He obeyed her demand and released her chin; however, relinquishing his hold wasn’t even feasible. Forcing her to keep her face tilted toward his, Tony slid his hand to the back of her neck, while his other hand wrapped around her petite frame. He didn’t think or reason as his lips captured hers.
For two weeks, he’d tried to let her go. He’d wanted to release her and give her the freedom she deserved—the freedom he’d taken away so many years ago, but—each day, each hour, each minute, each second—was agony. When Tony wasn’t near Claire—he thought about her. When he was near her—his energy was devoted to fighting his desire. It was exhausting. With his lips against hers, he no longer wanted to fight. His chest pushed against her, moving them, step by step, until they were flush with the wall. His needs intensified as he felt the sensation of her breasts against him. He told himself to stop—he was no good for her—but he didn’t listen—he couldn’t. Unapologetically, his tongue penetrated her lips, and his grasp pulled her hips against his.
Momentarily, Claire’s fists pushed in protest. Soon, she realized resistance was futile—mostly because—she didn’t want to fight. His actions had her on the verge of forgetting any reasonable arguments. All she wanted was the present, then Tony’s voice rumbled like thunder, and his fist pounded the wall above her head, “I told you before, I’ve never pretended to love you! I do love you! That’s present tense!”
While the wall vibrated, she watched the illuminations of darkness dance through his eyes. She’d wanted to see emotion and now she had it! Before she could respond, his body pinned her against the wall. The scent of cologne mixed with musk overpowered her olfactory senses. Her body liquefied at the sensation of his lips and hands. She heard the sound of her own heart beating as the rush of blood pulsated too quickly through her veins. Soon, their ragged breaths filled her ears, and she fought to regain the breath he’d taken. Her body was mindlessly responding to his touch as his desires became more pronounced and her moans echoed through their large suite.
Before long, he led her to the bed, and her world tilted as he followed her onto the mattress. Her body ached for everything he could offer, but her mind couldn’t take another disappointment. While his hands found their way under her blouse, she found the strength to speak, “Stop.” When he didn’t respond, she repeated herself, louder, “I said, stop!”
She saw the pain in his expression as he pushed himself away.
Rolling out from under him, she exclaimed, “You need to go. I can’t do this. I won’t let you hurt me again.”
“Claire, don’t you understand?”—The emotion in his voice stilled her movements, as well as her speech—“That’s why I wanted a divorce. I don’t want to hurt you and—and I can’t take it again, either. You talk about me leaving you at the jail and this divorce”—he stammered—“W—what about you?”
Claire stood and stared in disbelief as Tony paced beside the bed. His unbuttoned shirt allowed a clear view of his still muscular chest. “Me?” she asked. “What about me?”
“You left me. You drove away from me—twice! You don’t think I don’t remember that every damn time you drive away from this estate?” His hand ran through his salt and pepper hair as he fought his words. “The other day when you were gone for over three hours and driving around Bettendorf—of all places—I was scared to death that you’re considering doing it again.”
Claire’s knees buckled as she sunk onto the bed and stared incredulously. Her words came slowly, “What do you mean...the other day? How did you know that I was in Bettendorf?”
“Claire, they say we’re no good for one another, but your notebooks—you said you still loved me after everything—is that still true?”
Now standing, Claire stared up into her husband’s face and moved closer. “Answer me. What do you know about my comings and goings?”
He closed his eyes and exhaled. “The reason I didn’t want Roach working for you, was”—he hesitated—“he’d been working for me since the day you came home.”
Claire’s eyes filled with moisture. They weren’t angry tears—although perhaps they should’ve been—they were happy tears. Her voice was barely a whisper, “Why? Tell me why you’ve had Phil following me.”
He gripped her shoulders. “You have every right to be angry. That’s fine, but I’m not sorry. I worry—I’ll always worry. I don’t want anything to happen to you—ever again.” His words came fast. “I don’t really care that you go—I just need to know that you’re safe.”
Slowly, she turned away and found her seat on the edge of the bed. From somewhere deep, she tried to summon a mask—any mask—but they were all beyond her reach. Her emotions were real and her expression transparent.