Gilded Desires

Chapter 17: Fortune Inn - The Mask Slips

Whenever Clara wanted to flirt, something in her snapped—she instantly morphed into a wicked little tease with a filthy mouth.

Years of writing had turned her into a connoisseur of carnal content. She’d read countless erotic novels, poured over books on male and female psychology, and dissected every angle of seduction until it became second nature. Every drop of knowledge she gathered had bled into her stories.

Her last novel had been about dragging an emotionally distant man—the typical high-and-mighty untouchable—down from his pedestal. The heroine was a sly, shameless siren, fluent in dirty talk, while the hero was a frosty statue. To get under his skin, the heroine had to bombard him with every lewd line and salacious trick in the book.

That book was where Clara first honed the art of slipping filth into her sentences without so much as blinking.

Add to that her extensive experience writing steamy, adults-only romance, and Clara liked to think she’d earned herself a crown in the realm of seduction—even if all her experience was still strictly theoretical. Until she met Elliot Vance, she’d never had the opportunity—or the nerve—to try any of it out in real life.

She didn’t know whether it was years of repression catching up to her, or whether she was just, deep down, a hopelessly horny woman with a dirty mind. Either way, whenever she found herself alone with Elliot, the desire to test every line she’d ever written on him became maddening.

She wanted to see how he’d react. Would he tremble? Lose control? Would he moan like her fictional heroes did when cornered by lust?

But after trying a few of her favorite lines on him, she realized something horrifying—Elliot Vance was utterly immune to dirty talk. Cool as marble. Unfazed. Emotionless.

Back at the inn, freshly showered, Clara lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep. All she could think about was his face when she’d whispered filth to him. Stone cold. Unmoved.

He’d even replied with a casual, “I know.”

And then—he’d picked up his luggage and left.

That was it?

That wasn’t how her stories went. Not at all.

She sat up in bed and stared at her phone for a long time before finally opening w******p and typing:

[Are you still awake?]

Elliot had just stepped out of the shower. The sleepiness that had weighed on him earlier was gone. He was about to open his laptop and get some work done when his phone buzzed. The moment he saw her name, his lips tugged into a faint, involuntary smile.

Clara, with her split personality—bold with her mouth, but a coward when it mattered. If he didn’t rein her in, she’d have him twisted around her little finger with all that wicked teasing.

He replied:

[Want to come to my room?]

Tch.

Before someone like him—a real king of restraint—Clara suddenly felt like nothing more than a fumbling rookie.

Should she fire back? But what if things escalated and spiraled out of control? If she lit that fire, she’d be the one stuck putting it out.

But if she didn’t reply, she’d feel defeated.

Still... what could she even say?

She flopped back onto the mattress, convincing herself to let it go.

And yet—when she closed her eyes, all she could see was Elliot's face hovering above hers in the car, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers on her c**t.

“Ugh...” Her thighs clamped together instinctively.

The way he'd touched her had awakened something carnal inside her. Something that refused to go back to sleep. Frustrated, she shoved a hand into her pajama shorts. Fine. She’d do it herself. Rub it out. Clear her head.

But no matter how much she touched, even when she slipped fingers inside herself, the orgasm left her hollow and aching.

She couldn’t get over how Elliot's fingers had felt—those calloused pads, the rough friction, the pressure, the precision. The way he’d rubbed her c**t while devouring her mouth—it was a kind of high her own hand could never recreate.

And he hadn’t even lost control.

If he’d taken his pants off in that moment, she wouldn’t have stopped him. She wouldn’t have resisted.

Clara sat up again and picked up her phone.

[Are you still awake?]

At that moment, Elliot was sitting with Shawn Rayne, who’d come over to talk. They’d been discussing Clara and the Fortune Inn in detail. The more Shawn said, the more Elliot realized just how little he truly knew her.

Especially the scar beneath her wristband.

Shawn admitted he didn’t know the story behind it—just that she always wore that band, never took it off. It had to be hiding something. But he’d never asked. That kind of thing felt... private.

It was nearly midnight when Shawn finally left.

Elliot noticed Clara's earlier message. Over an hour old. She was probably asleep by now, so he didn’t reply.

He got up to use the bathroom. When he returned, his phone screen was lit up again. Two new messages from her:

[I can’t sleep.]

[I know you’re still awake. Your light’s still on.]

He typed back a single question mark:

[?]

Then came her reply:

[My sheets are wet…]

His throat tightened.

[Don’t tease me.] he warned, then added:

[Go to sleep.]

[But I really can’t.] she sent back, followed by a crying emoji.

[It’s so confusing. I like you. I really do. And I don’t hate the idea of being close. My body... doesn’t resist. But I just—]

[I don’t know how to say it. It’s just...]

[It feels like if we slept together now, it would just be a hookup. A fling.]

[But if we don’t... I can’t stop thinking about it.]

As soon as she hit send, Clara curled her toes into the bedsheet, cheeks flushed in the dark.

A few minutes later, his reply came:

[Come downstairs.]

She didn’t hesitate. Threw on her coat and slipped out of her room.

Across the way, Elliot was heading down, too.

She reached the lobby first. When she saw him coming, she instinctively clutched her coat tighter, head ducking into the collar like a turtle.

They met in the dim lobby, no lights on. Just the soft silver glow of moonlight spilling through the tall windows, enough to see each other’s faces.

Elliot nodded toward the storage room.

She knew what he meant. And oddly... she wasn’t afraid. She was excited.

Because she knew nothing would really happen in there. If Elliot truly wanted to sleep with her, he wouldn’t choose the damn storage room.

The bed upstairs would be far more convenient. And warm.

The storage room had no heating. Just a table.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Her heart pounded as he followed and shut it behind them.

From his pocket, Elliot pulled out a lighter and a cigarette. He didn’t smoke often—only during high-stress moments or business meetings. But since meeting Clara, he found himself needing a few more each day.

He finished the cigarette, then walked over and lifted her onto the table, voice low and sharp:

“Touch yourself. I want to watch.”

“…What?” Her breath caught.

“Show me how much you want it.”

Something in her snapped. She felt played. She jumped down.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“I told you from the start—I’m not a good man.” Elliot’s voice was calm, unflinching. “Women don’t mean anything to me. I can offer pleasure. I can offer money. That’s it. Anything more? You’re looking at the wrong guy.”

Clara felt like someone had shoved a fly into her mouth. Disgust churned in her gut.

She thought she could play dirty. But clearly, he was the real master of the game.

“You don’t scare me,” she said coolly, shrugging. “Let’s just pretend none of this ever happened.”

She marched to the door, hand on the knob, but then turned around, fury flickering in her eyes:

“Where the hell was all this earlier?”

“If you’d said that before you left for Frostvale, I would’ve stayed the hell away from you!”

“And tonight—”

“In the car, that wasn’t me making the first move!” Her voice cracked, tears threatening to spill.

She bit them back. She wouldn’t cry. Not now. Not because of him.

She took a shaky breath and waved it off.

“Whatever. I messed up too.”

She repeated:

“Let’s pretend none of it happened. I’m not fragile. You don’t need to tiptoe around me.”

“Don’t worry about seeing me again and feeling awkward.”

She almost added, Not that you’ll see me again anyway.

But that felt too dramatic. Too clingy.

He wouldn’t be staying here long, anyway.

And she? She had no intention of sticking around for his encore.