All of Me

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Instead I reach behind me, closing my hand on his hand on my neck, my eyes meeting his. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go, either.”

  Part Three

  His

  Chris and I spend the rest of the day in bed, devouring each other and a Netflix marathon of Breaking Bad. I wake the next morning on my belly with Chris’s big body draped over mine, sunshine beaming through the curtains and a smile on my lips. His life is my life and my life is his.

  “You smell like me,” Chris purrs in my ear, his tone low, gravelly.

  Heat rushes over me with the possessiveness in those words, and I roll toward him. We both shift, staying close, and I happily devour the sight of him, his blond hair a sexy rumpled mess, the alluring shadow on his jaw, and the bright green of his eyes flickering with amber. “I like smelling like you. That’s why I like to wear your cologne.”

  He tangles my legs with his big, powerful ones, his hand going to my hip, branding me in that way he does that turns me wonderfully inside out. “Wear me, not my cologne.” He leans in to kiss me—and his phone vibrates on the nightstand. He groans and pulls back, reaching for it without letting go of me. “It’s gone off three times in the last hour.”

  My brow furrows. “It has? I never even heard it.”

  “Time change. You were out hard.” He leans on his elbow and glances at his phone screen, then me. “Attorney. The apartment is going to be a mess to claim as mine—fuck, I don’t want to think about this right now.”

  His phone buzzes again and his jaw clenches as he reads.

  “What is it?” I prod.

  He types a reply and looks at me. “He’s worried that Tristan’s silence means more trouble is on the way. Namely my full ownership of The Script, now that Amber’s . . . gone.”

  I don’t miss how he catches himself before he says dead or the pain in his eyes that he allows me to see. He’s hurting and I hurt for him, and for Amber. Guilt stabs at me as I think of that gut feeling I’d had the night I’d gone after her at the club. That sense of desperation in her voice that had rung like danger to me in some way I couldn’t quite understand, but couldn’t ignore.

  My fingers curl on his jawline. “How did you end up the owner of The Script, Chris? Was it always your business?”

  “It was Amber’s business, but she borrowed money to start it and insisted I be on the paperwork until she paid me back. One loan turned into another, and that never happened. Tristan knew the setup and he didn’t like it. And while I think he’s a good guy, he’s angry, and obviously hell-bent on seeing me hurt. I have to be concerned.” His phone buzzes again and he glances at his screen and then me. “The attorney wants to meet right before lunch. I need to go get this behind me. You said Chantal wants to meet and talk about our wedding. See if you can do that now, so you’re free for the next few days to see the city.”

  “I can go with you.”

  “No.” His tone is absolute. “Go with Chantal.” He releases me, throwing back the blankets and sitting up on the edge of the bed, torment radiating off him in waves.

  Tristan is getting to him. He can’t grieve and heal while defending himself, and I pray this isn’t the start of him shutting me out. I can’t let him shut me out. Not with Isabel and her damned whip here in the city.

  Fighting for the man I love, I sit up and scoot toward him, wrapping my arms around him and laying my head on his back. I say nothing, silently letting him know I’m here for him, and that he’s not fighting this war against grief and guilt alone. At first he’s stiff under my touch, unmoving, and I feel fear forming in my belly, but slowly I feel him soften, the tension easing from his body.

  He grabs me and pulls me around, cradling me while one hand slides into my hair. “Go see Chantal and I’ll deal with the attorney. I want our schedules cleared. I need to get away from this Tristan stuff and get lost with you, Sara. I’ll take you to explore the city I love. A few days of just you and me.”

  My hand covers his, a mix of relief and heartache ripping through me. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.”

  His mouth comes down on mine, his kiss a deep slice of pain and passion that is over too fast. “Today I’m going to have to make some decisions where Tristan’s concerned that I don’t want to make. I need to think about what that means, and prepare myself.” He stands and walks toward the bathroom, leaving me to stare at his naked body as it disappears through the doorway.

  The shower comes on, and my fingers sink into the mattress as I fight my instinct to go after him, since he’s clearly told me he needs a few minutes. My fear of his torment, and the whip he calls relief, is powerful, and so is my awareness of Isabel, the woman who first lashed him with that leather. A huge part of me needs to rush into that bathroom and make him promise he will not be tempted by the whip if he is shaken today. But I don’t. That’s not what he needs from me right now. Suffocating him isn’t trust—and not only has he done everything possible to deserve my trust, but I also believe he needs me to trust him enough for both of us.

  • • •

  I’m on the second level of the house, sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee in my hand when Chris walks up the stairs, looking dark and dangerously intense in black jeans and a black T-shirt with skulls on it that I suspect fits right in with his mood. I’m certain I’m right when he stops beside me, locking me in a smoldering stare. His hand covers mine on my cup handle and he brings it to his lips and drinks, swallowing with slow seductiveness. “I always like my lips on your lips.”

  And just that easily, his lips might as well be on every intimate part of me, because I’m wet and wanting, and I can’t remember what I was worried about seconds before. “Chris,” I whisper.

  He sets the cup aside. “Right here, baby,” he says, and before I know what he intends, he pulls me to my feet and tugs his shirt, the only thing I have on, over my head. A moment later he sets me on the island and spreads my legs, his hungry gaze sliding over my breasts, then lifting to my mouth. “Which lips do I want first, is the question. Why don’t I let you decide? Which comes first, Sara, baby? Your mouth, or that sweet spot right here”—his fingers slide between my thighs—“that I know will make you moan.”

  My lashes lower for two beats and lift. “Both are very good choices,” I manage to choke out.

  “Lean back,” he orders. “Hands behind you.”

  Dark Chris is back. Commanding, dominant, sexy, troubled Chris. I like this part of him. I like it a lot. I do as he bids, leaning back, my nipples thrust into the air by the new position, and he is quick to tug me forward just enough to ensure that I’ll fall if I dare to move. He squats between my legs, his thumbs feathering over my inner knees, back and forth, with excruciating deliberateness. Back and forth. When I think I can’t stand it anymore, he leans in and kisses the delicate skin he was just touching, following his lips with his tongue.

  I moan, just as he’s declared I will, and his lips hint at a smile before he leans in and blows on my clit.

  I swallow hard, arching toward the touch he denies me, trembling when his tongue just barely flicks my nub. “Chris,” I pant; his name a demand that only assures I will wait longer.

  He teases me again with another flick of his tongue. Just one before he’s blowing on me again, taunting me. I lift my leg to his shoulder, trying to drag him to me. He punishes me in that way that is so Chris, doing the opposite of my silent commands, standing just enough to hold my leg in place and lean over me.

  “I decide when, Sara,” he reminds me. “You know that.” His lips brush mine, teeth nipping at my bottom lip. “I decide.” He drags his lips across my cheek, down my neck, then back up to whisper, “I love how you smell when you’re aroused.”

  I moan again. “That would be almost always with you, Chris Merit. Stop teasing me.”

  “What will you give me if I do?”

  “What do you want?”
>
  “Everything.”

  “You have it.”

  He pulls back, staring down at me. “We both know that’s not true.”

  Confusion furrows my brow. “Yes, you do.”

  “No. But I will, Sara. I will.” He doesn’t give me time to ask what that means, sliding back between my thighs, lifting my other leg to his shoulders.

  “Chris,” I whisper, and his name is both a question and another plea for his mouth on that sweet spot he’d teased.

  He doesn’t deny me. He suckles my nub, drawing on the sensitive flesh softly but oh so deeply; two fingers sliding inside me. That’s all it takes and I am lost to the sensations, so ridiculously ready to come that as he begins to lick me in every intimate way possible, I am arching into him, pumping against his fingers, and spasming in barely a minute. I lose space and time, shivering and shaking with the intensity of my release, finally coming back to earth as Chris slides his fingers out of me, his hands bracing my hips, lips pressing to my belly. He lingers there a moment, his head down, his mouth on my skin, and I sense a struggle within him.

  “Chris,” I whisper, imploring him to use me to take the edge off. My voice or his name seems to jolt him and he moves, lowering my legs. I think he’ll undress now and bury his emotion in me, but he shocks me by setting me on the floor.

  His hands settle on my shoulders, and he leans into me. “Go get dressed. We need to leave.”

  My eyes shut with the certainty that he wants to fuck me, but he won’t. This is about the control Chris believed he’d established over the painful loss of Amber, only to have Tristan rip it away. And I want him to feel in control. I want him to feel he can find peace right here with me, not across town with Isabel and a whip.

  I attempt to snatch his shirt from the floor but he intercepts, grabbing it first. “No shirt. I like you naked.”

  Crazily, as many places as I have been with Chris, nerves flutter in my belly at the idea of this gorgeous, dominant man watching me walk out of here naked. And I’m mad at myself for the instant ache in my sex, where I want him more in this moment than the one before.

  “You’re evil, Chris Merit,” I accuse, trying to garner the courage to move forward.

  “And for reasons neither of us quite understand, that’s just how you like me, baby.” He smacks my backside just hard enough to cause a little sting.

  I yelp and launch into action, reaching the stairs and grabbing the hand rail, feeling Chris’s stare every step of the way. Just as I feel the pain beneath the surface of my hot, dominant soon-to-be husband. And I’ll spend a lifetime, if I have to, trying to make it go away.

  • • •

  I rush through my shower and dress comfortably for the sightseeing we’ve talked about doing, donning dark navy jeans, knee-high brown boots and a soft, light blue sweater. Grabbing my purse and jacket, I find Chris on the phone in the living area, and the moment he spots me, he motions to the doorway and ends the call.

  He gives me a quick up and down inspection, approval flickering in his eyes. “Nice, but naked is nicer.”

  “You naked would be even nicer.”

  “Soon, baby,” he says, wrapping his arm around me. “Maybe sooner than you think.”

  A comment like that is most definitely a loaded promise of something naughty and forbidden that will push my limits. Today he’s dark Chris to the extreme, and he’s taking me along for the ride. But even dark Chris is polite, holding my car door, and then squatting down beside me to tug my seat belt over my lap. My senses go into overload as his arm brushes my breast and his scent teases my nostrils.

  “I can’t promise you won’t get hurt,” he says softly, “but I can promise you I’ll never willingly let you go.” He pushes himself to his feet and shuts me inside, leaving me struggling to inhale my next breath.

  As he climbs in beside me, I promise, “Neither will I. Don’t forget that, Chris. I won’t let you go.”

  Several beats of silence pass before he says, “Then you’d better hold on tight, baby, because it’s going to be a wild ride.” He starts the engine and opens the garage, backing up.

  “I’m counting on it,” I say.

  To my relief, his sexy, perfect lips twitch a tiny bit. He makes the quick right to the main road and we travel the few blocks to the Champs-Élysées, the street that is home to the famous bakery and restaurant Ladurée, where I’m meeting Chantal. It’s also home to The Script, and Chris stops in front of the door sporting a Closed sign, darkness inside.

  “Maybe he’s taking appointments only,” I suggest.

  Chris tilts his head back a moment, then pulls a U-turn to deliver me to the opposite side of the road several blocks down. “We need to get you a car,” he announces as he stops in front of Ladurée.

  “I like the Porsche.”

  “What color?”

  “This one, Chris. With you behind the wheel. I don’t want to drive in this crazy city. They barely use lanes.”

  “You’re getting a car, Sara. We’ll go shopping this week.”

  “You’re ridiculously stubborn.”

  “You bet I am, baby.”

  “So am I. Don’t forget that.”

  “How can I? You remind me every day.” He grabs me and pulls me to him, cupping my face, and adds, “And I answer like this.” His mouth closes down on mine, and the torment in his kiss devours me, sliding deep into my soul. When he pulls his mouth from mine and whispers, “I love you,” I can barely breathe.

  “I love you, too. Hurry back.”

  “I shouldn’t be more than an hour,” he says, releasing me. “I stuffed a wad of euros in your purse. Grab a cab home if you need to leave before I’m done.”

  “I’ll drag Chantal to a few stores to shop if we get done before you return.” I open the car door and step outside.

  “Tell Chantal not to worry about teaching you French. I have a few incentives in mind,” he says suggestively.

  Relieved that he’s feeling a bit playful, my lips curve. “My tongue is already rolling those rs.”

  “I like the way you talk dirty, baby.” He winks and adds, “Text me when you’re almost done.”

  I nod and shut the door. The 911 pulls away from the curb and I watch it slip into traffic. My smile fades as worry rises again over the way Chris’s grief is colliding with Tristan’s anger. And I hate that my worry makes me think of Isabel and the whip. It’s not about trust, either. It’s about an addiction that we have to fight together, which means I have to talk to him and be honest about my fears.

  Shaking it off, I enter Ladurée. Passing through a cute double-doored entryway with shelves of baubles you can purchase, I enter the bakery section and spot Chantal standing by the hostess stand. Looking like sunshine in a cute yellow dress that she’s paired with black knee-high boots, her eyes light on me and her arms open as she rushes forward.

  “Sara!”

  Meeting her halfway, I greet her with a big hug, realizing that she always smells like vanilla. “How’s your grandmother?” I ask, hoping for the same news I’d gotten back in the States.

  She smiles. “For a woman who had a stroke, she’s bossy as can be, and it’s wonderfully irritating.”

  Laughing, I adjust my purse on my shoulder. “That’s great news.”

  The hostess waves us forward, and Chantal and I follow her into a small dining area that contains a dozen tiny tables in a space that should hold eight. Chantal orders coffee and an assortment of the bakery’s famous macarons for the two of us. We’ve barely removed our coats when a waiter fills our cups with piping hot goodness.

  “You look amazing,” Chantal announces once we’re alone, warming her hands on her cup.

  I glance down at my light blue sweater and jeans. “I look like a bum, and you look like a model.”

  She waves off my words, dashing her light brown hair behind he
r ears. “I work hard at it, but you always just seem like you, Sara. I like that. It’s beautiful. You’re real, not fake.”

  She has no idea how much her words mean to me, or how Chris has made them true. Before him, I’d lost myself. Completely, utterly lost myself. “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

  “I’m just being honest.” She flattens her hands on the table. “Now. Let’s talk about the important stuff first. Do you have a wedding dress?”

  “No. I’m planning to find one when I get back to the States.”

  “You don’t even know when you can go back.”

  “We plan to go back right after the holidays.” I worry about planning a wedding when Ava might still be out there somewhere, bent on revenge.

  “That only gives you a little over a month to find a dress and have alterations made. We all think finding an outfit is easy, until we have to find it for some important event. A wedding is as important as it gets, and if you want a custom design, you aren’t leaving yourself enough time. There are some of the most amazing designers in the world here, and Chris has the money and resources to make sure you get a dream dress.”

  “I know, but I don’t want to try to transport it back to the States. What if it gets damaged?”

  “There are ways to handle the shipment safely. These high-end designers cater to people all over the world.”

  “I don’t need anything fancy. It’s going to be a small wedding. I’m not even sure I want to wear white.”

  “You can wear red if you like—it’s your wedding day. But you’re marrying a famous artist, Sara. People are going to want to attend his wedding, and your dress will be hyped in the press. You need something special. And I certainly want to be there.”