He looks up when I reach the bottom step, and his laptop is forgotten. He blindly reaches for the screen and pulls it down, placing it on the footstool by his feet. Then he sets an elbow on the arm of the couch and props his chin on his hand, his finger brushing thoughtfully over his Cupid’s bow as he watches me pull the sheet in tighter around my body.
My move seems to amuse him, and the hint of a smile moves the corner of his mouth. As a result, I risk a smile too. “I was going to eat,” he says, rising from the couch. “Are you hungry?”
I don’t know if I’m hungry, to be honest. I can’t feel anything past the peace. “And then will you bathe me?” I ask, making his eyebrows rise a fraction. He doesn’t answer but, instead, collects me from the bottom of the stairs, walking me to the island and lifting me onto a stool. He bends and leans into me, and I find myself reclining back, if only so I can keep his entire striking face in my sights. His lips purse. He leans in more. So I recline farther, and his head tilts, his expression curious. And he comes closer, prompting me to lean back even more, to the point my stomach muscles are screaming and I’m parallel to the floor.
He’s looming over me now. “Do you want to be on your back for me again, Beau?” he asks, reaching for the front of the sheet and pulling it open, exposing my front. “Just say the words.” His palm splays my chest and drags down to the apex of my thighs. My breath undeniably hitches, meaning refusing him would be laughable.
“Who are you?” I ask out of the blue, the question surprising us both. He recoils a fraction, but quickly gathers himself.
Taking my hands, he pulls me back up to sitting. “Those aren’t the words I was expecting.”
“I’m sleeping with a man who’s an enigma.”
His eyes dart to mine, cautious for a fleeting moment, before he corrects it, rearranging the sheet around me, his focus set on his task. “You didn’t google me?” he asks, his eyes fixed on mine, reading my reaction. He knows I have, and it makes me wonder if he tried the same with me. He won’t have found much—the FBI will have made sure of that. “Does it matter who I am?” he asks, stepping back. “Does it matter who you are?”
That soon wins him back my attention. His questions are loaded. Could the answers be an explosion? But at the same time, I’m wondering if it really does matter. Do I need to know who he really is? Do I want him to know the dirty details of why I am who I am, because I’m sure as shit he knows what I am. Because he’s told me.
Broken.
“Why did you come back to me tonight, Beau?” he asks, sounding harsh. Judgmental.
“Because I love where you take me.” I’m honest. That much he can know. “How did you know I’d come back?”
“Because I know you love where I take you.” He steps into me and lifts my chin, making sure he has my full attention. He has. From the moment I set eyes on him, he has. But what he doesn’t know is what he’s taking me away from. That shall remain undisclosed. “We seem to have a mutual connection in that area,” he whispers.
“Then we’re both safe,” I murmur, repeating his words.
“Safety is an illusion, Beau.” He kisses my forehead, lingering for a long time. “I’m happy to provide that illusion.”
I swallow and let the warmth of his mouth sink into my skin. “See?” I whisper. “An enigma.” He speaks words I don’t understand. Looks at me in a way that baffles me. Like I’m his redeemer. And at the same time, his ruin. “You make no sense to me.”
“I don’t need to make sense to you.” Feeling my nape, he massages gently, and despite my whirling mind, I loosen under his touch. “Accept this for what it is.”
“What is it?”
He lifts me from the stool and places me on the countertop, pulling the sheet apart and muscling his way in between my thighs. My body responds in a nanosecond, tingling back to life, ready to take him on again. My ass is seized, and I’m pulled in close. His condition behind his pants presses into my naked pussy. “This is beauty amid endless pain, Beau.” A palm pushes into my chest, forcing me gently down to the counter. He pulls his arousal free and starts torturously rubbing the swollen head around my flesh.
“Oh God.” I arch my back, willing him on, the wildfire inside back with a vengeance.
He pushes into me on a grunt, sinking his fingers into my thighs. “And isn’t it fucking beautiful?” he asks, yanking me down onto him. The flames are fanned, the burn intensifying. I cry out, clawing at his forearms, trying to find my anchor. And that’s the thing with James. There is no anchor. Nothing to keep me grounded when he’s got his hands all over me, and that feeling of absent control is cathartic. It’s deliverance from evil. It’s the therapy I need.
I look at the ugly scars on my arm as James finds his pace, alternating between smooth grinds and hard hits, beating constant cries of ecstasy out of me.
“They’re not there,” he grunts, and I shoot my eyes to his. They’re glazed. His jaw is tight. He looks almost angry. “They’re not there.” He drives forward at an eyewatering speed, punching me deep. “They’re not there,” he whispers, retreating, the smooth flesh of his iron erection gliding with ease, stroking my walls. I look at my arm again. The scars have gone. I don’t see them. Don’t feel the pain that’s so fresh in my mind. He makes all the terrible disappear and replaces it with magic. “Look at me,” he demands, moving a hand to my throat, laying it there. I do as I’m bid, and the sight will never leave me.
He’s about to come. I want his release. For him. For me. The sight of him staring at me, holding his breath, his body rigid, every last muscle in his arms and chest protruding.
I lift my arms above my head, finding the edge of the counter behind me, and grip it tightly. I’m going to need it. “Come,” I order calmly, and he roars at the ceiling, his pace reaching maniac territory as he thrashes me repeatedly and mercilessly.
I’ve never seen anything so spellbinding. Never heard anything so poetic. He’s out of control, and I am in my element. I don’t need to orgasm. I just need to watch him.
“Fuck,” he chokes, sucking back air, his body vibrating violently, his skin slick with sweat. He collapses onto one hand, his head hanging, and he starts to grind firmly, hissing his way through his climax. I go limp, staring up at the ceiling, as the sensation of him filling me, of his cock pulsating against my walls as he releases, overwhelms my body.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say quietly, heaving, fighting for breath. “Who you are, who I am, it doesn’t matter.” I don’t want details. Don’t want to give them either. This. I just want this. Whenever I can have it, just this.
“What if I ever want to tell you?” he asks, bringing his front down to mine. His head lays on my chest, and I look at his dark waves.
“If it’ll change this, I want you to resist.”
“Is that a condition?”
“Of what?”
“Of you continuing to see me. You want nothing. Just this.”
“Just this,” I confirm.
“You sound like most men’s dream woman.”
“I’m no one’s dream,” I whisper. I’m their nightmare. So yes, this agreement works for me, because if I don’t know about him, he can’t know about me.
And as if he understands, he takes my deformed arm and kisses my scars. Such a gentle move, and I’m unsure whether I like it. “But I’m not most men,” James says, turning his stare up to me, holding his mouth to my arm. I look away, avoiding him seeing whatever it is he’s looking for in my eyes. “What about opera?”
I frown and look at him with curiosity. His chin’s now resting between my boobs. “Opera?”
“Yes. Is opera allowed?”
“Along with fucking?”
“With fucking,” he confirms, deadly serious. “Or escaping. Or disappearing. Call it what you will.”
I’m bemused. Opera? When I first met this man, he was frosty, unreadable. Now? “Are you asking me on a date?” James doesn’t seem like the kind of man to date. Opera, yes, I can see i
t. But dating?
“Do you want to call it a date?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“But you want me to go to the opera with you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?” Don’t tell me he’s short of women ready to let him lavish them with his expert fucking and a touch of opera on the side.
His head drops tiredly, and he sighs. “Why not?”
“Because it falls outside the scope of our relationship.” And I can’t be in crowded spaces.
James swallows, and it looks like a patience-gathering move. “Fine. No opera.” He pushes himself up, and we both hiss as he slips free of me. “Here.” He unravels the sheets and starts to wipe the inside of my thighs meticulously, and I study him as he does, my fascination growing. But fascination should be avoided. It could lead to questions I don’t want answers to.
He finishes up, adjusts his pants, and takes the sheet into a room off the kitchen. I retrieve my shirt from the floor by the elevator, and just as I’m fastening the buttons, the doors slide open. I freeze, a deer caught in the headlights, when Goldie appears. Her gaze travels from the tips of my toes, up my half-naked body to my wide eyes. She doesn’t bat an eyelid. I smile awkwardly, backing away, making sure the shirt covers as much of me as possible.
“Evening,” she says, looking past me. I turn to find James by the island, motionless, watching me wilting on the spot.
“Evening,” he says, his face straight, almost angry. “Give me a second.” He disappears up the stairs, leaving Goldie and me alone with a lingering, unbearable silence. Good grief, I can’t stand it. I reach for the tails of my shirt again and tug them down. She catches it, smiling out the corner of her mouth.
“Still being smart?” she asks, her smile turning wry.
I laugh under my breath as I back away. “What does your gut tell you?” I ask, motioning down my naked legs.
“I don’t listen to my gut. Only my head.”
“Okay. What does your head tell you?”
“It tells me to brace myself.”
I withdraw, surprised, my backward steps slowing to a stop. “Brace yourself?” What does she mean? “What for?”
“Here,” James says from behind me, interrupting. I swing around, finding he’s holding out a fancy briefcase to Goldie. The black leather is highly polished, the gold latches sparkling.
She takes it on a nod and goes back to the elevator. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she says dryly, giving James eyebrows so high they’re blending with her sharp hairline. I cast a look over to him. He’s not scowling at Goldie, but he’s not far from it.
“I will.” He heads to the kitchen, and Goldie dazzles me with a smile that’s as sarcastic as could be. Everything about the past few minutes is making me highly regret my silent vow to not ask questions.
“It’s time to feed you,” James says, opening the fridge and pulling out a dish. I look from him to the elevator doors a few times, my mind reeling. What exactly does Goldie do for James? She’s always just . . . here. And Otto? He’s no concierge, and he doesn’t work for a security firm. But security is definitely involved. My brain starts to burn.
“You know, I should probably go.” He wants to feed me, and what will we talk about, because I can think of nothing other than the millions of questions gathering at the front of my mind. Questions I should file away forever. But that’s the problem. My mom raised me to question everything. It’s innate. She taught me by osmosis how to put puzzles together, and it’s why I was a good cop. Something about this glass world that James hides within deserves a lot of questions, but I will resist. I’ll do anything to keep this . . . calm.
James slides the dish onto the counter, his move slow. Everything this man does, he does deliberately. Thoughtfully. His mind is reeling too. Which means I should definitely go. I head for the stairs, mentally locating my jeans, but I get no farther than the first step, my body jolting when it meets some resistance. I’m backed up against the wall a moment later, James’s bare chest compressed to mine, my eyes on his throat.
I’m shocked. Stunned. But I’m still breathless. “What are you doing?”
“Convincing you not to leave.” He bends a leg, running his knee up the inside of one thigh and forcing my legs apart.
“You could have just asked,” I breathe, my mind lost.
“I’m asking.” His hand creeps under my shirt and brushes across my flesh. I moan. “Are you staying?” His fingers drive high, and I whimper, pushing myself farther into the wall. “Because I believe I owe you an orgasm.”
“Yes.”
“Thought so.” He kisses my cheek and moves away, and I stumble forward with the sudden absence of his support. My hands meet his chest, his arm curling around my waist to catch me. I look up at him, my lips parted, my breathing shot. He blinks slowly, his lashes fanning his high cheekbones. “Shall we eat before I fuck you senseless again?”
Senseless. It’s apt. “I think you’ve chased away my sense for good.”
“Same,” he whispers, turning me in his arms and placing his hands on my shoulders. He guides me to the kitchen and puts me back on the stool, and I watch quietly as he makes his way around, collecting various things and placing them on the island. “Wine?” he asks.
“Why not,” I murmur. It’s not like alcohol could make me any more stupid. My rational side is warning me that I’m getting myself into something I shouldn’t be. But what? And yet my impulsive, desperate side is goading me, willing me to take the medicine James offers. I just hope that medicine doesn’t turn out to be poison.
Safety is just an illusion.
“Do you mind if I make a call?” I ask, accepting the glass he hands me.
“Do you need some privacy?”
I smile over the rim of my glass. Is that chivalry? “Yes.”
“I’ll take this to the couch. Join me when you’re done.” He starts collecting the plates and dishes from the island, and I follow his back across the vast space to the rug in front of the window.
I find my purse by the door and retrieve my cell, dialing Dexter. “Is he okay?” I ask when he answers.
“He is she right now, and she’s wailing like a banshee. Where are you, Beau?”
I look over my shoulder. James is on the rug, his back against the couch. “With a man.”
“Who is he?”
I don’t know. “Just . . . a man.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?
No. “I think so.”
Dexter sighs. “You think so?”
“Will you let him know I’m okay?”
“Are you? Okay?”
I don’t know. “Yes. Don’t wait up for me.” I don’t know if staying meant staying.
“Fine,” he breathes. “Be safe, Beau.”
I smile and hang up, making my way over to James. He looks up at me. “Everything okay?”
I nod and lower to the rug next to him, scanning the mini feast. “This is all very romantic.”
“Have you decided yet whether you hate me or want to fuck me?” he asks, and it’s tactical. James isn’t romantic. He’s simply feeding me. Then he’ll probably fuck me again.
I take a sip of my wine, ignoring his question. It’s been answered a few times now. But what will we talk about, since we don’t want to actually get to know each other? “How long have you lived here?” I ask, gazing around the glass box.
“Five years.”
“You were born in England.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been in the States?”
“Five years,” he answers swiftly, sounding wholly uninterested. “Who was that man?”
My wine glass pauses on its way back down to rest on my thigh, and I shake my head, silently telling him we’re not going there.
He regards me coolly. “A friend? A relative?”
“James—”
“An ex?”
“Okay, I’m going.” I stand and step over his legs,
going to find my jeans. We’ve got nothing to talk about. Nothing that falls into the safe box, anyway. This was a mistake.
“Going? Or running away?”
I screech to a stop, staring at the steps before me. He sounds so critical. I signed up for freedom, not condemnation. Picking up my feet, I keep moving, unwilling to get into a fight with a man I hardly know over something he has no clue about. I find my jeans and shoes and slip them on.
James is standing at the foot of the glass panel opposite the elevator when I get back downstairs, looking out across the city. I stop and take in his naked, mutilated back.
“You choose to run, Beau,” he says to the glass, before turning to face me. His hard stare could turn me to ashes. Does to an extent. This is the James I want. The one who fucks like an animal. The one who strips me of hate and replaces it with craving. The ice-cold man. “Maybe I’ll get tired of chasing you.”
“I’ve never asked you to chase me.”
“And there’s the problem with us,” he whispers, while my jaw ticks dangerously.
There are many problems. Many things we should ignore, except I’m finding that easier to do than him. Probably because I need this more than James. And that’s dangerous. It means I’m at his mercy. “And what is that, James? What’s the problem with us?”
“You think you have bigger secrets than I do.”
My mouth snaps shut, my legs taking me back a step.
My other name.
Do you, though, Beau?
I know there’s more to James than meets the eye, but I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been ignorant to it. Pushed my insane curiosity back, because, God help me, there is a lot more than meets the eye with me. Add the fact that knowing too much about him might find my lost sensibility, I’ve been, and will carry on being, blissfully ignorant. Until he ruined it. “You keep your secrets, James,” I say, turning and leaving. “And I’ll keep mine.”
“So you’re running again?”
I pause. “This isn’t running. This is choosing to walk in an alternate direction.” I don’t look back.
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 16
