Текст книги "Denial"

Автор книги: Lisa Renee Jones

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

eleven

Fifteen minutes later, I’m dressed in the black jeans and tee I picked out earlier, and have paired the outfit with a pair of fur-lined lace-up boots. Opting to leave my purse behind, I exit the bathroom and head for the door, pausing long enough to stuff the phone I attacked with bubbles into my pocket. I reach for the doorknob and just happen to glance down, my gaze catching on a latch of some sort. Frowning, I squat beside it and slide it from the wall to the door. I smile, a full-blown, happy smile. The door locks. I have no idea why this pleases me so, but it really, really does.

I’m lighter on my feet as I head into the hallway, admiring the lantern-style lights along the path I missed on the first walk. I pass two closed doors, wondering if the rooms beyond them are in use, planning on a little exploration of the place later, if Kayden doesn’t mind. I reach the spot where the hall unites with the archway to the living area, and I step inside the opening, the ceiling transitioning from high and flat to high and conical. The room is large, with modern brown leather furnishings that marry with the medieval architecture with unexpected elegance.

My nostrils flare with a spicy, wonderful scent, drawing my attention to yet another archway. I walk in that direction, passing a small desk on the way, and pausing as I reach the entrance of a kitchen. It’s rectangular, with stunning gray cabinetry and a granite island to my right that stretches for several feet, under a stainless-steel hood. But décor and castles aren’t what’s on my mind. It’s Kayden, standing to my left, his back to me, while he seems to stare into the darkness beyond a floor-to-ceiling window. Tension ripples off him; his broad shoulders are bunched beneath the navy T-shirt he now wears, and I’m certain that he’s at war with his memories, which he’s declared his enemy.

“You must be Ella!”

My gaze reluctantly leaves Kayden and lands on a fifty-something dark-haired woman, who rushes toward me. “Ciao, sweetie. I’m Marabella. So nice to meet you.” She hugs me, her presence inviting and warm, while I sense Kayden’s attention is hot and heavy.

“Ciao,” I say, as she releases me. “Nice to meet you.”

“I hear you have amnesia,” she announces, “and you need stability and my good food to heal.”

I laugh. “Yes. I do believe that’s what the doctor ordered.”

She gives me a critical inspection. “Good thing, too. You’re too skinny.” She eyes Kayden. “Have you been starving her?”

“Who’s starving who is debatable,” he answers dryly, his eyes landing on me for several beats before he lifts the cup of coffee in his hand toward Marabella. “So far this is all you’ve fed me.”

The comment is directed at Marabella, but my stomach flip-flops with the certainty he’s talking to me, though she doesn’t notice. Instead, her eyes light and fall on me, as if he’s just made a suggestion she finds perfect. “Would you like a cappuccino?”

“Yes, actually,” I say. “That would be delightful.”

That light in her eyes brightens and she disappears around the island again, leaving me with the full impact of Kayden’s attention, a thick, heavy blanket that is both inviting and suffocating at the same time. I don’t know what this man does to me, but it’s undeniably intense. Inhaling, I face him, my eyes meet his, and the air charges, the possibilities between us a live wire that both entices and confuses me.

I walk to the table, stopping directly in front of him, my hands resting on the back of a leather chair. “You said you don’t play games.”

“I don’t.”

“I disagree.”

He arches a brow, his hands resting on the chair opposite me. “Meaning?”

“Your comment. Your look. Who’s denying whom?”

“I’d say it’s mutual.”

“You implied it was me denying you.”

His eyes sharpen, a hint of shadows in their depths, there and gone in an instant. “This is a conversation better had alone,” he says, lowering his chin to indicate the file on the table. “You left it in the car,” he adds, disapproval etched in his tone.

Our verbal sparring is forgotten, a burn starting in my belly. “I guess I did.”

“You do know—”

“Don’t say it’s important. I know it is. I just . . . becoming Rae Eleana Ward feels like the end of Ella, of me, and I don’t want that to happen. Which really is ridiculous since I don’t even know who ‘me’ is.” My fingers dig into the leather of the seat. “Obviously that means I don’t want her back.”

He sets his coffee on the table and moves to the high-backed leather seat to my left, and pulls it out. “Come join me.”

His voice has softened to a gentle caress that manages to soothe a few of my frazzled nerves and makes me feel just a little less alone. I wet my lips and nod, claiming the seat, and allow him to scoot me forward. I wait to see which of the seven chairs he will choose, relieved as he sits next to me. “Here you go,” Marabella announces, setting a cup in front of me, waiting expectantly for me to taste it.

Lifting the cup, I sip the warm beverage, a rich coffee taste exploding in my mouth. “Hmmm,” I murmur. “Delicious.” I take another sip. “Really delicious.”

She tilts her head to study me, snickering as if she is amused by a joke I’ve missed. “The salads will be out in a minute,” she says, glancing at Kayden and speaking to him in Italian before hurrying away.

Frowning, I set my cup down, wondering what amused her so. “Look at me,” Kayden says, laughter in his voice, and the very fact that he’s gone from moody to amused has me obeying.

My head turns his direction and he grasps my wrist, pulling me close and leaning into me. “What are you doing?” I ask, as he reaches up and strokes my lips with his thumb, sending my heart into a race.

“Wiping the foam off your lip, as instructed by Marabella.”

Heat rushes to my cheek. “Please tell me it wasn’t a mustache.”

“Just a small one.”

“How embarrassing.”

“The part where I wiped the foam from your lips instead of kissing it away like I wanted to? Or the part where Marabella told me to?”

My eyes go wide. “She told you to kiss me?”

“Yes,” he murmurs, his breath a warm fan on my lips where I want his mouth. “She told me to kiss you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“Hmmm. I was afraid I wouldn’t stop, and that would have been embarrassing.” He smiles. “For you and Marabella.” He releases me, wicked heat in his stare as he drags the folder in front of him. “Let’s see what you remember. Remind me. When’s your birthday?”

I blink, stunned by the sudden shift from warm to cold. “You’re going to give me whiplash to go with my concussion.”

His expression turns somber with his mood. “Yes, well, I don’t have a choice but to give you whiplash. Gallo came by here looking for you while we were at Matteo’s. He’ll be back again, and we need to be ready. So I repeat. When’s your birthday?”

“July twentieth.”

“What year?”

“Nineteen eighty-eight.”

“When did you arrive in Rome?”

“February . . . I’m not sure of the day.” I reach for the folder.

He closes his hand down on it. “The first of February,” he supplies. “Who are your parents?”

“Parents,” I repeat, the word knifing through my heart. “I don’t know.”

“Carrie and Michael Ward. Killed in a car accident a year ago. You inherited a sizable amount of money from them.”

“I don’t mean the fictional ones. I mean my parents. I think they’re dead, but what if they aren’t and they’re worried about me?”

His hand covers mine where it rests on the table, his touch vibrating through me. I stare at his hand, this man who is my self-appointed protector, and yet there is a wall between us I can’t climb. “Then we’ll find them,” he says, drawing my gaze to his. “You have my word, but your safety has to come first, as I’m sure they would want as well. I need you to be ready for Gallo.”

There is sincerity in his voice, and when I search his face, I find understanding that reaches beyond his claiming a role as my protector. The kind of understanding that runs deep into a person’s soul, carved out in heartache and pain. I reach up and cup his cheek, letting his whiskers rasp my fingertips. “What haven’t you told me?”

He curls my hand in his, and he considers me a moment, his expression unreadable. “We are not so unalike,” he begins, and I hang on these words, eager for any tidbit about this man I can garner.

“Your salads have arrived,” Marabella announces, stealing the moment.

Kayden’s expression flashes with what I think is relief, but I cannot be sure. He releases my hand, and I face forward as Marabella sets our plates in front of us. “There’s fresh pepper and Parmesan on top,” she explains. “Let me know if you want more.”

“Thank you, Marabella,” Kayden says, and I quickly chime in by adding, “Yes. Thank you. I don’t actually remember my last real meal.”

“No wonder you’re so skinny,” she chides. “But I like a challenge. Give me a week and I’ll put a few pounds on you.”

“Then I won’t fit all the clothes Kayden just bought me.” My eyes go wide. “Oh, you picked them out, right, Marabella?”

“I did. Did I do well?”

“Very much so. I love everything, especially that bubble bath.” The reminder of me naked and without my towel is out before I can stop it.

“It’s honeysuckle,” she says. “Such a sweet, wonderful scent. There’s perfume to go with it, too. Did you find it?”

“Oh, perfume. No, I didn’t, but it sounds wonderful. I can’t wait to try it.”

“You need familiar things, so I’ll order you more to make sure you don’t run out,” she says, and the motherly way she’s behaving stirs a funny feeling in my chest. She motions to my food. “Eat, sweetie.” She glances between Kayden and me, and frowns. “You both need water. I’ll be right back.” She hurries away again, and my comment about my bath slides right back into the air, inspiring me to feign interest in my salad, when I’m really imagining the moment I lost my towel and his hands landed on my bare skin.

“Did the phone have as many bubbles on it as you did?” Kayden asks.

I glance at him, pleased to find the tension of minutes before gone, a hint of wicked amusement in his eyes. “I didn’t think you’d noticed,” I dare, because why not? I’ve been naked in front of him not once, but twice.

“You know I noticed.”

We stare at each other for a moment, my heart racing, and somehow I actually remember the original question. “I think I won that battle of the bubbles,” I admit, “but just barely. Speaking of which.” I dig the phone from my pocket and set it beside him. “Does it come with bubble coverage?”

He smiles, and it’s a stunning smile that I get the impression he doesn’t show often enough. At least not to me. “I don’t remember taking out bubble coverage,” he says, “but it doesn’t matter. I’ll get you another one tomorrow.”

Like he promised to get me another five-thousand-dollar purse. “You’re spending way too much money on me, Kayden. I need to pay my own way. Can I help you with one of your hunts or work in the store, or—”

His mood goes from playful to nonnegotiable and hard in a split second. “No. I have money to blow and you need to get well.”

“I am getting well,” I argue, not about to let him shut down the topic as he obviously intends. “But I want to do my part and you don’t have to get me another phone. I have no one to call.”

For a beat, maybe two, his jaw is set hard, his eyes harder, but then he surprises me. “What if I get separation anxiety and want to call you?”

I laugh, pleased his good humor has returned. “That’s what they make teddy bears for.”

Now he laughs too, low and sexy, and motions to our plates. “We had better eat before Marabella scolds us.”

I pick up my fork, unable to contain the curve of my lips at the exchange. I’m not just attracted to Kayden. I like him. I like Marabella. And with the thrumming of rain on the glass beside us, good food, and good company, I have this sense of being cocooned in warmth and safety. I also know without question it is not a feeling I have often enjoyed in my life, and yet these two virtual strangers have given that to me. It matters to me in a deep way I might not fully understand, but value. And for the next little bit, we finish our salads, while Kayden shares details about the neighborhood, encouraging me to try a bakery nearby and visit the little shops he’s described.

Too soon, our plates are removed, and Kayden taps the file. “Time to study. Let’s start with, why did you come to Italy?”

“After my parents passed away, I resigned my secretarial position in Dallas, Texas, at Reynolds Electronics to travel. What if Gallo looks up the company? Does it exist?”

“Yes. They’re a major corporation, which means human resources won’t know you personally, and they will handle any inquires if anyone tries to find you. And yes. You have a record.”

“I can’t believe how far Matteo took this.”

“I told you. I’m confident we’ve hidden you in plain sight. Next question, and you can bet Gallo will check this one: What’s your home address?”

I blink and sit up straighter. “San Francisco. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you this already. I had a flashback, and I’m certain I’m from San Francisco. The man, whoever he is, was letting me stay with him after my passport was stolen.”

“The man?”

“I still can’t remember his name or face. Just that he’s powerful and rich. I don’t think he’s Niccolo. I saw his picture and still didn’t place him in my memory.”

“We’ll look through pictures tomorrow. Anything else you can tell me before I call Matteo?”

“I have a friend named Sara, no H, in San Francisco. I know I’m close to her, but aside from her being a pretty brunette, I really don’t remember anything else. It’s not much to go on, I know.”

“Matteo doesn’t need much,” he assures me, already punching the button on his cell to dial him.

I sip my cappuccino, anxiously waiting for the call to go through, eager for answers. Kayden announces into the phone, “Ella thinks she’s from San Francisco.” He listens a moment. “Right. And she has a friend named Sara—S-A-R-A. That’s all I have.” Another pause, and he scrubs his jaw and adds, “You pull this off, and we’re even, as far as I’m concerned.” He ends the call and sets his phone down. “The ball’s in his court now.”

“Did he think he could find out anything?” I ask.

“He didn’t say, but if anyone can, he can. He’s that damn good.”

“Dinnertime,” Marabella announces, returning to the table with two huge bowls of spaghetti. “This is my grandmother’s recipe, passed down to my mother and now me.” She kisses her fingertips. “Perfetto!”

Kayden and I dig in, both of us raving about how perfetto it truly is, and I go so far as to add, “Even without my memory, I believe it’s the best pasta of my life.”

My admission has her glowing and humming her way back to the stove.

“You’ve made her very happy,” Kayden assures me. “And for the record, everyone who needs to eat her food is too skinny for her.”

“How do you not get fat with her cooking for you?”

He pokes a meatball with his fork and holds it up. “That’s why there’s a full gym upstairs.”

I laugh. “I will definitely be visiting it, and soon.”

We eat for a few minutes in comfortable silence, and I think it’s a sign of how well we get along. It stirs a million questions about what had him staring into the darkness tonight, what haunts him, but I’m afraid if I ask, he’ll withdraw. I am almost certain that he will. Marabella is quick to join us, chatting a little and taking our plates.

“Dessert?” she asks. “I have cheesecake.”

I pat my belly. “I’m stuffed. I’d better not.”

“I’m with Ella,” Kayden agrees. “Maybe later.”

“Then I’ve achieved my goal,” Marabella approves, setting fresh espressos in front of us and casting her attention on me. “Before I head to bed, there’s a whiteboard on the counter. Leave me a list of anything you like and I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

It’s a pleasant revelation to realize I know what I like. Chocolate. Coffee. Cheese. Pasta. “I’m allergic to shellfish,” I say, glancing at Kayden.

“That’s a good thing to remember,” he says.

“And before you have a reaction,” Marabella adds.

“I might not want to remember who I am,” I comment, “but apparently my mind still wants me to survive.”

“We’ll protect you and be your family,” Marabella promises. “And now I’ll leave you two alone. I’ll be in early to take care of the dishes.”

“Thank you for the wonderful meal,” I say. “And for all you have already done for me.”

“Taking care of this castle and the family inside is my life, as it was my husband’s. Eduardo was with Kevin before he knew me, and before Kevin adopted Kayden. And like him, I’ll be here until the day I die, if Kayden allows it.” She blows him a kiss and rushes away.

Kayden’s energy shifts, thickening the air. “Kevin adopted me when I was ten and brought me here. He and my father were both Hunters and best friends, so when my family was killed, he took me in. And because I know you’re going to want to ask, but will be afraid to, they were murdered while I hid in the closet my father stuffed me into. The case was never solved.”

He stands and takes his cup with him, and it’s all I can do to contain a gasp, the pure horror of a young boy hiding while his parents were slaughtered inconceivable. Suddenly everything I’m going through seems like nothing. Kayden walks to the sink and places his cup there, his hands settling on the counter in front of him, and I can almost feel the past cut through him.

I don’t even think about staying in my seat. I cross to stand beside him, my hand settling on his back. The instant I touch him, he drags me in front of him, caging me between him and the counter, his hands setting back on either side of me, but nowhere is he touching me. “Every time you’ve asked me why, it came back to one thing. You were alone in a strange country with no family or friends. Things I know all too well. And the moment you opened your eyes and knew nothing but me, I had to protect you.”

My eyes burn, and not with my pain. With his. “That’s why you feel familiar. It’s a bond of shared experience you knew we had, but I didn’t.” I reach for his cheek, but he grabs my hand, holding it between us.

“Every time you touch me,” he says, his voice laden with some unidentifiable emotion, “I forget you don’t know who you are or what you want.”

“You said yourself that a name doesn’t define me. I know who I am. And I know what I want, and that’s you and whatever this is between us.”

“I’m not a hero, Ella. But I’m not the asshole who is going to take advantage of you, either.”

“Whiplash again, Kayden. One minute it’s ‘I’ll fuck you until you don’t know your name.’ The next, it’s this.”

“You know damn well what that was about. You thought I was him, and it pissed me off.”

He pushes off the counter and takes a step back, running a rough hand through his hair and leaving it a tousled, sexy mess. “I’m going out for a while.” He doesn’t wait for a response. I blink and he’s gone. And I am suddenly cold and painfully alone.

twelve

I linger in the kitchen for a long while, finishing off my coffee and inspecting the contents of cabinets and the refrigerator, and in general killing time while hoping Kayden will return, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. I’m here and he’s wherever he is, forgetting I’m here, and I have no right to care. He’s helping me. He’s not obligated to me.

Finally, I accept that I’m going to bed alone, and do so with foolish stamped all over my heart that shouldn’t even be involved. I dim the lights in the kitchen to a glow, and then do the same in the living area before walking the chilly hallway. It’s a path that comes with plenty of creaks and moans of the castle, and who knows, maybe a ghost or two is watching, considering this place has to be three centuries or more old, but I have far more to fear in my own head right now to worry about such things.

I open the door to my room, finding it colder than I remember despite leaving the fireplace running. Bigger and emptier, too. Shutting myself inside, I don’t lock the door when there’s no one to keep out anyway. I go straight to the tub and run another bath¸ eager to sink into the warmth. Soon, bubbles surround me as I replay my encounter with Kayden. It doesn’t take me long to decide his pain is too raw to be about the death of his family when he was ten. There’s more.

Leaning into the bath pillow, I close my eyes and intend to keep my thoughts on Kayden, looking for answers. Instead, I keep seeing myself naked and tied up on that damn bed, and then sitting in front of that drawer, staring at that gun. Frustrated, I stand up, grabbing a towel, not sure why my mind keeps showing me the same thing over and over instead of the complete picture. I hate it. I hate it so much.

I dry off and pat on honeysuckle lotion before slipping on a silk button-up sleep shirt in a soft pink, and brushing my hair. Walking into the bedroom, I stare at the journal on the nightstand, and I want to throw it out the one window in the corner. I don’t want all of these pieces of the puzzle. I want the completed story. My story. And I want Kayden’s, too, neither of which appears willing to be explored.

Grimacing, I stop resisting and grab the stupid journal, sinking down on the floor and opening it. I have no idea why, but I start drawing a butterfly. A butterfly, of all things! It’s just odd and I have no real thought to drive the action. I finish an elementary image and give it a disapproving eye. “You are definitely not going to make your fame and fortune as an artist, Ella.” I shut the journal and leave it on the floor, pushing to my feet to glance at the clock. How did it get to be midnight?

Feeling claustrophobic, I need out of this room and my own head. Deciding to go make a shopping list for Marabella, I hunt for a robe I don’t find, and settle for slippers and a zip-up hoodie I wear over the top of my silk nightshirt. Opening the door, I listen, and I’m not really sure for what, but all I hear are more creaks and moans, disappointment filling me when there are no lights or any other sign of Kayden’s return.

I enter the hall and hurry toward the archway to the living area and kitchen, and when I reach it I end up staring toward Kayden’s room. I bite my lip, telling myself to go the other direction, but I think of him standing at that window, at the torment rolling off him, and I’m not sure if it’s me who needs him or him who needs me. Somehow my feet are moving toward his door. He’s not even here, so it won’t matter anyway. Still, my heart races, thundering in my chest, and it’s pure adrenaline that pushes me to his door. I stop and look at it, but I can’t seem to get myself to knock. I shouldn’t knock. Or maybe I should. No. I shouldn’t.

“Ella.”

At the sound of Kayden’s voice I whirl around to find him standing only a few feet away, his light brown hair tousled, his dark jeans and T-shirt paired with black boots and a sleek black leather jacket that confirms he’s been gone, somewhere, perhaps with someone.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks, an air of the rebel about him, of danger, that I perhaps find far too sexy.

My fingers twist together in front of me and I drop them, afraid I look as nervous as I feel. “Nothing is wrong. Or not really. I just wanted to talk to you.”

His eyes narrow sharply, his displeasure with my answer slicing through the air, and I don’t know why. What is wrong with talking? He advances on me, a predator closing in on his prey, his anger a live wire that has me backing up until I hit the door. He stops in front of me, towering above me, his big body a wall between me and the rest of the world.

“You wanted to talk?” he demands, his voice low, fierce. “In your nightgown?”

My defenses bristle. “I wasn’t thinking about what I was wearing.”

“In your nightgown, Ella.”

“Yes. I’m in my nightgown because I couldn’t sleep. I meant to go to the kitchen and then I ended up here because I wanted . . .” His reaction cuts like his anger. “Just never mind.” I try to move around him but his hands press to the wall beside me, caging me, and now I’m angry. “Are we doing this again? Don’t bully me. My stupid flashbacks are doing a fine job of that on their own. I said I’m sorry. Just let me go back to my room.”

“You wanted what?”

“I wanted you to do what you swore you could,” I blurt, having nothing to lose when everything is already gone. “Only I don’t want you to fuck me until I can’t remember my name. I want you to fuck me until I stop thinking about that man and the gun. Because you were right. Memories are the enemies that never die. But I know you don’t want—”

His hand slides under my hair and he drags me to him, my hand flattening on the hard wall of his chest. “I do want. So fucking bad it’s killing me.”

My palm is directly over his heart, and I can feel it racing, the air around us crackling with barely contained passion. “I don’t need a hero to save my virtue tonight. I need you. So please. Fuck me and then fuck with my head so no one else can. Let me choose my own sins.”

He is stone, unmoving, his body steel, his expression unreadable, the sexual tension crackling between us. “You want sin, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll give you sin.” His mouth closes down on mine, his tongue licking into my mouth, wicked with demand, and I can taste his hunger, his need. A deep, aching need I want to fill. This is what I’ve sensed in him, a pain that runs deeper than that of a ten-year-old boy, raw and open, carving him inside out. This is what brought me to his door. I wrap my arms around him, sinking into the kiss, the hard lines of his body absorbing my softer ones, a shelter and escape from the storm raging inside me.

But just as I am lost in the kiss, in the man, he tears his mouth from mine, jolting me back to reality and staring down at me, shadows etching those blue eyes. I don’t know what he searches for but I do not blink, holding his stare, letting him see that I have no hesitation in me. And he must get the message, because he turns me to face the door, his big body hot and hard against my backside as he reaches around me and opens it.

“Go inside,” he orders softly, and a shiver of pure feminine arousal runs through me. It’s an order, but also a choice, and that choice is to be taken, controlled, and possessed. And beyond reason, and in defiance of anything I know of my past, that is exactly what I want and need.

I step forward, entering the dimly lit room that is identical to mine but for the darker, heavier furnishings, and it is warm and luxurious, decorated in brown and cream, while I am already burning hot. So very hot. But it’s the centerpiece of the room, the massive four-poster bed, his bed, that stays my footsteps and sends an eruption of nerves to my belly. Kayden’s boots scrape the floor behind me, the door shutting with a heavy, final thud. I glance over my shoulder to find him shrugging out of his jacket, readying himself to come for me, and I dart forward, rounding the bed. I don’t stop until I’m at the edge of the thick brown rug in front of the fireplace, kicking off my slippers to step onto the soft tread.

Music starts to play, “The Story” by 30 Seconds to Mars, and I close my eyes, letting the words roll through me. I’ve been thinking of everything, of me, of you and me. The words rip through me, speaking to the darkness inside me. But I don’t like the story of my life, and his. His hurts him.

I feel Kayden’s approach rather than hear it, certain he’s removed his boots, and then he is behind me, his hands on my shoulders, his touch somehow leaving me a little less lost than moments before. He leans into me, his big body cradling mine, and I think he inhales my scent, his breath a warm whisper on my neck that sends a shiver down my spine. He affects me. He speaks to me in ways that are far beyond sex or my understanding of where I’ve been or where I’m going. I relax into him, and his fingers flex where they hold me and for long moments there is just us and the song, two people lost in the stories of our lives, of our pasts. And I swear to God I’ll find myself in the end.

He inches back, his hands caressing my jacket down my arms, dragging it away and tossing it who knows where, his fingers teasing my skin and leaving goose bumps in their wake. I face him, this man who has come into my life and taken it by storm, yet still sheltered me from the storm of my past. My self-appointed protector with motivations I do not understand any more than my need to be here with him, but I do not fear these things or him. His hand slides under my hair, warm and strong, wrapping the back of my neck, dragging my mouth to his, where I want it to be. “I fully intended to find another woman tonight, to bury every thought of you I had in her. One who didn’t give a shit that I was using her.”

His words ripple through me, and deliver an unexpected slice of pain I shouldn’t feel but I do. “If you’re telling me this is just sex—”

“I don’t know what the hell this is. I just know that she, whoever she might have been, wasn’t you, and that made her not good enough. No one else was good enough. Nor would I have tasted her without tasting you.” He kisses me then, his mouth closing down on mine, and it’s a punishing kiss, hot and hard, as if he isn’t pleased that I have such control over him, and it’s unforgiving in its demand. And when I moan with the effect, it’s as if I set off a trigger.

He rotates me to press my back to the wide span of a bedpost, tearing his mouth from mine, and the mix of dark passion and haunting shadows in the depths of his eyes steals my breath. He doesn’t speak. I don’t speak. But there are things unspoken between us, an understanding that we are alike in ways few others ever will be. His eyes darken, filling with intent I do not understand, until he reaches up and closes his hands around the two sides of my silk shirt at my collarbones. A challenge flickers in his eyes that runs deeper than his quest to undress me, to a place not yet realized, but I want to know it and him. He waits a beat, then two, and he yanks the shirt open, buttons popping and flying here and there. I am panting, aroused in ways I am not sure I have ever felt before, a feeling that defies my absent memory, as does my understanding that I want to touch him, but I shouldn’t. Not yet.