And maybe I’m a fucking dickhead.
38
BEAU
When we arrive back at James’s apartment, my mind hasn’t quieted down, and James and I still haven’t murmured a word to each other. He’s still brooding, I’m still fucking curious, and Goldie is at the desk in the foyer, her head down as we pass. I drill holes into her, willing her to look up, to face me. She doesn’t. And James doesn’t even bother asking if she was at the opera house this evening. Because he knows she was.
Curiosity. Suspiciousness. I don’t want to feel either, but it’s the lost cop in me. Or is it simply James?
I’m put in the elevator, and as it carries us to James’s glass box, he starts unraveling the knot of his tie, staring forward. I can’t deny the bang between my legs. Or my shortness of breath. Even moody, he’s stunning. Even when he’s not touching me, anticipation is churning my stomach. Even feeling enormously uncertain, I still want him.
The doors open, but neither of us exit, and he slowly drags his tie from around his neck, still staring forward. “Take off your dress,” he says quietly, starting to roll the material of his tie into a tight coil, his focus never wavering from the space before him.
Crazy as it is, mad as I feel, there’s only one way for us to speak in this moment.
I step out of the elevator and drop my purse to the floor as I walk, reaching back for the zip of my dress and dragging it down. I come to a stop at the foot of the stairs and pull my arms out of the sleeves, letting the lace plummet to the floor and pool on my strappy shoes. I step out of it, everything inside of me thrumming, but everything completely stable as I climb the steps one by one, feeling him close behind me. Following. “Take off your suit,” I murmur, removing my bra and dropping it on the steps.
Naked.
I cast my hungry gaze over my shoulder. He’s halfway up. Bare-chested. His face a masterpiece of craving. His torso a blanket of dense muscle.
He comes to a stop, kicking off his shoes, letting them tumble down the steps to the bottom. Then he starts working his fly, his stare concentrated, burning through me, his lips straight, his cheeks hollow. I return my eyes forward and pick up my feet, taking myself to his bedroom. I push the door open and gaze around. To the wall. To the cabinet. To the bed.
Cold Water Music by Aim is suddenly pouring from the speakers, drenching the space. My shoulders roll, and I swallow.
Talking.
Without talking.
I pad across the carpet and crawl up the sheets, turning onto my back and settling, my legs bent, my heels pressed into the mattress. He appears at the door, pushing his trousers down his thighs, and his eyes fall to between my legs. I slide my hand down my stomach, scissor my fingers, and glide them across my flesh, bowing my back subtly. His trousers and boxers hit the floor. My desire hits the roof. His cock, weeping and hard, juts from his groin proudly. Circling the base with a palm, he draws a slow stroke down his shaft on a loud inhale, and I moan at the sight of him, as well as the slippery friction I’m creating myself, my nerves sizzling. I don’t know what I’m doing. Why I’m doing it. It’s all just happening, and I have no inclination to stop it, or to even take a moment and consider the consequences. Because by doing that, I’ll be kicking off a war between my body and my mind, and I’m truly scared which one will come out the other side in one piece. I’m here. James is here. The insane chemistry is here.
We’re both at its mercy.
My body starts to tense, my fingers hardening, my strokes building in rhythm. And in response, James starts to thrust his fist faster. His expression is firm in its indifference, but his body is communicating, screaming, telling me he’s as desperate as me. As hungry as me.
As broken as me.
I can feel my walls beginning to swell, the pressure building, the blood pumping relentlessly, as I work myself up higher, my view unrivaled, the sight of him doing more than my own touch ever could. His stomach is steel. His face is straining. His biceps bulging.
He’s going to come.
My lips part, and I take my spare hand to my boob, grabbing it roughly, crying out. I begin to writhe on the sheets, my heels sinking deeper into the mattress, my hips starting to thrust up. James hisses through his teeth, taking the doorframe for support, struggling to remain upright, his pumping becoming violent. My eyes climb his body until they reach his face.
And his eyes.
The entrance to the land of freedom.
To another me.
My orgasm hits, and my world explodes around me, my body out of control, shaking, jacking, my cries long and deafening. I remove my touch on a sharp inhale, the sensitivity too much, as I’m riddled with endless stabs of pleasure, the force of them crippling.
James convulses, his shoulders jerking, his bark labored. “Fuck, Beau,” he wheezes, his fingers clawing around the doorjamb, his body folding, as he watches me watching him come undone. He looks like he could collapse at any moment, but I can’t remove my eyes from his to check the stability of his legs. I expect they’re wobbling. I know I am. I’m shaking to my core. Blitzed. Falling apart but together.
He turns into the door, resting his forehead on his arm, breathing erratically. James Kelly post orgasm is a hypnotic sight. James in his magnificent, naked, trembling glory. And I did that. I made him fall apart.
The power I feel in this moment—not helplessness, not dependance, not pain—is as dangerous as the sense of escape he provides.
Full control.
And I haven’t had full control in years. Not of my body, my emotions, or my pain.
I turn my head on the pillow and gaze out of the endless glass, to the world beyond. A world I never thought could be good for me again. A world I thought I couldn’t fit into. But in this glass box, I fit, and it feels good, irrespective of the secrets shrouding us.
“You said you wanted to get to know me,” I say to the dusky skyline, my body still rolling in the aftermath of my release.
“I do.”
“What about other people?” I turn my head, finding him still propped up by the door, his head still buried in the crook of his arm. “Do you want to get to know other people?”
“No.”
“What about fucking them? Do you want to fuck other people?”
Silence.
I don’t know how we arrived at this moment, but it’s time to share some truths. “I saw you,” I say, my voice strong. Unashamed.
More silence, leaving my statement hanging heavy in the air. I don’t need to extend. He knows what I’m talking about.
I watch him using too much effort to stand on his own, pushing his body off the doorjamb. “I know,” he finally says, facing me.
“How?”
He turns, giving me his disfigured back, and walks away, not telling me to follow. But as I’m learning with James, he doesn’t need to speak for me to understand him. I edge to the side of the bed and reach down to unfasten my shoes, kicking them off and following him. He enters his office, and by the time I make it to the threshold, his naked body is propped against one of the windowpanes. He points at the wall of screens. I’m filling them. Every single one of them is the same footage of me. And I’m standing in the doorway to his bedroom watching him fuck that woman. I don’t know if I’m immune to shock now, but I feel nothing. No surprise. No annoyance. He’s known this whole time.
“Why do you do it?” I ask, looking away from the TVs.
“Release. Wildness. The thrill.” He picks up the remote control and points it at the wall, and the images of me standing in the doorway to his bedroom are replaced by images of me sprawled on his bed at the peak of an orgasm. Five minutes ago. “But my past encounters,” he says quietly, “pale compared to what’s on these screens now.” I feel him approaching, and he takes my naked hips, holding me.
“You have cameras everywhere?” I turn my eyes up to the ceiling, scanning, but I see nothing.
“They’re hidden.”
“Why?” Surely if this was
a security issue, he’d have them on full display to deter people.
“They’re an eyesore.”
“That’s not the reason,” I reply without thought.
“No, it’s not.” He circles me, putting his imposing, hard body before me, and I tilt my head back to look at him. Now, I am surprised. I don’t know how I knew he wasn’t being honest, but I knew. And that’s adding to the scary that’s building. “But you don’t want to know my secrets,” he reminds me quietly. “You just want this.” His fingertip meets my nipple, and they’re immediately hard for him. I inhale, my knees instantly weak. “Don’t you, Beau?”
Confusing emotion creeps up on me. I feel like he’s holding me hostage. Playing with me. “I don’t know what I should want.”
He removes his touch, and it’s painful. So painful. “I’m not stopping you from leaving.”
Is he for real? “Yes, you are,” I breathe, my voice wobbly. “You know exactly what you’re fucking doing, and I don’t know why you’re doing it.” I need to get out of here. Collect my thoughts. Find space to find reason. I back up toward the door, mentally locating all my things as I go.
“Beau?” he says.
“If I go now, will you leave me alone?”
“No.” He reaches for me, and I swipe my arm out fast, knocking his intended touch away.
“Why, James? Why won’t you leave me alone?”
“Because you need me.”
Infuriation flames. I can’t control it, but I keep backing up. “And what about you? What do you need?”
“I need you to stop fucking running.”
I halt at the door, incensed. “Then start being honest with me!” I don’t know what I’m saying, anger fueling me, driving me.
“You want that?” he asks. “Do you, Beau? Because I already tried being honest with you, and I’ve spent the rest of the evening trying to stop you from walking away from me.”
“Then stop trying,” I say calmly, turning and hurrying away, not knowing what the fuck I’m doing. Do I want to go? Do I want to stay? My head is a fucked-up mess of I-don’t-knows.
I reach the stairs and grasp the handrail, my feet taking the steps fast. I only make it halfway down before my wrist is seized and I’m swung around. Pain radiates up my arm, his hot skin heating my wounds, and I hiss. I expect him to drop his hold. He doesn’t. I expect him to apologize. He doesn’t. I look up at him, damn tears clouding my vision.
“Maybe you’re right, Beau.” He takes a few steps down, maintaining his hold, until he’s looking up at me. “Let’s just fuck. Every morning. Every evening. All fucking day, let’s just fuck.”
“Fuck you,” I whisper, my treacherous body singing for him. Begging. “So you can build a library of videos of us?”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when I got you off while we watched it together. I bet you weren’t complaining when you fucked yourself with your fingers when you watched it alone.”
I blink, looking away.
“Don’t turn away from me.” He grabs my cheeks and forces my face to his. His eyes are raging. His body poised, ready to pounce. “It’s time to show your hand, Beau. What do you want from me?”
“Escape.”
“Why?”
My teeth grind under his fierce grip. “I want escape, and I don’t want to be forced into explaining why. What do you want from me, James?”
“Peace.”
I recoil, stunned, and my eyes fall to his shoulder where his scarred skin ends and the perfect, flawless flesh of his chest begins. “What happened to you?” I whisper.
“I got caught up in an explosion.”
My body jolts, staggering back, and I grab the handrail to keep me upright. James’s hand falls from my face, and I gaze at him, shocked to my core. An explosion. My arm is suddenly burning, my head invaded by screams. And in James’s eyes, I see a replay of the scene, of frantic people running, escaping the fireballs bursting up to the nighttime sky. Escaping the vicinity of the car I’d got out of only ten minutes before. The car where my mom burned to nothing. I look at my scar that pales in comparison to the beast coating James’s back. And shame grabs me. Shame I can’t bear. “How?” I whisper.
He removes himself, stepping down a few more stairs, putting too much space between us. “Right place, wrong time,” he replies stoically, and I can see with perfect clarity that he’s struggling to talk. Which begs the question why he’s been so adamant about sharing secrets. “Do you want to know more?” he asks, offering to kill my curiosity with information that I honestly don’t know if I want. Or, selfishly, can handle. And, again, will I be expected to reciprocate?
I know nothing right now, nothing at all. Except one thing. I extend my hand, my lip quivering, and wait for him to accept it, and he does, slowly, watching as our bodies come together again, albeit only our hands. It doesn’t matter. It’s still earthmoving. I move in, taking the steps down to meet him, and curl my arm around his neck, burying my face there. It’s not an answer to his question. James knows that. I’m simply instigating what we both need. To give each other control.
He slips his forearm under my ass, lifts me to him, and carries me back to his room, placing me gently on his bed. He crawls up, spreading his body over mine, and my hands circle his back and stroke over his scars as he draws faint lines up and down my damaged arm.
I doze off to the sound of James’s light breathing close to my ear, his lips on my throat.
His soul blending with mine.
39
BEAU
I wake with my cheek on James’s chest, the sun rising over the buildings, the weight of my thoughts still heavy on my mind. I gently ease myself up, being careful not to wake him, and I stand at the edge of his bed watching him. He looks so peaceful. So serene. Every muscle on his face is relaxed, smooth, nothing cutting his features or tarnishing his handsomeness. Last night, something altered between us. Understanding. Yet, ironically, I don’t think either of us know what we’re trying to understand.
Pulling my eyes away from him, I find a T-shirt and pull it on as I go down to the kitchen, collecting my strewn clothes and purse as I pass, checking my cell, certain I’ll have plenty of missed calls from Lawrence. I’m wrong. There’s nothing. My mind wanders to the standoff outside the house last night, to my uncle’s face. The disappointment. The judgment.
I sigh, flicking on the coffee machine, looking out of the window, following the path of a bird as it flies across the tops of some nearby buildings, gliding gracefully, swooping and climbing. Swooping and climbing. So free.
The machine churns in the background, and I rest my forearms on the counter, my eyes circling, following the bird. Its moves seem to become more elaborate, its swoops lower, its loops bigger, like it’s aware I’m watching. My own private performance.
I’m mesmerized.
And then the coffee machine beeps, and I’m yanked from my trance, seeing steam rising and dissipating. I look back to the view. The bird is gone. Flown away.
Fly away.
I glance around the kitchen, to the endless frosted glass cupboards, and start opening them in search of cups. The first reveals stacks of glass plates and bowls. The second endless glasses. The third glass coffee cups. Glass. So much glass, so much transparency. Is it indicative of the man asleep upstairs?
I got caught up in an explosion.
I feel awful for wishing he hadn’t told me. It makes it all too real. Makes me more curious. It also deepens the connection that I’m feeling, and that’s not good. His burn is of a similar severity as mine, but bigger. So much bigger. A deep partial thickness burn. One layer of skin away from destroying nerve-endings. I often thought that would have been a blessing. No nerves, no pain. Instead, we both endured excruciating agony, and now unsightly scars. We’re the same.
I bite my lip, pondering that, as I make two coffees, finding my way around his kitchen with relative ease. When I make it back to the bedroom, James is still sound asleep. I place his cup on the nig
htstand and take mine to the window. I feel like an ant, surrounded by giant buildings. Not seen. But so very exposed.
I hear movement behind me and turn with my cup to my lips, finding James propped up against the headboard. I smile mildly over my coffee. He swallows, casting his eyes to the side, finding his own. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, raking a hand through his bedhead before reaching for his cup.
“Too good.” I pad over and settle on the side of the bed, unable to resist a leisurely jaunt with my eyes up his bare chest. “You?”
He takes a sip of his drink, resting back. “Too good,” he replies, taking me in, quietly observant. “What are you doing today?”
“I don’t know. What are you doing?”
He releases a hand from his cup and takes one of mine, caressing the back of it slowly. “I have a few errands to run. You could hang out here if you like.”
“I should probably go make peace with my uncle.”
His lips twist a fraction, but he nods, if mildly. “And later?”
I study him, unable to hold back a small smile. I feel like he’s taking the long route to where he wants to be. Where I want to be too. “Would you like to do something?” I ask, looking at his thumb circling the top of my hand.
“Like?”
“Opera we won’t watch,” I say, peeking up for his reaction.
“Or dinner we won’t eat?” Naturally, there’s no reference to Goldie. “Or asking questions we won’t answer.” He hitches a brow, and I discreetly roll my eyes, pulling my hand free and standing, setting my cup down.
“I saw that,” he says lowly.
“You were supposed to,” I counter, heading into his bathroom. “What errands do you have to run?” I ask, the question falling out of my mouth. I stop at the threshold of his bathroom and frown to myself. I can feel his eyes on my back. “Never mind.”
“I have a safety deposit account I need to close,” he says, almost tentatively.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t need it anymore.”
The Enigma: Unlawful Men Book 2 Page 21
