Shane is holding me from behind, still buried inside me, the aftermath of my orgasm leaving me with goose bumps all over my skin and a strange warm spot in my chest. Not ready for this night, or even this moment and the next to end, I don’t want to move, but Shane leans us forward, and I catch myself on the ottoman with my hands. He pulls out of me and I am instantly awash in a cluster of emotions that have me spinning around only to find his hands on the cushion on either side of me, his strong arms caging me.
And he is stone, his expression is unreadable, his jaw set hard, proof that the nerve I hit over that tattoo is still raw and present. “There is nothing about you,” he says, “or this night, that is uncomplicated or what I expected.”
“I don’t know what that means,” I whisper. “What are you saying?”
“Think about it. You’ll figure it out.” He runs a hand through his dark hair leaving it a sexy, tousled mess. “I’ll be right back.” And just like that he’s on his feet, pulling his pants that he never even took off, up. I’ve been naked on top of the damn city, and he never even undressed. He turns away and I watch as he crosses toward the fireplace and then disappears down a hallway.
I force out a breath that seems to be lodged in my throat. Think about it? You’ll figure it out? Okay. Well. I’m all over the place here because the way I see it one of two completely opposite things just happened. Either I was just given a nudge and space to leave or he no longer plans to make this one night. I don’t have time to analyze his meaning or why I’m in a million tight knots right now. My feelings and his intentions, don’t—no, can’t—matter. This is a reality check for me. The bottom line is that I should never have been here. Thinking done. I hop to my feet, snatch up my shoes, and run for the balcony door for my clothes, in hopes of departing before Shane returns. Exiting to the now dark balcony again, the lights flicker on, and I drop my shoes by the door to free my hands.
Scanning, I locate my skirt pooled on the ground by the railing, and rush forward. Grabbing it, I step into it, and tug it into place, leaving the zipper open while I hunt for my bra. Instead locate my blouse under the chair Shane had been sitting in. Shoving aside memories of me spread wide with his mouth in intimate places, I snap it up. One look at the thin material and absent buttons and I know I need that bra. At least if I have it on, I can hug my shirt shut, and be covered if I have a mishap. On the hunt, I rotate and gasp as I bump into Shane.
“What are you doing?” he demands softly, his hand shackling my wrist by my side, while I pull my blouse in front of my naked breasts.
“I need to go,” I say, thinking maybe he didn’t want me to leave. And I swear my arm is tingling from his touch. “We both have … stuff … tomorrow. Early. I need to get up early.”
“I have an alarm,” he counters.
“You said we’re complicated, Shane.”
“Whatever we are, or are not, neither one of us want you to leave. I know I don’t want you to leave.”
He doesn’t want me to leave. I don’t know what to say or do.
“I called Susie and she’s sending over ravioli,” he adds.
I blink. “What? You did? It’s late.”
“Ten o’clock. They close at eleven.” He indicates a black T-shirt in his hand I haven’t noticed until now. “I brought this for you.” He steps to me and tugs the shirt over my head. Responding automatically, I drop my blouse, shoving my arms through the holes, and let the shirt fall to my knees.
Shane gives me a quick inspection, his eyes lighting with approval. “Did I mention I like you in my clothes? And out of yours.” I don’t have time to respond before he drags me to him, lifts the shirt, and slips his hands inside the band of my skirt. “I took this off of you for a reason,” he says, sliding it off me, the material pooling at my feet. He grips my waist and lifts me, kicking it aside. “How about some wine?”
I stare up at him, and something unnamable expands between us, and that something is what he’d meant when he said think about it. It’s also exactly why I was going to leave and why I can’t. “Will you let me drink it this time?”
“Cognac isn’t wine and I didn’t want you to pass out on me. But now, as long as it’s in my bed, feel free.” He laces his fingers with mine, and it’s somehow the most intimate thing we’ve shared, as is the way we just stand there for several seconds before he says, “Let’s get that wine.”
“Let me bring in my clothes,” I say, tugging my hand free, and grabbing my skirt and blouse. Shane picks up my shoes and I do another sweep of the area. “I can’t find my bra anywhere.”
“You don’t need it,” he promises, ushering me to the door before I can argue that I will tomorrow. Or later when I really leave but I let it go, entering the apartment first, and rotating to face him only to have him take my clothes from me. “I’ll put those in the bedroom.” He motions to the minibar. “There’s wine in the cabinet. Take your pick.”
He’s already walking and I’m staring after him. The man just kidnapped my clothes, which is kidnapping me. I wait for the panic to set in, but it doesn’t come. Shane doesn’t know the truth about me and there is no reason he ever will.
It’s better to live one day as a lion than a hundred years as a lamb.
—John Gotti
CHAPTER SEVEN
EMILY