couldn't be safe with this stranger who was touching me, who was keeping me from Arthur, who was—

His hands moved to my dress, and I felt him start to work the zipper down my back with practiced ease. Panic flooded through me, cutting through the alcohol haze, and I struggled harder, my hands pushing against his chest.

"No," I sobbed, trying to twist away. "No, please, I have a fiancé, I can't—"

"Cecilia." His voice cut through my panic, firm and commanding. "Look at me. Look at my face and tell me who I am."

I forced my eyes open, forced myself to focus on the face hovering above mine—strong jaw, dark eyes that were watching me with concern and frustration, lips that I'd kissed a thousand times.

"You're..." I blinked, trying to clear my vision, trying to make sense of what I was seeing. "You're the dancer. The one who looks like—"

His hand came down on my ass with enough force to make me yelp, the sharp sting cutting through my confusion and leaving behind a sensation that was somehow familiar, somehow right in a way I couldn't explain.

I froze, my brain struggling to connect the dots, to understand why that particular pain felt like coming home.

"Think, baby," Arthur said, his voice softer now as his hand rubbed gentle circles over where he'd just spanked me. "Think about who would know exactly how hard to hit you, exactly how to make you feel this."