It was a blessed relief when the doors slid open. I bolted into the wide corridors of her deck. Inhaling deep, I tried to delete the sickening lust quickly building into unavoidable.
Pim padded beside me, close but not too close, her presence slowly forming a mushroom cloud of tangles inside me. By the time we stopped by her door, my muscles seized and minor tremors quaked down my legs.
She was back on my yacht.
She was back in my life.
I wanted to fucking celebrate and jump overboard in equal measure.
Turning the handle to her room, I stopped on the threshold then moved to the side for her to enter.
She carried forward then turned sharply as I said, “Well, goodnight then.”
“Goodnight? It’s not even evening.”
“Well, I, eh, I have work to do.” I wasn’t lying. I had a shit load of replanning to do regarding my family. No way in hell would I take Pim anywhere near my family if there was a chance she could get messed up with the Chinmoku. New plans were needed. Better ones.
“Oh.” She rocked on the carpet. “Will you...at least come in?” She glanced beneath thick alluring eyelashes, wrapping her magic around my cock, my heart, and practically yanking me into the room.
Gritting my teeth, fighting her power, I shook my head. “Too much to do. Besides, you need to rest. How long since you’ve slept, showered...ate?”
“They have showers and beds in the hospital, you know. I’m not going to fall into a dirty coma from lack of care.” Taking a breath, she softened. “Please, El. I’d love some company. If only for a little while.”
Company.
Right.
I swallowed a dark chuckle. She expected me to willingly enter a room with her—with lockable doors and utmost privacy after what happened in Monte Carlo?
Silly girl.
Couldn’t she see I liked her way too much to do that to her again? And I liked myself too much to slip into addiction.
Like her?
My conscience rolled its eyes.
Like wasn’t the right word for what I felt for her.
I’d already admitted it was love.
Yet for some reason, that word fucking petrified me.
“You need your rest.” I pointed at the bed. Fresh sheets and fluffed pillows invited sleep and other activities I couldn’t think about. “I’ll send someone to bring you a meal.”
She glanced at the floor then back to me. “You’re welcome to join me for dinner. That is...if you’d like?”
I would like.
But I shook my head again, fighting a building headache from denying myself everything I hungered for. “Maybe tomorrow. In the dining room.” Where we will have an audience, and you’re not in danger of being molested.
“Oh.”
That tiny but destroying word again.
She frowned, her gaze drifting from my eyes to the door handle that I held in a death grip. Her gaze darkened; her body tightened. “That’s new.”
Shit.
Just as she was far too observant when it came to my moods, she’d noticed a change in decorating.
Playing dumb, I asked, “What’s new?” Removing my hand from the handle, I scowled as if it was same old, same old. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
Shit, I do.
There, in very noticeable glory, was a brand-new deadbolt.
It glinted with accusation—straight out of the box and installed by yours truly a few minutes before I boarded my helicopter to find Pim and bring her home.
Precautions were necessary.
She has to understand that.
“It’s just a lock, little mouse.”
Her lips parted at the nickname even as her forehead furrowed. “Liar. It’s so much more than that.”
It was as if she’d already investigated and found it was completely inaccessible from the outside—no key insert, no quick hack, no way to unlock it.
Only the occupant from inside the room could grant access.
With hands balled, she strode straight for me.
I backed away as she tapped the polished silver hardware. “Why did you put a lock on my door?”
I shrugged as if it was no big deal. “There wasn’t one before. I thought you might feel safer.”
“Safer?” She rolled the word around, tainting it with suspicion. “Why wouldn’t I feel safe on your yacht? Why would I need a barrier between us when you’re the only one I trust?”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
Lots of reasons.
Me being the main one.
Allowing a trace of anger to thicken my voice, I replied, “You’ve been through a lot. Excuse me for trying to ensure you continue healing by giving you a safe place that only you can open.”
She crossed her arms—in no way intimidated by my temper or ready to back down. “You expect me to believe that?”
“You don’t have to believe it to be real.”
“But it’s not real.”
I pointed at the lock. “What isn’t real about that? You can touch it, turn it, and once you’ve slid the latch from the inside, nothing and no one is getting through there.” I used the memories of our first night at Alrik’s together, hurting her like a jackass. “I seem to remember your previous accommodations didn’t have locks. It didn’t even have doors. I had to fetch one from the garage before we were able to be alone. I would’ve thought this was a much better alternative.”
Her face froze.
Her breathing stalled.
She stared as if she couldn’t quite believe I’d gone there.
I couldn’t believe it, either, but that was what happened when I was pushed. When I was trying to do the right thing, only for temptation to roar until I gave in.
I won’t give in.
We glowered at each other before a tight smile tilted her lips and she came forward to rest her fingertips on my forearm. “Okay.” Her touch was infinitely gentle but it held the power to decimate me.
I shivered as she shook her head gently. “We both know why there’s a lock on my door when there wasn’t one before.”
“Look, you’ve had a long day. Instead of standing around talking about things that are of no consequence, do as I ask and relax. We’re at sea for the next—”
“It’s so you can’t come in.”
Her interruption stole any understandable language, giving her the perfect stage to unman me.
“You don’t trust yourself. You’ve never trusted yourself.” Her eyes turned sad. “And that’s the true problem, isn’t it? It’s not the fact that you have a mind that fixates on things but the fact you don’t trust yourself to be able to fight it.”
I crossed my arms, chilled to the bone and furious. Deciding to strip her, just like she’d done to me, I muttered, “Your mother was the psychologist, Pim. Not you. Don’t speak about things you don’t understand.”
“I don’t understand?” She cocked her head. “I don’t understand that you would rather leave me than face yourself? That you would rather place locks between us than enjoy a meal together? That you would rather blame me for tempting you than believing you have the self-control to stop?” Placing her hands on her hips, her voice lowered to sympathy rather than argument. “I’m not saying what you live with isn’t hard. I’ve seen how you struggle. I’ve been with you. I’ve watched you. I’ve felt you—”