Lies We Keep
Page 16
“Maybe we shouldn’t,” I said.
Had I pushed her? Had I hinted that I wanted her before she was ready?
“I want to,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”
She looked up at me, dragging her teeth against her bottom lip. The skin reddened, forming a suckable plumpness that made me groan in response. The smallest of movements left me drunk on her scent.
I pulled her into my arms and carried her into the bedroom, setting her down on the bed. She freed her arms from her dress, shimmying free, letting the fabric fall to the ground. Nude, vulnerable, raw, beautiful, she sat before me, motioning me toward her.
The attack left her feeling damaged, unfixable, ugly, but that was far from the truth. Jezebel was a rare treasure, a coveted beauty, and not a day passed by when I didn’t thank God for her.
I dropped my pants and briefs and watched as she scooted back so her head was resting against my pillow. On my hands and knees, I crawled toward her, liberally placing wet kisses against her exposed skin. Devouring every inch of her, I kissed, licked, and sucked her skin until she moaned my name.
I pulled her into a long, slow kiss as I slid into her. She was tight, her skin scorching compared to my own. She angled her hips, linking her legs around my back, and I sank deeper. Resting my forehead against hers, I closed my eyes and focused on the feeling of her heart pounding against my chest, of her breath hitching in her throat, of her nails scratching against the skin of my back. There was an unintentional rhythm to the way she and I had sex, to the way she fit against me. I’d never believed in fate, but after mere weeks of being her bodyguard, I’d begun to wonder if I should’ve.
I opened my eyes and stared down at her. In all the times I’d been with her, she’d never relinquished control so completely. She liked to be on top, to be dominant in her most intimate of moments, and I was okay with that. I’d given her what she desired every time I’d touched her.
But today, as she lay down on the bed, inviting me in, she submitted to me.
She reached for me, running a hand through my hair. Her skin was flushed, her eyes glossy. We were both breathless, sweaty, tired, but the idea of disconnecting was too hard to bear. With each kiss, with each caress, she told me she needed me, but in truth, she didn’t. Her demons had already released her, while mine still clung tightly, pulling me into a suffocating grasp, and as Jezebel opened herself to me in ways she’d never done before, I could only hope the demons of my past would release me, too… if only for tonight.
Writing is a team sport, and I couldn’t have released this book without the assistance of a select group of people:
To Robin, my devoted graphic designer—you’re a goddess. You sacrifice so much to help me, and I hope you know it never goes unnoticed. I absolutely adore you!
To Tara, my amazing editor—thank you so much for your words of wisdom. This is a much better story because of you and your ability to talk me off the edge of a major rewrite.
To Claire, my formatter—thank you so much for making my book shine.
To Amber, my assistant—your expertise has given me amazing opportunities, and for that, I can’t thank you enough.
To my readers—I get to do what I love because of you. Thank you. I love you.
Danielle Rose holds a Master of Fine Arts in creative writing from the University of Southern Maine. Currently residing in the Midwest, where she spends her days dreaming of warmer temperatures, when she’s not writing, Danielle enjoys pretending she lives in California, spending an embarrassing amount of time at Hobby Lobby, and binge-watching Netflix.