Wounded Hearts

by Julia Sykes

  “That’s still impressive for only six years. And you’re a bestseller. That’s incredible.”

  I ducked my head. “I haven’t hit New York Times,” I muttered, deflecting the praise. I’d never been great at accepting compliments, and I often suffered from imposter syndrome in my career.

  “I’m sure you will. You’re really talented.”

  I made an unladylike snort. “I write smut.”

  His fingers firmed around my knee, calling my attention to him. I realized I’d been staring at a spot on the wall, but his touch drew my eyes back to his.

  “Is that really what you think?” he pressed, his pale gaze staring straight through me.

  “No,” I admitted, the truth tumbling out. “I actually hate when people call it that. I work really hard to create complex characters and compelling stories. I’m just used to people making jibes about it. Most people outside the romance community don’t take my job seriously.”

  “You’ve accomplished so much. You should be proud.”

  Proud. I tried not to flinch.

  Thomas had told me he was proud of me. He’d said it often. Right before he’d tell me that I was neglecting him because I worked too hard; he’d tell me that my job kept me from satisfying him sexually. In the last days of our marriage, he’d told me the reason he’d been depressed for years was because I hadn’t fucked him frequently or enthusiastically enough.

  Now, if someone said they were proud of me, I’d hear a lie in the words. I didn’t believe a declaration of pride could come without some emotional consequence.

  “What’s wrong?” Scott asked, his brows drawing together.

  I flipped my hair over my shoulder, a falsely nonchalant gesture. “I just have mixed feelings about what I do. I love my job, but I know not everyone understands it. Most people think it’s silly.”

  I tried not to watch him too incisively as I anticipated his response.

  His jaw firmed. “Who thinks it’s silly?”

  I breathed a small sigh of relief. He didn’t think my career was something to be derided.

  Did that mean he wouldn’t misjudge me and think I was an easy slut?

  “Well, people in my hometown think it’s silly, for one,” I admitted. “I’ve tried to keep my pen name secret from them, but I know people gossip about me.”

  “Is that why you moved back to England last year? You sold your house in Georgia when you first applied for your U.K. visa,” he stated, reminding me how much he already knew about me.

  “That’s part of the reason I wanted to move. I changed a lot in my twenties. Traveling and living abroad changed me. I tried to move back to Savannah, but it didn’t feel like home anymore. York felt like home.”

  I didn’t say that my childhood home lay in ruins, a painful symbol of my torn family. I hadn’t been able to drive through that part of town in years.

  I shook off the dark thought, putting on my signature bright smile. “York is absolutely wonderful, isn’t it?” I gushed. “All the history here. It’s amazing.”

  Scott nodded, but he didn’t return my smile. His eyes continued to study me, as though trying to puzzle out my true emotions.

  I decided I preferred when he looked at me the way he had in Nashville: like I was confident and composed, without a care in the world. I liked being that fantasy woman. Not this broken, anxious mess of a person who could barely get out of bed by midafternoon.

  I took another long gulp of my drink. When I set the glass back down, it was nearly empty.

  Scott sipped at his own gin, not saying anything for a moment.

  “You get to travel a lot for your work,” he finally said, a statement of fact. “I saw your signing schedule on your website. You must enjoy seeing new places.”

  I enjoy running away from reality.

  Like so many other unpleasant truths, I kept that one locked inside.

  “I love to travel,” I confirmed. “I love having adventures and meeting new people. It’s great for my writing, because I’m learning new things about different cities and lifestyles all the time.”

  He cocked his head at me. “Lifestyles. That’s what you call it, isn’t it? In your books. That’s how you refer to people who are into BDSM.”

  My heartbeat ticked up a notch. Now, we were finally getting to the content of my books, the deviant secrets he’d read on the pages: I liked to be tied up, spanked, and bossed around in the bedroom.

  Would he understand the true value I found in giving up control and comprehend the beauty in the trust of a power exchange? Or would he see me as an easy floozy?

  “Yeah,” I replied, curling my fingers in my lap to hide their trembling. “That’s what we call it. The lifestyle.”

  “We? So, you consider yourself to be part of this lifestyle?”

  I squirmed. “Well, yes. I thought I’d told you that. You know. In Nashville.”

  “I thought you just wanted kinky sex. But what I read in your books… That’s more than just kinky sex. You’re submissive, right?”

  I lifted my chin, a little defiant. “Yes. I’m a sub. But that doesn’t mean I’m easy. That’s not what the D/s dynamic is about.”

  “I know. I think I have a better understanding of it now. That night, I thought you wanted me to hurt you. I couldn’t do that. I can’t.” His voice roughened, the fine lines on his face deepening.

  If anything, it would be safer if you tied me up. I remembered what he’d said; I remembered the way he’d paled when I’d asked him to pin me down, pull my hair, and spank me.

  I covered his hand with mine where it still rested on my knee, drawn to comfort him. “I understand.” I imbued the two words with as much weight as I could muster, even though they were spoken softly.

  He leaned toward me, closing the slight distance between us. He paused when his lips were a mere inch from mine. His intoxicating scent suffused the air around me.

  “I want you,” he murmured, sounding almost pained. “I know I’m not what you want. I understand that now. But I can’t stop thinking about that night. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

  My breath stuttered. He wasn’t looking at me like I was a piece of meat, a conquest. His pale eyes still shone with the reverent light they’d held on that magical night in Nashville. Despite the fact that he’d learned my darker sexual proclivities and researched my life, he was still looking at me like I was his fantasy woman.

  “I think about you, too,” I admitted on a whisper. “A lot.”

  “Why? I’m not right for you. I’m not good.” The last was barely audible.

  My heart ached for him, and the same sense of protectiveness I’d felt for him that night in Nashville surged through me. I placed my hands on his cheeks, touching his face with tenderness as I speared him with a determined gaze.

  “You are good,” I swore. “I know you are. I might not know anything about you, but you were right. I saw you in Nashville. You let me see you. And you’re a good man.”

  His eyes tightened with yearning just before his mouth crashed down on mine. A soft moan left my chest at the decadent contact. My memories didn’t come close to the reality of his lips caressing mine. His hand slid into my hair, cupping the back of my head as he pulled me closer. I opened for him, inviting him to deepen the kiss as my arms wrapped around his shoulders to embrace him tightly. His tongue slid against mine with the same confidence that had intoxicated me on the passionate night we’d shared all those months ago. He might not be pulling at my hair and demanding that I surrender my mouth to him, but he knew how to seduce a woman. I remembered how his tongue had felt against my pussy, and I shivered in his hold as my core pulsed.

  A low whistle made me jolt away from him. The bartender had come to collect empty glasses, and he’d not-so-subtly broken up our lewd display.

  Scott’s fingers laced through mine. “Let’s get out of here,” he urged.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  His flame-blue eyes burned into me. “Your place.�
��

  I licked my lips. “Okay,” I agreed breathily. “We can go back to my place. I have a bottle of prosecco in the fridge.”

  “Sounds delicious.” His heated stare let me know he wasn’t talking about the bubbly. “Lead the way.”

  I willed my shaking legs to support me as I stood and headed for the exit. Scott’s hand settled at my lower back as he followed me out into the night, a promise in the familiar, assured touch.

  We were going to have sex tonight. I wasn’t sure if he’d be able to dominate me in the way I usually craved, but the connection I felt with him went deeper than physical desire. For one more sweet night, I’d hold this damaged man in my arms, and he would hold me.

  Chapter 4

  We walked along the illuminated path that ran alongside the River Ouse to reach my flat. The night was chilly, but Scott’s body heat kept the cool air from kissing my skin. I could hardly believe he was with me, his strong arm wrapped around my waist as we walked through my favorite city in the entire world. It was surreal. Magical.

  I sighed, enjoying a rare moment of contentment as I watched the clouds move over the moon, leaving the city in silhouette.

  “So, you have a place here?” he asked.

  “No. I’m renting an Airbnb.”

  “But you have an apartment in Chicago?” The question was a casual inquiry, but it cut deep.

  I did have an apartment in Chicago, but that wasn’t my home. I’d tried to learn to ignore my sense of homelessness in the months since clawing my way back from rock bottom.

  “Yeah,” I replied with a shrug. “I have a place there, but I’ve barely been there since I moved back to America. I like to travel.”

  I didn’t mention that I couldn’t trust myself to be alone in that cold, utilitarian space. The contents of my pill bottles tempted me far too often. I had to keep myself surrounded by other people, so I didn’t give in to my burgeoning sense that my life was pointless. Sometimes, giving up seemed far easier than carrying on in pain and hopelessness.

  I forced a laugh and shoved the listlessness away before it could rise up. “I’m kind of a nomad.” I made my familiar offhand joke. “The world is my home. I want to see as much of it as possible.”

  Scott paused, catching me around the waist with his firm arms. He caged me in, capturing me in his incisive blue stare even more effectively than his muscular body trapped me. My breath caught in my throat as he studied me, and my false humor melted away. I felt exposed, raw. He was staring straight into my soul, but I couldn’t seem to break away. I couldn’t hide from him.

  “I don’t have a home, either,” he murmured after several long seconds.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied faintly. I didn’t want him to see me like this: broken and bleeding inside. I wanted him to look at me like his fantasy woman again: whole, carefree, perfectly confident and content.

  His fingers curved into my waist, and a shiver rolled through me.

  “You do know,” he countered levelly. “You don’t have to talk to me about it, but I want you to know that I understand.”

  “What about Minnesota?” I tried to distract him from my damage.

  He grimaced. “I’m from Colorado.”

  “Oh.” Of course he’d lied to me about where he was from. He’d lied about almost everything.

  But any hurt his deception might have inflicted was mitigated by the fact that he’d just told me a single, simple truth about himself.

  No. It wasn’t simple. He might be admitting where he was truly from, but he was sharing something much deeper with me.

  I don’t have a home, either.

  I reached up and caressed his cheek, smoothing away the tension in his face with a brush of my fingers.

  “You travel a lot, too,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Yeah.” The word was terse, but he leaned into my touch.

  “Do you ever get to go back to Colorado?”

  “I go back to see my family sometimes. But it’s not home. Not anymore.”

  I stroked his brow, trying to ease the furrow that creased it. “I understand,” I admitted. “I feel the same way about Georgia. I’ve…changed. I don’t seem to fit anywhere anymore.” My eyes burned, but I swallowed back my tears. “Well, except York. But I’m not allowed to live here.”

  “You gave up your visa.” He reminded me that he already knew so much about my life.

  A strangled laugh that held no humor caught in my throat. “Well, I wasn’t going to stay in my marriage just for a visa. That didn’t seem like the right thing to do.”

  “You mean legally? Or morally?” he prodded me, poking at the wounds I usually hid beneath a bright exterior.

  “It was what was best for me.” I didn’t want to say more. I didn’t want to taint this night with ugly words about what Thomas had put me through, about the sick hold he’d had over me. I’d had to escape, or I never would have been truly free of him. I’d still be beholden to him, and I couldn’t allow that kind of toxicity to continue crushing my spirit, grinding me down over long years of callousness and cruel manipulation.

  Scott simply nodded, allowing me to hold in my darkest secrets. He clearly wasn’t willing to divulge his, either. For tonight, it was enough for us to hold each other. To feel connected. To be told we were good people who deserved tenderness. We both needed it, just as desperately as we’d craved it on that night in Nashville.

  “My flat is just a few minutes down this road,” I prompted, breaking away from the painful conversation.

  He leaned down and brushed a kiss on my forehead before pulling back. I hated the cool air that closed over me in the absence of his embrace, but I knew we’d be hot soon enough, our sweat-slicked bodies entwined.

  I started to direct us toward our destination once again, my heart slowly lifting with each step. There was no reason to be coy or play games. The need that pulsed between us was palpable, and neither of us would deny it.

  One night with him in Nashville had helped keep my demons at bay for months. I hadn’t seriously contemplated ending my life since then, even if the idea no longer unnerved me the way it should. Sharing another passionate night with him might be enough to keep me going. He’d reminded me that I could do something good for another human being, that I could impact another life in a meaningful way. That was reason for continuing to exist, even if I didn’t feel like I was worth living for.

  He gripped my hand more tightly, his thumb stroking my palm. He didn’t ask what was bothering me, but I preferred it that way. I wanted another sweet night of bliss, not an emotional breakdown. That sense of quiet understanding settled over us once again, just as it had on our first night together. We needed to be touched, held. We didn’t need to share hard truths to understand one another’s souls.

  My hand was steady when I unlocked the door to my flat. I wasn’t remotely nervous or hesitant about my decision. I craved to feel his bare skin sliding against mine, his cock stretching me and penetrating deep inside.

  “I’ll go pop that prosecco,” I offered when he locked the door behind us.

  He tugged at my hand, pulling my body against his. “I don’t want any prosecco. I just want you.”

  My back bumped against the wall, and he pressed his weight into me, pinning me in place. I gasped, taken off guard by his sudden domineering treatment. He hadn’t been remotely aggressive before, despite the commanding, confident way he’d handled my body.

  My core instantly heated, and my nipples pebbled against the silky material of my dress. I wasn’t wearing a bra, and the stimulation of the stiff peaks rubbing against his hard chest was enough to make me shudder.

  His big hands bracketed my face, and his mouth descended on mine, kissing me like a man who had me exactly where he wanted me.

  And I was exactly where I wanted to be: back in his arms.

  Fire ignited in my belly, and my fingers fumbled at the buttons of his shirt without thought. My body acted on ins
tinct, desperate to get him naked so I could revel in skin-to-skin contact.

  His hands slid into my hair, tightening in the fine strands as he tore his mouth away. He rested his forehead against mine, his heavy breaths teasing across my lips. I tried to drop my head back and invite him to claim me again, but his fingers firmed around my head.

  “Wait,” he murmured. “I need to know that you want this. I need to know that you want me.”

  “Of course I want you.” How could he possibly think otherwise?

  His expression drew tight with indecision. “I know I can’t be how you want me to be. You write about women being restrained and punished. You said you live that lifestyle. I can’t be that way with you. I can’t hurt you.”

  I stopped plucking at his buttons and rested my palms flat against his chest. “You won’t hurt me. I know you won’t.”

  The lines around his eyes deepened. “But you want me to. You asked me to spank you and pull your hair and hold you down. I just can’t do that. Not after… Not after the things I’ve seen.”

  Grief for him welled in my chest. I couldn’t begin to imagine the terrible things he’d seen, but I understood why he couldn’t be sexually aggressive with me.

  “That’s okay,” I promised. “Nashville was the best sex of my life, and you didn’t hurt me then. Not at all.” I still marveled over the fact that vanilla sex hadn’t hurt, but the chemistry between us was undeniable. “I won’t lie and say I don’t like a little pain with my pleasure,” I continued quietly. “But I don’t expect that from you. I don’t want you to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

  “But why? Why would you want a man to hurt you? I live my life the way I do so I can protect people like you. I can’t imagine causing you pain.”

  “I know it’s hard to understand, but I’ve always been this way.” I didn’t need to go into the details of why I was into kink. Chemical imbalances in my brain and childhood scars weren’t what I wanted to talk about right now.

  “I still can’t hurt you. Not like you want. I’m not that man.”

  “Let me show you,” I whispered.