“Who?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I ask anyway. A part of me wants to hear her say my name. I want to see her mouth move and curve around each syllable as they fall from her beautiful mouth. I glance around us, making sure no one is looking. Anxiety grows as I realize what would happen if photos of this woman ended up in the newspaper or tabloids. I’d kill the motherfucker who violated her.
My eyes snap to her and I watch as she speaks my name for the very first time. I hope it won’t be the last. Something fires rapidly inside me. A bond, a profound connection stronger than I’ve ever felt overwhelms me right here on the sand, tethering me to her. I hate myself for it right away. I’m the most fucked up person I know. I want her. I want the wife of the man who died and donated his heart so that I could go on with my screwed up existence. It doesn’t seem right even to an asshole like me. The way by which I came by this heart doesn’t help, either. That’s another sort of guilt that tears at me and drives me further from my family in Atlanta.
Con artists.
This connection—I can try to ignore it, but it’s a lost cause. I’m sure of it. I can feel it. Even if I never saw Sadie Parker again, in my mind she’ll always be the woman that I can’t escape. I don’t think I’ll be able to ignore the pull that I feel. It’s physical. It’s carnal. It’s human. It’s emotional. It’s alien. At least, to me it is.
I can practically see her in my bed, in my care. I can imagine how tender and smooth the inside of her thighs would feel against my lips. I can picture her curled up on my couch wrapped in a blanket, warm, relaxed, cared for. I wonder how those vacant brown eyes look when she’s happy. I imagine that they’d light up from somewhere deep inside and somehow make the world—my world—a better place just for sharing herself with the rest of it.
Fuck.
I hold my hand out and confess who I am before I get lost in thought again. I watch closely, guardedly, as her eyes widen and the expressionless woman that I pulled from the water shows some animation on her features.
Against my will, I smile a little. I’ve taken her by surprise. God, I could fall into those brown eyes. Her mouth hangs open and my gut clenches, thinking about slipping my tongue into her soft mouth. Her face relaxes and her eyes stare straight ahead at my chest. I fight the urge to bring up my hand to cover the scar. I’m wearing a shirt, but it’s soaked and leaves little to the imagination. Guilt crashes down, making me feel less than worthy. She’s hurt and cold and I feel responsible to make her better.
***
I might as well be dragging her back to my house. I practically demand that she do as I say.
Such a prick.
I don’t have a choice though. There’s no way in fuck that I’m going let her walk away from me, cold, lonely, and exposed. What if there’s some intrusive jerk waiting to shove his camera in her face? What if she was caught off guard by questions about me? I won’t risk that. I can’t.
When she agrees to come back to the house to dry off, I make the mistake of reaching forward and touching her. The pads of my fingers make contact with her cool skin and that seals the deal for me. Fuck, if I don’t want to pull her to me right then. My urge to hold her, to protect her, is only challenged by the raw, uninhibited amount of lust that I feel towards her. I will my fingers to release her in spite of myself and make sure to walk a little ahead of her so that she can’t see that just that single brief touch was enough to rouse desire in me. My cock had twitched in my soaked jeans, threatening to make the situation so much more uncomfortable for the both of us. I stride with determination to my boardwalk, giving my semi a chance to cool the fuck down.
I glance back at her when I hear her light footfalls come to a halt. The look on her face rips me to pieces. She’s standing there on my boardwalk looking so fucking alone that I wish I could steal the loneliness from her. I’d take it from her. I don’t know why other than the fact that I feel so indebted and responsible for this gorgeous, tormented woman in front of me. I bite my tongue, literally; shocks of pain bolt through me but I keep quiet. Somehow I know what she needs in this moment.
Unspoiled silence.