by Ryan, Lexi
The locker room is large. One wall is covered by a mirror over three sinks. The other has a couple dozen wooden lockers. I drop my purse on the bench by the lockers and follow the hall back. There are three showers, all clean, with white towels folded on racks between them. Beyond the showers is the steam room. I hear the hiss of the steam before I see it.
I pull open the foggy glass door and am hit by a hot puff of steam. Biting my lip, I scan the tile walls, the chairs, and the two-tiered bench along the back wall. He wants me to wait in here for him. Is this something we do a lot?
I have to let out a slow breath as my imagination runs wild at the idea of waiting here naked for Max. Or better, Max joining me naked.
He’s going to expect me to have sex. I mean, of course—that only makes sense. Engaged couples have sex. I’m nervous. No, I’m terrified. No matter how many times I had sex in the last months, I don’t remember it, so I might as well still be the virgin I was at the time of my last memory.
After talking to Nate tonight, I’m not worried he’ll be bothering me or running to Max. I should be happy. My secret is safe, and I can focus on my upcoming marriage.
So why does the idea of having sex with my fiancé feel like cheating?
Pushing aside the thought, I go back to the lockers to strip out of my clothes. A towel secured under my arms, I return to the steam room and step in this time.
Sinking into a chair, I lean back and close my eyes as the heat relaxes my muscles and quiets my mind.
I drift off to sleep, and just as my dreams tug me under, my mind skates along the edge of a memory—Max and me in the gym before we started dating. I asked him to be my trainer. It’s there, a memory as clear as the ones I never lost, and I wrap myself in the comfort of it. Me. Max. No affairs. No angry rockers with broken hearts.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” someone whispers in my ear.
My muscles are so relaxed, I don’t want to move. I stretch my arms and legs, and my towel falls to my waist as I open my eyes.
“Oh, damn, Hanna.” Max stands before me, his chest bare, a towel tied around his hips. I can’t quite make out his face in the steam, but I don’t need to see his expression to know he wants me. Desire radiates off every water molecule in the room—a breath held and waiting for release.
I extend my stretch, arching my back in a move that thrusts my breasts toward him.
“Sorry it took me longer than I expected.” His voice sounds strained as he offers his hand. “I had a new client come in just as I was trying to lock up.”
I take his hand and stand, but when I reach to grab my fallen towel, he holds me fast.
“Please don’t,” he says.
Maybe I’d be self-conscious in another setting, but here in the steam, I turn sexy and wanton under his gaze. I feel nothing but determination under the weight of the unwanted ache in my heart while talking to Nate. Determination to prove to myself that this is the man I love—no one else.
With that first recovered memory in my grasp, I’m hopeful for the first time in days. I drop my gaze to his towel and arch a brow. “I sense a double standard.”
He groans and drops his mouth to mine. His kiss is long and slow and thorough. He tastes like cinnamon gum and strokes his tongue against mine as he cups my breast in his hand.
“I believe it’s my turn to touch you,” he whispers against my lips. His thumb rolls over my nipple in the slow, sensuous motion of a man who plans to take his time. “And touching you in here ranks high on my list of fantasies.”
I curl my nails into his back and nip at his bottom lip. Because I don’t want him to take his time. I want him to touch me and kiss me until I’ve forgotten the sound of Nate’s voice, until I’m so sure of our love and our future that my anxiety fades.
With his free hand, Max cups my other breast and treats it to the same slow torture.
“Max,” I whimper, arching toward him, wanting more.
“How was the party?”
“What?”
His lips curl into a smile. “God, I love that I can make you lose your mind like that.”
I slide my hands into his hair. “You can. You do.”
Trailing kisses down my neck and over my collarbone, he makes his way to my breast and opens his mouth over my nipple. Slow, steady, achingly meticulous, he circles it with his tongue before pulling it into his mouth. My breasts grow heavier with every stroke of his tongue, the ache between my thighs more insistent. The steam has set my senses on fire, and the brush of his knuckles down my side is as thrilling as the first time a boy went up my shirt.
Just when I think I’m going to have to beg for more, he takes my nipple into his mouth and sucks—long and hard. My knees go weak and he has to hold me tight as I slip in his arms.
“Come over here,” he murmurs. He leads me to the tiered benches and takes a seat on the bottom row. His erection is thick and tall under the towel, but when I reach to uncover it, he stops my hand. “Leave it. You tempt me too much.”
“But I like touching you,” I object.
“You like making me lose my mind.”
A giggle slips from my lips. “It’s a nice feeling.”
“Come here.” He tugs me forward until I’m straddling him, the hard length of his cock needy and glorious between my legs. As he returns his mouth to my breasts, sucking and licking in turn, I rock against him. My thighs squeeze him as the sensation of his mouth on my breasts mixes with the pressure of his erection through the towel.
His hands slide around me and over my ass, kneading the flesh of my cheeks as his mouth works at my breasts.
Whimpering, I arch my back and shift my hips just so, and suddenly pleasure snaps through me like a whip. My hips want to rock, to circle, to grind against his length, but I force them to still.
“Move against me,” he commands. “I want to feel you move.”
The friction of the towel against my swollen clit is almost too much, almost uncomfortable, but it’s a good kind of discomfort, and his cock swells bigger and more insistent between my thighs. I don’t know if I could stop if I wanted to. Unless it was for something different. Something more. How easy would it be for him to move this towel and slide into me right now? My fear is gone, replaced by red-hot aching need. Doesn’t he want it as much as I do? Maybe he doesn’t have protection with him.
I can’t think on the question for long before his hand is back at my breast, kneading and massaging. It takes my breath. Then he sucks me hard and mercilessly into his mouth and I buck against him. I circle my hips and rock, circle and rock. I’m so close to that edge, and as much as my body begs to slide over it, I don’t want this to end.
Max grips my hip and rises off the bench to add another ounce of pressure between my legs. I cry out. In pleasure. In frustration. I need more.
“Please.” My plea echoes against the walls.
He shifts us so quickly that he’s moved me before I know what’s happening. He lifts me onto the higher bench. I immediately miss the promise of him between my legs.
He sinks down as he spreads me open with a hand against each thigh. Then I’m open and exposed to him and his lips are close, the hot steam and his breath mingling and sweeping over my sensitive sex.
At first, his touch is tentative, his fingers tracing my folds before dipping into me. I bite my lip to hold back my cry, but then he lowers his mouth and wraps his lips around my clit at the same moment he slides two fingers inside me, demanding more with his touch. His fingers pump as his tongue strokes. Hungry, greedy.
Then, when I’m so full of tight-winding pleasure that I think I need to pull back, he takes my ankle and props my foot on the bench beside my hip. I’m stretched open and his fingers curl and coax and his lips wrap around my clit, and I can’t stop myself from rocking into his face, fucking his fingers the way I want him to fuck me. I can’t hold on anymore. I’m flying, falling, disintegrating until I’m nothing but the hot steam around us.
I’M CURLED up against Max as h
e traces my spine with his fingertips and presses kisses along my hairline.
“Do we do this a lot?” I murmur against his chest.
He laughs, a silent chuckle I can feel more than hear. “Which part?”
“The steam room?”
“Never before, but I think we will now. In fact, I think I’ll save my pennies so we can get one installed in our future home.”
“Our home,” I say, testing the words. “I like the sound of that.”
“Me too.” His voice is hoarse.
“Where will we live after we get married?”
“We hadn’t really talked about it, but if it’s between my tiny apartment above the club and your tiny apartment above the bakery, we should probably go with your place.”
I frown. “I thought you had a house?” Not that I remember ever being there, but I remember seeing him work in the lawn of a tiny ranch off Main.
“I sold it. I was never there anyway.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and cups my face in his hand. “I can’t give you anything fancy yet, but I will. Whatever you want. I’ll make it happen.”
“I don’t need fancy. Just you.”
He wraps his arms around me and squeezes. “We should get out of here.”
“Yeah, I think I’m out of sweat.”
I grab my towel off the floor, but it’s soaked and useless for drying me off. Max opens the door, and a shiver runs through me as the cool air hits my warm skin. He grabs a towel from the stand and wraps it around me.
His clothes are draped over a chair outside the steam room, and as he removes his towel, I can’t help but let my eyes slide over his body, every inch of it toned and muscular. There’s a three-inch tattoo of a dragon right inside the V of his hipbones. It must have been covered by his shirt when he was in my apartment last night. I want to lick it.
“You have a tattoo.”
“I do.”
“When did you get it?”
“Last December. I’d been thinking about it for a while, but you talked me into it.”
I grin as I skim my fingers over it.
He releases a deep groan. “Hanna, you touch me like that and we won’t make it out of here tonight.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and rise onto my toes to kiss him. “Max Hallowell, I don’t know how I landed a guy like you, but I promise I’m going to be the best wife you could ask for. I’m going to earn this.”
Something flashes across his face—sadness, regret?—and he strokes his thumb down my cheek before gathering me against his chest and drawing in a deep breath against my hair.
“I’m the one who needs to earn this. Don’t be fooled.”
November—Nine Months Before Accident
The morning light reflecting off the river is quickly becoming one of my favorite sights. Even when the ground is covered with a thin sheet of snow and the air is cold enough that I can see my breath, I’m learning to like this time. I can’t exactly say I love running, but I appreciate it, and I’m surprised how quickly I’m gaining stamina.
Max climbs out of his car, looking downright edible in his black, long-sleeved, moisture-wicking shirt and shorts. “Good morning!”
“It’s a beautiful one,” I call back. His smile warms me more than a cloudless spring day. I’ve become spoiled by this time with him, his attention on me.
We start jogging without preamble. At first I feel really good, but within less than fifteen minutes, my head gets fuzzy and my vision starts to blur.
My feet scuff the ground as I stumble mid-stride. Max grabs my arm and catches me before I can fall.
“Whoa, careful,” he murmurs. “Easy there. Are you okay?”
The world spins off-kilter before righting itself, and I point to the ground. “I think I just need to sit down for a minute.” I sink to the cold grass, the frozen earth solid and reassuring under me, and try to blink away a sudden wave of nausea.
“Hanna.” Max squats before me and cups my face in his hand. Worry creases his brow. “Did you eat this morning?”
I blink. He’s touching me, and I don’t want to talk about my diet. I want to melt into his warmth. “I don’t like to eat before I run,” I admit.
“Okay, my lecture on that aside. What about last night?”
“Chicken breast,” I answer, mentally amending half a chicken breast.
“What else?”
“What do you mean?”
“What did you eat with it?” His thumb strokes my cheek.
“Oh. I had it on about two cups of mixed greens.”
“Any starch? Grains? Fruit?”
“No.”
He takes a seat next to me and rests his forearms on his knees. “Lunch?”
“I don’t know. I was busy. Maybe an apple.”
He bows his head. “I’m the worst trainer ever. You didn’t say anything about weight loss, and I just assumed you weren’t looking to lose weight. But I should have known.”
“Known what?”
He smiles at me. “You’re just that kind of personality. You know? You decide you’re going to do something and you go all in.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
He grins. “It’s not, but you can’t starve yourself. If you really want to lose weight, that’s okay, but you have to eat to lose.”
I try not to roll my eyes at the advice I’ve heard again and again. I push myself off the ground. “I think I should just go home.”
“Hanna, just promise me you’ll start eating.”
So I can stay this size forever? “Sure.”
“Good. Then you can come with me to dinner on Friday.”
Frowning, I turn back to him. “Why?”
He stands and brushes off his shorts. “I think it’s called a date. I buy you dinner. We eat together. Maybe hold hands on the way home?”
I blink at him and the world spins in front of me again, but I soften my knees and draw in a long, slow breath. “That sounds nice.”
“Pick you up at six.”
Present Day
Liz: Nate disappeared, so no sexy rocker for me tonight. Damn. I’ve known nuns who got more action than I’ve seen lately.
I grimace at Lizzy’s text from last night. On the one hand, she makes me laugh, but on the other, I don’t know what she’s going to think when I tell her Nate is Mr. Hulk Tattoo.
I’m supposed to spend the day looking at wedding venues with my mom, and all I can think about is whether I cheated on my fiancé. Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure I need to know if I’m fucking some rock star behind Max’s back before I can choose the length of my veil.
I’ve been working in the bakery since four thirty this morning, and the clock reads twenty to six when Lizzy comes through the front door, her eyes half closed.
“Why couldn’t your dream career have required me to sleep past ten every day, huh?” She pushes past me and to the coffee. “I swear, if I weren’t an unemployed loser, I’d tell you to find someone else to wake up at the ass crack of dawn.” She pours herself a cup of coffee and then dumps cream in it before taking a long drink. “Fuck me, that’s good.” When she finally opens her eyes and looks at me—really looks at me—she frowns. “What’s wrong?”
“I know who Mr. Hulk Tattoo is,” I whisper.
She straightens. “Really? Did he come back? Did you see him somewhere?”
“He was at Asher’s last night.”
She grins. “Oh, the plot thickens!”
“It’s Nate Crane, Liz.”
“What’s Nate Crane?”
“Nate Crane is the guy who got into my bed like he belonged there. He’s the guy I was cheating on Max with.”
She squeezes her eyes shut and mutters, “God, you’re such a bitch.”
“What?”
“You’re engaged. Sue me for hating you a little. You get the perfect life and the hottie on the side.”
“The hottie on the side might ruin the perfect life!” As much as I want to tell myself that my secret was sa
fe, as much as I want to let go of what might or might not have happened with Nate, I can’t stop obsessing over what I’ve done. What if my memories don’t return? I need answers.
Liz frowns. “Yeah. I guess you’re right. But come on. Who could blame you? Nate. Fucking. Crane. You were fucking Nate Crane.”
“We don’t know that for sure,” I protest.
She cocks her head. “How familiar was he with your body when he was touching you in the dark?”
I wince. “This sucks.”
She shakes her head as if still trying to clear away sleepiness. “Okay, so you saw him at the party and realized he was the guy. Then what? Did he approach you?”
“No. The opposite. He saw me and went in the other direction. But this is my life, you know? My future with this really great guy. And the more time I spend with Max, the more sure I am that he’s the right guy for me, and I don’t want to screw this up, but maybe I already have. So I followed Nate outside and told him I have amnesia and he asked when the engagement happened—before or after the amnesia, as if that made a difference—and I told him before and he was upset all over again and wouldn’t talk to me about it. He walked away without answering any of my questions, but I got a hold of his cell phone and read through some of our texts to each other, and it looks really bad, and now I don’t know who to talk to or where to get answers, but I’m scared I’ll lose Max if I tell him and…” I take a long, gasping breath. “Help.”
“Okay.” She sets her coffee on the counter and comes over to put her hands on my shoulders. “This is going to be all right. We’re going to figure this out. Together. But first you have to breathe.”
“Right.” I draw in another shaky breath. And another. I’m on my third before Lizzy’s nodding and smiling.
“Okay. Now do you think you and Nate were just…”
“Just what?”
“Do you think he just came by for booty calls, or do you think you had a relationship?”
“He said, ‘I’m the idiot who’s in love with you.’ Those were his words, ‘the idiot who’s in love with you.’ And then the text messages…?”
