Her Little White Lie

by Maisey Yates

  He wanted to crush those feelings. Bury them beneath something stronger. Lust. Sex. Desire.

  Yes, Paige was being the wise one.

  And for once, he wasn’t. Couldn’t be.

  He moved behind her and put his hand on the freezer door. She froze in front of him, her petite frame stiff.

  “Don’t ignore me, Paige,” he said. He swept her hair to the side and bent, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck. “Ever.”

  She shivered beneath his touch. “I wasn’t.”

  “You were trying to ignore this—” he traced the line of her neck with the tip of his tongue “—and you know we can’t.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I don’t know, because I’m just so gosh darn innocent.”

  He put his hands on her waist, drawing her backside up against his growing erection. “Don’t make a joke of this. Don’t put distance between us.”

  “I … Okay.”

  “I’ve had the day to think about it and the conclusion I’ve come to is that yes, you were a virgin. But you were right—you knew what you were doing. And you certainly seem to know what you want. So, let me ask you now, what do you want?”

  “Ice cream,” she said.

  “Too sticky.” He reached past her and took an ice cube out of the bin that sat in the back of the freezer, the chill burning his fingertips before it started to melt. “This, on the other hand, has some possibilities.”

  He held the ice cube above her shoulder, a drop of water hitting the curve of her neck and rolling down her pale skin. He leaned in and followed the trail of the drop with the tip of his tongue, warming the cold places.

  She put her hands on the fridge, as if bracing herself.

  “Good?” he asked.

  “I would never have thought of that,” she whispered. “So maybe I’m more innocent than I thought.”

  He pressed the corner of the ice cube to her neck, then removed it, following up with a hot kiss. “Do you want me to stop?”

  He felt like he was poised on a razor’s edge, waiting for her answer, watching the rise and fall of her petite shoulders with each intake of breath. He would stop if she asked. He would.

  “No,” she whispered. “Don’t stop.”

  Relief flooded him, the sweeping intensity of it pulling on something inside of him. Pulling something loose. The chains to his tightly bound control fell and he felt, for the first time, a kind of deep and growing intensity that he was certain could consume them both.

  And he wanted it. Welcomed it. He wanted to drown in it. Lose himself completely.

  Never in his life had desire felt like this. Lust was a focused thing for him. Find release, and satisfy it. But this wasn’t about release. This was about the softness of Paige’s body. About the cold, salt and heat in her skin.

  This was about the way it would feel to slide inside her again. So tight and perfect.

  This was about the journey. About making it take as long to get to the destination as possible.

  “I was hoping you would say that.” He gripped the hem of her shirt and she helped him tug it up over her head. Then he turned her, shutting the freezer behind her.

  Her round blue eyes were focused on him as she unhooked her bra, revealing those small, perfect breasts to him. Her nipples were puckered, from arousal, from the cold.

  He placed the ice cube on her collarbone, water spilling down as he let it drift over her flesh, the droplets curving over the shape of her breasts, tightening her nipples even further, changing them to a deeper shade of blush.

  He leaned down and ran his tongue over her breast, then sucked the tightened bud between this lips, the taste of her sending a jolt of painful need through him, making his shaft pulse, the ache in his stomach intensify.

  She arched into him, her back against the door of the refrigerator. He continued to suck her breast, one hand anchored on her hip, the other directing the ice, leaving drops on her stomach that rolled downward. She squirmed, a sharp moan of pleasure on her lips.

  “Good,” he said, his lips still at her breast.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  He straightened and touched the ice to her lips, then kissed her there, deeply. Her lips were cold, the inside of her mouth, her tongue, hot.

  He’d never imagined a sexual game could be exciting. He’d never played a sexual game, because sex had never been about the journey.

  Until now.

  He pulled his mouth from hers and she looked at him, her lips parted. He slipped the remaining bit of ice cube into her mouth, letting it melt on her tongue.

  She leaned in and pressed her cold lips to his throat, the tip of her icy tongue tracing a line on his skin. Cold had long been a method he’d used to regain a handle on his emotions. Of stopping himself from getting out of hand. Of forcing his mind blank, effecting a reboot.

  But this wasn’t cooling him. It was heating him, burning him from the inside out, the chill on his skin evaporated by the heat running through his veins.

  Paige turned and opened the freezer again, producing her own ice cube, a wicked grin on her face. She separated the top four buttons on his shirt and pressed the ice to his chest. Burning cold assaulted him, but it did nothing to cool the fire that was streaking through his body.

  He was shaking, his entire body in pain with the need to free himself and sink into her. To be joined to her. Lost in her. To find the ultimate heat and burn alive in it.

  He pushed her back against the fridge, every last ounce of his control gone. He pressed her hand against his chest, letting the ice burn, then numb, melting against his skin as he kissed her lips, as he devoured her.

  She freed her hands and reached around behind him, tugging his shirt up out of his pants and unbuttoning it quickly, shrugging it off his shoulders and leaving it on the ground. And he didn’t care.

  He pushed her pajama pants down, along with her panties—the panties that proved just how little she’d expected to be having another sexual encounter with all their sensible cottonness—and kicked them to the side. He reached around, cupped her butt and lifted her so that her legs were wrapped around his waist, her arms around his neck.

  He moved, turning them both, and pinning her against the wall. He used one hand to open his belt, undo his slacks and jerk his pants partway down, releasing his erection and sliding it through her moist folds.

  She tightened her hold on him, her fingernails biting his skin, sharp pain piercing his flesh, ramping up his need.

  “Dio, yes.” He slid inside of her, her body hot around him, perfect. So wet and sweet. He thrust up hard and she gasped, blue eyes opening wide. “Okay?”

  She bit her lip, nodding. She was so perfect. So very Paige. There was no woman like her anywhere, no woman who had ever made him feel this way.

  And then there was no thought. There was only feeling. Burning in his chest and lungs, tightness in his gut, the pressure of impending release, building, building until he was certain he would burst with it. He gritted his teeth, tightening his hold on her hips as he thrust hard into her.

  She let her head fall back against the wall, a strangled cry on her lips, her internal muscles pulsing around him, heightening his own need.

  Finally, he gave in, pushing into her one last time, orgasm exploding through him, pleasure that was almost pain curling itself around every muscle, every vein, overtaking his entire body as he spilled himself inside of her.

  His thighs shook, trembled. He set her down, making sure her feet were planted firmly on the floor before letting himself sink to his knees in front of her, his hands braced on the wall.

  He put his head down, trying to catch his breath, trying to clear his mind. He felt full, and completely drained at the same time. Weak, depleted. In need. But there was no room for anything else in him, nothing but the intensity of the desire that was still ignited in his chest, in his bones.

  He pushed away from the wall, away from her, and stood. “I’m going to shower,” he said. He had to escape. Had to
put distance between them. As much as he’d needed it after the first time, he needed it more now.

  He turned and walked away from her, leaving her there, naked against the kitchen wall, regret clinging to him like a film on his skin.

  When he got to his bathroom, he turned the water on cold and put himself directly under the spray, trying to ease the feeling. To numb himself inside and out. He put his hand on the tiled wall and leaned forward, struggling to catch his breath beneath the icy assault.

  Cold that would normally have wiped his mind clean, now made him think of the ice cube on his chest, followed by the warmth of her hands, her lips, her …

  He had been out of his mind. Absolutely and completely. She had done it to him, had pushed him past the point of return. And he knew better. He knew.

  For every loss of control there was a cost. He had lost his control. He had taken her without a condom. Without any consideration for how innocent she really was. For how sweet she was. For the fact that she wasn’t the kind of woman you pinned to the wall and screwed.

  He hit the tile with his fist, the stone hard beneath his hand, the grout biting into his flesh. He did it again. And again. Again until the pain shot up his arm, burned in his shoulder, left the skin on his fist raw, bleeding.

  Nothing blacked out the pleasure that was still moving through him. Stronger than the regret. Stronger than the punishment.

  So he lowered his head, and let the water wash over him. And waited. Waited for it to wash his feelings away.

  Paige managed to collect her clothes and eat a bowl of ice cream. She was a little too stunned to face Dante. He had done … he had done things to her that she’d never imagined in her wildest fantasies. And she’d done things to him she’d never …

  Oh, boy.

  And then he’d left. And she didn’t know why. Reasons, reasons she made up, were buzzing around in her head, but they probably weren’t true, or they were at least only true in part. Dante wasn’t an easy man to figure out and she knew she wasn’t going to do it in five minutes over a bowl of Rocky Road.

  She stood up and put the bowl in the sink, then made her way up the stairs. Ana was still sound asleep, completely unaware of the disaster that the two adults in the house were making of everything. And Paige had a choice to make: her room, or Dante’s room?

  Yes, they had said they would do this while she lived here. But if his behavior after their first time was an indicator, he didn’t really want to share her bed.

  Well, he was going to have to meet her in the middle. She wasn’t having sex with him and then creeping back to her own room like they were sneaking around. She just wasn’t. Yes, she did want to keep her heart uninvolved, and yes, she did fear that in some ways it was too late. But still. She wanted what she wanted, and he would have to deal with it.

  Granted, she wasn’t an expert but she felt like falling asleep next to each other was an essential piece of the sex equation. She also felt a new surge of confidence, one she’d never felt before. He wanted her. He desired her. That meant she had some negotiating power here.

  She walked into Dante’s room without knocking, and saw that he wasn’t in it. She could hear the water running in the bathroom, but there was no cloud of steam. No extra warmth from what, by her quick calculations, had to have been a thirty-minute shower.

  She walked into the bathroom, her hands shaking a little bit.

  “Dante?”

  He didn’t answer. There was nothing, only the sound of the water.

  “Dante,” she said, this time more forceful.

  She pulled open the shower door and her heart stopped. Dante was standing, his hands braced on the wall, his head down, as water, cold water, rained down on his back. His muscles were shaking, his skin bright red.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, certain she didn’t want to know. But equally certain that she had to know.

  He lifted his head, his expression blank, his lips gray, his eyes black, bottomless pools. A shiver racked his frame.

  Paige jolted into motion, grabbing a towel off the rack and holding it out to him. “Get out of there.”

  “It didn’t work,” he said, his tone dark, a tremor running through his words.

  “What didn’t work? You didn’t freeze your balls off yet?” she snapped. “Come here.”

  “You have to pay for it somewhere, Paige,” he said, his tone rough, unsteady. “Every ounce of pleasure has a price.”

  Her heart curled in on itself. He didn’t make any sense to her, but the undertone to his words was so raw, so very serious. She might not understand his words, but he did. And they carried a weight that she feared could crush them both.

  She put her hand on his back, on his ice-cold skin. “A little bit of cold is sexy, but this isn’t.” She draped the towel across her arm and planted her hands on his shoulders, tugging on him. It wasn’t her strength that got him out of the shower, it was the fact that he complied.

  He didn’t feel like himself. He was usually solid, hot beneath her fingertips. The muscle beneath his ice-cold skin trembled now, his stance weak. And his eyes … they weren’t blank now. The anguish was evident, there for her to see, to examine like she’d wanted. And now, she wanted to look away, because the rawness of it was simply too much. The pain too great.

  But she didn’t. She met his gaze as she brushed the towel over his skin, drying him, her hands trembling, her stomach sick. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

  He complied again, following her into the bedroom and sliding between the covers.

  Paige stripped her clothes off and got in beside him, pushing her breasts against his freezing-cold back, wrapping her arms around him as he shivered against her.

  A tear rolled down her cheek and she pressed her face to his shoulder blade. “You’re so cold,” she said.

  “That’s the idea,” he said, his voice stronger now.

  “Why?”

  “A habit, I suppose.”

  “You take cold showers after sex?”

  “No. Not so simple. I pay penance.”

  “For what?” she asked, trying to keep the horror from her tone. “For sins?”

  “For feeling. For losing control. I’ve used it to train myself.” His tone was flat, lifeless.

  “Why?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Because, cara mia, nothing in life is free. Everything has a cost. Especially deep emotion. Most especially passion. Life is made of light and dark, good and bad. The other side of love is hate, and the line between the two is thin.”

  “I’ve never thought so,” she said. “I don’t think love and hate are anywhere near each other.”

  “And that’s where you’re wrong.” He shivered again. “Because you haven’t seen it turn. But I have. I told you about my mother. That she died. That I remembered her soft touch, and her singing. But I also remember how she died. How she was killed. My father killed her. While I watched from behind the couch, helpless to do anything but cover my ears to block out the sound. I will never forget what it’s like to watch someone die. My mother. My own mother. I won’t forget holding her in my arms as she faded. That’s what happens when you have no control. When you are ruled by passion. That’s what it can become. And that’s why I remind myself that when you lose control, someone pays.”

  She tightened her hold on him, more tears sliding down her cheeks. “Why do you have to pay, Dante?” They were the only words she could voice. There were so many words she wanted to say. So many. And they weren’t enough. They never would be.

  “So no one else will.”

  She just held him then, her eyes stinging, her entire body, down to her soul exhausted. But she couldn’t sleep. So she held him, warming him, until the darkness faded and light started to invade the room.

  If only she could find a way to do the same for him. To shine a light on his soul and banish the darkness.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “WE’RE moving the wedding up to a week from yesterday.”<
br />
  Dante strode into her office midway through the day on Tuesday, a strange sight considering he had ignored her all day Monday and then had gone out to the office after hours on Monday night and not come home.

  She’d driven Ana and herself to Colson’s that morning, and she was still more than slightly peeved at him over the disappearing act.

  She knew why he’d done it. The phrase running scared seemed a nice way to describe it. Still, she’d been imagining him dead on the side of the road. She’d called, but he hadn’t answered, and pride prevented her from doing it more than five times. So she’d paced the hall instead. And she’d gone to sleep in his bed, inhaling the scent of him on his pillow, because it turned out that sex made her feel somewhat mushy about a guy.

  “You can’t reschedule what was never scheduled,” she said, dryly, her heart hammering. “And that’s way too soon.”

  “No, it’s not. It’s time we got everything going. I’m not running a bed-and-breakfast.”

  His words were like a slap to the face. “Right. Oh, my mistake. That’s what I thought I was doing at your house. In my defense you shouldn’t have put a little check-in desk with a bell right by the front door.”

  “Paige …”

  “Dante,” she said, her tone mocking.

  “You know what I meant.”

  “You’re being an insulting bastard. Is that what you meant? Because if that was the aim, great job. You did it.”

  “I meant this isn’t permanent.”

  “Yeah, I do know that. You keep reminding me of it, actually.”

  “Do you want to get the adoption finalized as soon as possible or would you like to continue with your wounded maiden routine?” he asked.

  “The adoption.”

  “I thought so.”

  “So we’re getting married on Monday and … and what’s with the adoption?”

  “I have made a very generous donation to the local child services department. They like me a lot. I’m imagining that the rest of the process should go off without a hitch.”

  “You … bought the adoption?”

  “More or less. But I imagine if they found something terrible about us they wouldn’t allow it.”