“Yeah. My hands behind my back, with zip ties. Feet tied. I had some kind of tape—probably duct tape—across my mouth and eyes.”
“For how long?” Fuck. Any compassion, any guilt that may have stuck around, lingered in some traitorous vein in my body, disappears. It’s a waste of a question. I know when Marcus arrived at my house. I know the time I spent with him, the time I spent dumping his body. Taking my sweet fucking time while Jeremy lay alone.
He shrugs. “Not sure.”
“How’d you escape?”
“I kicked my feet instead of yanking them. Broke half the kitchen before I hit the pipe I was tied to. Rolled my way to the side of the house. Really heroic, manly stuff.” He smiles and I try to but I can’t.
“So you never saw the guy.”
“Nope. Why? You know who he was?” The question changes the dynamic of the room. I try to read his eyes. Try to understand the vibe between us. Not anger, but wariness. Hesitation mixed with curiosity.
“Yes. A client.” I don’t give him anything more. Wait to see what pawn he slides forward. I don’t want to tell him what I did. There is no short way to tell this story, a Pandora’s box of outcomes to revealing my soul. Plus, he’s got to be tired. Medicated. The responsible thing would be to let him rest. “That was why I was so rude yesterday afternoon. I thought he was coming to my apartment—didn’t want you to be in danger.”
It is a horribly brief explanation, one that should be followed up with a flurry of questions, but Jeremy stays silent. “Do you want to know more?”
A long silence, then he shakes his head. “I don’t want him to hurt you.”
I shake my head. “He’s not going to.”
“I don’t want you going back to the apartment. If he came to me he could have gone to you next. He could be waiting there, like he did with me.”
I raise my chin, look into his eyes with enough resolve that he stops talking. “He’s not going to hurt me. I’m not saying that to reassure you, I’m telling you it as fact.”
He says nothing. We hold a long look, then he nods.
I am scared of the question but ask it anyway. “Do you want to know more?”
His head slowly moves. Shakes. “Not right now. The, uh, the nurses said that the police came by. Want to talk to me. Are investigating the explosion. I want to be as truthful as I can when I speak to them. As ignorant as I can.” He lowers his voice, as if he has suddenly remembered where we are. “If you want to talk later, once I get out of here, we can talk then.” He rests his head against the pillow, turns it to look into my face. “Do you want to tell me?”
I laugh through an exhale of breath and shake my head slightly. “No.” I look back at him. “But I think I should. There are things about me that you should know.”
His eyes squint a bit as he focuses on me. “Just because we are in love doesn’t mean you have to share all your secrets.”
“You might not love me if you knew all of them.” I smile sadly.
He pulls at my hand, tugs my mouth to his. “I will always love you,” he whispers.
I lower my head to his chest to avoid a response. No, I think. You won’t.
I can’t do it. I can’t ruin this beautiful loyal man’s impression of me. I can’t destroy the only person in this world who looks at me as if I am not broken. Who knows about my dark desires, yet still loves me. Who might not be able to handle the fact that I have acted on those desires.
I can’t do it. My weakness, my lack of courage is dismaying, my own subconscious stepping away with an offended look. But my heart is too strong. It beats too loud and too rebelliously, drowning common sense as it sets up roadblocks and dams, keeping out anything, including morality, in a quest to protect its claim.
I love him.
He loves me.
I can’t destroy everything. Not when he doesn’t even want, isn’t even asking, for my secrets.
I try to think, try to fill our silence with something, some response to his words, some delay tactic that will get me out of this thorn bush and back to safe, non-relationship-ending conversation. I straighten, realizing, as my gaze finds his face, that he, beautiful man, claimant of my heart, is asleep.
CHAPTER 117
One Month Later
THERE ARE NO lights, there is no pink. I don’t wear stockings, or a garter, or sexy panties. There is only me, in a tank top and cotton underwear, on hotel sheets, Jeremy’s temporary home until he finds a new one. And his body above mine, his shirt off, sweatpants low enough that I can see the V of his hips.
“Are you sure?” he whispers.
I reach a hand up, run it through the short tufts of his hair. Gently trace the line of his strong jaw, stubble beneath my fingers, his lips parting slightly when I reach their edges. The vulnerable look in his eyes giving me courage. I nod. Wrap my hand around the back of his head and pull him down, onto my mouth, his soft kiss gaining strength as my mouth opens, as he tastes my willingness and pushes further. Then his body moves, my legs spreading, wrapping, his weight taking its rightful place atop me, and he pushes forward slightly, into my body, hard pressure against me proving his need. He lifts his head, leaving the kiss, the rough scrape of his jaw moving lower, the soft trail of his mouth moving across my jaw, down my neck, his weight lifting off of me as his hands gather the bottom of my tank top and slide underneath. I close my eyes, relax my head against the pillow, and release a breath. Shudder as fingers slide up my body, hitting the curve of my breasts and sliding outward only to come together. Cup the weight of them in his hands gently as his mouth nudges lower, moves over the fabric of my thin tank, his mouth kissing them each in turn, sucking gently through the fabric, wet and hot, the sensation of the cloth and his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, causing my pelvis to tilt, hot need to shoot through me.
“Jeremy,” I beg. “I’m ready.”
“Soon.”