by Mia Knight
“Stop fucking running and talk to me!” he shouted.
She had never heard him yell before. The sound of his enraged boom freaked her out.
“Talk!” he ordered.
She shoved him as hard as she could, gaining her freedom in the process by forcing him to take a step back, which appeased her somewhat before she blasted him back.
“I don’t want to talk. There’s no point in this! It’s over.”
“Yet here we are.” He spread his arms wide. “And there’s no one around to save you.”
“I don’t need anyone to save you from me. I can handle you on my own.”
“Can you?” he asked softly.
“Yes.” She had no choice.
The confines of the bedroom were a little too intimate for her peace of mind, and it was freezing. She raised a hand to her cheek and let out a disgusted sound when she couldn’t feel it. She passed him and headed back to the fire. There would be no sanctuary, not tonight. If he wanted to bring up the past, she couldn’t avoid it. His intimate knowledge of her Thalia Crane series was the cherry on top of this nightmare sundae. He knew everything. He had the power to destroy her professionally and skewer her emotionally, but she was past caring.
She rewrapped herself in the quilt, tucked her feet under her, and leaned into the armrest. As he reclaimed his seat on the opposite end of the couch, she stared into the flames and wished she could be consumed by them. Daylight would come soon. The storm would pass, and this would all be over.
“You had to know this day would come,” he said.
She shook her head. “No.”
“You thought you could avoid me forever?”
“Why would we bump into each other? I’m not part of your world.”
“You still make headlines.”
“Only when my father forced me to attend functions and …” And during his funeral. It had been a media circus.
As if he were following her line of thought, he said, “You were photographed with Lincoln at your father’s funeral.”
She gave him a disgruntled glance before she looked back at the flames.
“Matthew too.”
“It’s expected.” She had been photographed with every prominent businessman and politician in New York.
He tugged on the quilt to gain her attention as if she was capable of ignoring his ass.
“Is he interested in you?”
“Who?”
“Any of them.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“They’re from the right families,” he said in a deceptively even tone. “Men your family would approve of.”
“Don’t, Roth,” she said as the wind picked up outside. She pulled the covers tighter around herself.
“How much of the fucking around with other guys in the books is real?”
The sensible part of her knew she shouldn’t bait him, but she was past caring. Did he expect her to live the life of a spinster after she divorced him?
She gave him a taunting smile. “What do you think?”
“For your sake, I hope that’s not true.”
His voice may be gentle, but the emotions emanating from him were anything but.
“Think what you want,” she said with a shrug.
Roth knowing about her alter ego, Thalia Crane, could go both ways. If he read the books, he knew a fraction of the salacious exploits she’d had post-divorce. She had lived recklessly for a time and didn’t regret it. She tried to keep a straight face as she imagined Roth reading some of the steamier sex scenes. The series had been a hit. A divorcee trying to build a new life, find herself, and letting everyone in on the drama along the way.
“You’re better than that,” he said.
“No, I’m not. I may be a Hennessy by blood, but I’ve never lived up to their standard. After the divorce, I realized I was free. For the first time in my life, I had no one to impress and no expectations to live up to. So I did what I wanted. I threw myself away for a while.”
She peeked to see how he was taking that. He was not pleased. If he could be honest, then so could she. So what if she fucked a bunch of guys? She was no one’s wife, and she wasn’t running a million-dollar corporation like her sisters. He said he hadn’t been unfaithful during their marriage, but they had spent most of their time apart, so how could she be sure? Besides, she was absolutely sure he hadn’t lived the life of a monk since the divorce, so who was he to judge her?
“How did you find out I’m Thalia Crane?” she asked.
He didn’t answer immediately. She raised her brows at him expectantly as he continued to stare at her.
“Roth?” she prompted.
“My assistant.”
She jerked. “What?”
“She read your books under Minnie Hess.”
“And how would she know my other pen name?”
“I told her.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “My assistant is an avid reader. Every free moment she has, her nose is in a book. I told her to read your work.”
“You were trying to promote me?” She couldn’t believe it.
“She asked what you did for a living, and I told her you’re a writer and gave her your pen name. When Thalia Crane became popular, she picked it up and recognized the similarities in the writing styles and our history. She gave the series to me without telling me a thing. Two months ago, I was on a flight and cracked it open. It took me less than two pages to realize it was you.”
How random was that? If his assistant wasn’t a reader, he would be none the wiser. “Did you ask her not to…?”
“She won’t reveal your identity.”
She scrubbed a hand down her face. “Oh, my God.”
“You won’t be able to keep it a secret for long.”
“Why not?”
“You’re regularly featured on the bestsellers list. It’s just a matter of time before someone you know figures it out. How long do you think you can keep your identity a secret?”
“Forever.”
“Why’d you veer away from writing as Minnie Hess?”
“They weren’t selling, and I wanted to write something more…” She pursued her lips as she searched for the right word. “Adult.”
“Thalia’s adult, all right.”
She shot him a quelling glance. “I started writing as Thalia when you moved to London, and I was still in college. I was… exploring.” She had been romanticizing her life like a naïve idiot, but the series had morphed into something else. The books gave her an anchor when her life turned upside down.
She studied him surreptitiously. If her readers could see the inspiration for her anti-hero, Rex, they would understand why she risked everything for him. Roth still dripped sex appeal. His size wasn’t just for looks either. When they had sex, he used every inch of his body to drill her. He was a bastard, but he was still as sexy as fuck. Couldn’t he have gotten fat or lost an eye or something? Shit.
She sighed and snuggled into the cushions and pretended they were stuffed with feathers instead of flat as pancakes. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“I wasn’t cut out for the business world. I would have worked under my sisters and followed their lead if you hadn’t come along and told me to follow my passion. That’s one good thing that came out of our marriage so… thanks.”
“You built a career from our sex life.”
She gave him a saccharine smile. “I’ll put you in the acknowledgments for the next book.”
“You do that. I have a fan base.”
Her smile melted into a glare. His eyes moved over her with an intimacy that made her want to slap him.
“You need more material?” he asked.
“I’ll pass.”
“Why did you come here, Jasmine?”
“Why do you keep asking me that? I wanted a change of scenery.”
“That’s not it. What happened in New York?”
“Nothing happened�
�” she began, but the lie caught in her throat, and she stopped. She took a deep breath and then another. Something trickled down her face. She raised a shaking hand to her cheek and stared at her wet fingertips.
“Jasmine.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him reach for her. She stumbled to her feet with the quilt wrapped around her. She put some distance between them as she tried to stuff her emotions back into the box where they belonged. She couldn’t break down here. He was the last person she wanted to see her like this, but grief didn’t care where she was. It wanted its pound of flesh.
“Jasmine.”
When she felt his hand close around the back of her neck, she jerked away.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed as she swiped at the hot tears slipping down her face.
She was trembling, but it wasn’t from the cold. Pain threatened to split her heart in two.
“Jasmine.”
When he appeared in front of her, she backed away.
“I don’t...” She swallowed hard and tried again. “I don’t want—”
Her throat closed and she dropped her head to hide her face as emotion took over. When he wrapped his arms around her, she fought him, but he ignored her struggles and drew her against his chest. She clenched her teeth to stop herself from making a sound, but her ragged breathing was far from calm. He cupped the back of her head, fingers tunneling through her damp hair as he massaged. She grabbed fistfuls of his jacket as she battled for control.
“Just breathe.”
“I-I can’t,” she whispered.
The loss she hadn’t allowed herself to feel hit her full force. When the first sob escaped, she tried to smother the sound against his body. He picked her up and carried her back to the couch as she clutched at him, battling her emotions for supremacy. He settled on the couch with her on his lap and unzipped his jacket. Her cheek landed on his broad shoulder covered in soft flannel. She shook her head as she fought the tide threatening to pull her under. A keening sound escaped. Even to her own ears, the pitiful sound was filled with heartache and despair. He pressed her face against his throat. The familiar scent of him added more turbulence to her already potent emotional cocktail.
She tried again. “I don’t want—”
“You don’t know what you want.”
“I do,” she said, her vehemence ruined by a hiccup.
“You don’t get what you want out of life. You get what you need.”
“But—”
He cupped the side of her face and pressed his thumb against her quivering lips. “Hush.”
“You can’t—”
His hand dipped beneath her chin and tipped her face up to his. His mouth landed on hers, and she stopped breathing. The kiss was gentle and soothing and so unlike him. More tears slipped from her eyes. He was trying to comfort her. Did he know how many times over the years she wished he had done this? Held her on his lap and acted like he cared? Her breath hitched. He kissed the corner of her mouth, her wet cheek, and then her forehead.
“Stop,” she whispered.
He ran his fingers down her cheek, tracing the progress of a tear before he kissed her again. Soft, slow, and too short.
“Talk to me, Jasmine.”
They stared at one another for a long minute before she reached out. He didn’t stop her as she ran the tips of her fingers through his beard. Sorrow churned in her chest as she stroked his harsh face. Every instinct she possessed told her to keep her cards close to her chest and not let him in, but she needed to get it out. It was eating her alive.
“He had another stroke,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Her hand dropped from his face and curled into a fist against her chest.
“He fell into a coma. The doctors didn’t think he would wake up.” Her lip trembled, and she swallowed hard. “The lawyers came in, and he… he named me as executor.”
She couldn’t finish but realized she didn’t have to when he said, “Fuck.”
“He said if that ever happened, he didn’t want to live like that, and I… I didn’t want him to suffer.” She dropped her face, so guilt-ridden she couldn’t even meet his eyes. “Maybe I should have waited a little longer. I don’t know if—”
“You respected his wishes. You made the right call. He would be proud of you.”
She swallowed hard as more tears slid down her cheeks. “I hope he knows I was there. I didn’t want him to be alone.”
“You were there. That’s all that matters.”
When she covered her face with her hands, he drew her back against him, and this time, she let him. After being ignored by her workaholic father for most of her life, she finally got one in her late twenties… and now he was gone again. The shock of not only losing her father but also being forced to make the decision whether to keep him on life support had traumatized her. Her sisters had turned their backs on her, leaving her to deal with his death and funeral by herself. She didn’t have time to grieve, not with so many things to do. Even after the funeral, she had been locked in a shell-shocked state of denial.
Everything she had been keeping in came out in an unstoppable tide. The façade of acceptance and strength crumbled. She sobbed against his chest as sorrow and guilt built into an excruciating crescendo and then slowly ebbed, leaving her empty and drained. She listened to his steady heartbeat as she calmed.
“I called your mom. She’s always been so nice to me. She invited me out here, so I said yes, and then this morning, she…” She swallowed hard. “I-I was so worried that she…”
The fear that once again, she would have to deal with a parental figure dying shattered her. The added stress of facing her ex-husband had pushed her to the limit, leaving her with no shields to hide behind.
“She’s going to be fine,” he said.
She nodded, and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
She sniffled and brushed her hand over damp flannel. “Wetting your shirt.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She wanted to sleep, wanted it so badly her head throbbed, but her mind wouldn’t shut down. So many things were waiting for her in New York, things that couldn’t be put off forever, and here she was in the mountains crying on her ex-husband’s shoulder. The practical side of her brain told her she needed to extricate herself from Roth and put some much-needed distance between them. But she was finally warm. And his arms around her felt good. Good enough for her to stay right where she was.
“I haven’t been able to sleep more than a few hours since he passed,” she said, her voice as dazed as she felt. “I’m tired of being tired. I came here to get away…”
When her breath hitched, he stroked the side of her face.
“You’re fine,” he said gently.
“I’m not.”
“You will be.”
His scent tantalized her. She nuzzled his neck and then tasted his skin. Was it her imagination, or did his heartbeat stutter? That encouraged her to put her mouth on his neck. She sucked gently, taking her time, nursing the area with kisses before she sat back to examine her handiwork.
“Jasmine.”
Her mind was cloudy with grief and exhaustion, but the dark hunger on his face called forth her own. This man had hurt her more than any other man on the planet. Once upon a time, she would have sacrificed everything for him, and now… now, he was a stranger, one who she had amazing chemistry with. Her volatile feelings for him mixed with her grief-stricken loneliness.
She rested her forehead against his and surrendered. “Fuck me.”
His eyes bored into hers. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of thinking.”
He didn’t move. She cupped his face and shifted on his lap and felt the hard ridge of his penis between her legs. Her pussy clenched. She knew what it felt like to be beneath him, knew he could wring her dry and leave her so satisfied she couldn’t think.
“One night,” she murmured.
He d
idn’t look the least bit lover-like. He looked savage and angry. Her mouth curved at the corner as she stroked his sinister face.
“Is that what you want?” he growled.
“What I want,” she whispered as she let herself fall into the abyss, “is a night when I don’t worry about what’s waiting for me in New York. I want a night when I don’t have to think about who I am or what’s expected of me.” Her hand glided down his neck, between his pecs, down his abdomen, and landed on his tented crotch. “I want one last night to work you out of my system and not feel guilty about it.”
“I’m not noble,” he ground out. “If you let me have you, I’ll take.”
“Take,” she challenged as she wrapped her hand around him. “And don’t you dare let me think.”
Chapter 4
He grabbed her face, angled it the way he wanted it, and kissed her. This time, there was nothing sweet about it. Her mind went blank as he applied pressure on her cheeks, forcing her mouth open to accept his tongue, which invaded with a sensual thrust that made her nipples tingle. He tasted like buttery cornbread and something intrinsically him, which tickled the back of her mind and evoked memories of their past.
She fell into him. There was no need to think, no need to strategize or worry because he knew what he was doing. In this arena, no man could match him. She discovered that after the divorce. He taught her to love savagely and hold nothing back. He told her she could let go with him and be who she wanted to be… and then he abandoned her.
She wasn’t paying attention to what her hand was doing over his crotch until he brushed it aside. He kept her mouth busy, drinking from her so deeply, she felt drunk. She hummed when he unzipped his pants and then wrapped her hand around him. This, too, felt innately familiar. She hadn’t forgotten him at all. Not the taste of him, the size of his hands, or the cock that made her into a woman. He was the biggest she’d had, and he knew what to do with it. Roth put himself on a pedestal, and even though she begged other men to knock him off, they hadn’t. It wasn’t fair, but none of that mattered now.
His hand closed over hers, telling her without words exactly what he wanted as if she could forget. When he undid her jacket, the cold draft made her stiffen, but that was forgotten a moment later when his large hand closed over her breast. He squeezed and released, making her blood run hot. When he squeezed her nipple, she let out a mewl, and his dick jumped in her hand. She smiled and knew he felt it because he knocked her hand away.
