Denial (Careless Whispers #1)

by Lisa Renee Jones

  Angry at my weakness, and for other reasons I don’t understand, I straighten and open a drawer, shoving the gun inside, sealing it away, out of sight and I hope out of mind. I grab the bottle of pills and open it, popping one in my mouth and cupping water in my hand from the sink to swallow it. Then I shove the bottle into my pocket and enter the bedroom, where I grab my journal from the nightstand. I open it and stare down at the butterfly. I shut it again and set it back on the nightstand, frustrated by the games my mind is playing with me. That’s when it hits me that I’ve left the folder I’m supposed to study in the kitchen. That’s what I can use to consume my mind while I await Kayden’s return.

  I’m at the archway to the living room before I remember making the decision to even leave the bedroom, which is pretty darn scary, but I am here now, and I cross to the kitchen, not bothering to brighten the lights, actually welcoming the shadows that fit my mood. I head for the table where the folder should be and stop dead in my tracks at the outline of someone sitting at the opposite end.

  “Ella,” Kayden says, and this time I swear my name on his lips is blood bleeding from those wounds I’d felt in him early tonight.

  My fingers dig into the chair I’d held onto before dinner and it hits me that he might be here because I was in his room and he couldn’t go there. “I can go to my room.”

  “Come here.”

  It’s an order, not a question, his tone low and rough, and I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. I don’t ask. I don’t care. I want to go to him and I do, rounding the table to join him. He pushes his chair back just enough to pull me in front of him, his hands branding my hips through the thin silk of my gown, my backside pressed to the table. He doesn’t look at me at first, but I feel him. Oh God, how I feel him. I am tingling all over, aware of this man in every part of me, in a way that reaches far beyond the physical. Finally, his head lifts and our gazes collide, cutting through the darkness and the connection we share, shaking me to the core, leaving me vulnerable and exposed, but not afraid as I am in my flashbacks.

  I’m not sure who moves first, but our foreheads come together and we stay like that, just breathing together, every second driving the anticipation of what will come next. I cup his face and I know whatever was said to him downstairs affects him. “I don’t know what happened between you and Gallo, but you aren’t to blame for what’s happening to Giada.”

  He leans back to look at me, and there are no shadows, no matter how deep or dark, that could hide the shame in his eyes. “This is my chapter of The Underground. I run it, as Kevin did before me. I am responsible for every person beneath me. I let her father take that job.”

  “Did you believe he was in danger when you did, any more than you do with any other job?”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “Then you are not to blame.”

  He sets me on top of the table, scooting his chair closer to me, and his head drops in front of me, blocking his emotions from my sight. “There are things you don’t know or understand.”

  My fingers slide into his hair. “Make me understand.”

  He looks at me. “I don’t want you to understand. Not now. Not ever.” He drags me onto his lap, my legs on either side of his hips, his hand cupping my head, his breath warm on my lips.

  “Kayden—”

  “No,” he says, his tone nonnegotiable, dragging my mouth to his, his tongue stroking against mine, ending the chance for words, but he lets me taste the answers he will not give me. The hate. His hate for himself in the here and now that I do not understand. I want to understand. But I am still new to him and he to me, and I can tell that questions are not what he needs from me now. I wrap my arms around his neck, and telling him I am his with my kiss, I hold on to him and refuse to let go, my actions echoing his earlier words to me.

  He unzips my hoodie, his hands traveling up my waist, over the curve of my breasts, and my nipples tighten and ache with a soft brush of his fingers. He twirls them, his touch rough, arousing. Then his lips leave mine and he looks at me, letting me see what I have tasted, but he refuses to speak. In a blink, his expression has become guarded, the emotion banked deep in some part of him I know I will touch again tonight.

  His hand slides to my back and he leans me toward the table, forcing me to catch myself on my elbows. He holds me there, his body cradling mine, his lips a breath from a touch. “I won’t let you fall.”

  “I know,” I say, and I do now. Beyond time and reason, I trust this man.

  His mouth brushes mine and then trails down my jaw, slowly teasing a path to my ear, where he whispers, “I’m not going to claim to own you the way he did.” He flattens his hands on my belly, possessiveness in the touch. “I’m just going to make you wish I did.”

  My lips part with the erotic promise, and he is already kissing me, licking into my mouth, his tongue a sultry, seductive promise that he can make good on his vow. And while I do not wish anyone to own me again, I want what he offers in a way that defies reason.

  He nips my lips and licks away the sweet ache, and somehow I feel that lick between my thighs where I am already wet and aching. His whiskers rasp on my cheek, down my neck to my shoulder, a wicked burn that is torment and pleasure at the same time. Like he is. His hands settle on my waist, lingering there, teasing me with all the places they could go, until finally he is caressing my body, up and down, a slow, sexy, torturous exploration.

  He pinches my nipples again and he is not gentle, but I do not seem to want gentle. My sex clenches and my knees crush his hips. His lips curve to a small, satisfied smile that is wickedly sexy, and rawly male. He leans in and licks one of my throbbing nipples, sending a shiver down my spine, and I arch upward, the table biting into my elbows, but I do not care. He is sucking me, dragging deep on the knotted peak, and pleasure tingles through my nerve endings, my sex, forcing my legs to squeeze his hips again.

  My arms tremble with my weight and he responds without me asking, moving closer and laying me on top of the table. My spine flattens on the hard surface and he lingers above me. “I want more.”

  “More what?”

  “Everything,” he says, his lips nuzzling my ear as he repeats, “Everything, Ella. Can I have it?”

  The question affects me, but not as much as the way he waits, genuinely seeking my approval. He takes power but somehow gives it to me as well, and this is freedom to me, safety. Things I do not think I have often felt in my life. “Yes,” I whisper. “Yes.”

  He inhales as if my approval surprises and pleases him, as if it is a gift he relishes, not a property he owns. And it is then that I give myself the freedom to just let go, the muscles in my body easing in ways they hadn’t before. I do give him everything. His mouth caresses mine and he whispers, “That’s what I wanted,” as if he knows I’ve made that decision.

  And already his lips are traveling down my neck, tongue flicking here and there, his hand caressing, squeezing my breast. He assaults my senses with pleasure, touching me, kissing me, driving away my memories and enemies. His whiskers rasp my belly, his lips pressing to the center, his tongue flickering into my navel, and I tremble with the silent promise it will soon be where I want it to be. His hand flattens over my sex, inches lower until he is flicking my clit, back and forth, back and forth.

  He lifts my legs to his shoulders, spreading me wide, and I am vulnerably his, and aroused beyond belief. He lowers his head, his breath a warm tease on my sensitive places, and I grip the edge of the table, bracing myself for what is to come. He laps at my nub, the barely there touch, and I am breathing hard, wishing I could touch him, incapable of moving, and the muscles of my sex clench so tightly it hurts.

  He licks my clit and I am both relieved and on edge in the same moment, ready for more, for that everything he has promised me. Another lick follows. Yes, please, more, I think, and as if he’s heard my silent plea, he gives it to me. His hands slide beneath my backside and he lifts me to his mouth, and it is nothing shy of sweet bliss when hi
s mouth closes down around me. He sucks, drawing deeply on my sensitive flesh, lapping at me, licking me again in all the right ways and right places. I am panting and moaning, and I barely recognize the sounds as my own. Sensations ripple through me and when his fingers slide inside me, I am undone, tumbling into orgasm. The intensity jerks my body and I lose all time and space. It’s escape, sweet, blissful escape, and he keeps me there, slowly bringing me down, the licks of his tongue growing softer, slower. Until I am sated, limp, and he pulls me back onto his lap, my head resting on his shoulder, his hand flattening between my shoulder blades.

  “Everything or nothing,” he whispers, and this time, I do not believe he is talking about orgasms and pleasure.

  I lean back to look at him, and the idea of what we are becoming is a sweet seduction, threatened by the emptiness of my past. “What if everything is too much?”

  He drags two fingers down my cheek. “Sweetheart, I don’t have a ceiling. We’re going to find out if you do.”

  He ends the conversation there, standing and lowering my legs to the ground, my feet settling there and my pill bottle tumbling from my pocket. Kayden reaches down and grabs it. “Maintenance, or are you hurting?”

  “Just a little pain.”

  He does not look pleased. “I pushed you too hard tonight.”

  “No, I—”

  He scoops me up and starts walking, the movement forcing my shirt and hoodie open, leaving me all but naked. I don’t fight it or him, though. There’s a message in the way he picks me up all the time, a part of him being the protector he has vowed to be so many times, to me. But I get it now. I’ve hit a nerve with Kayden. He doesn’t just want to protect me. He has to protect me. I’m not sure how to feel about that. What does that make me to him? What do I want to be to him?

  We reach the hallway and I hold my breath to discover whether he goes left or right, and relief comes hard and fast as he turns toward his room. That is how much this man has slid under my skin. But knowing I could be some moral obligation terrifies me. He enters his room and goes straight to the bed, pulling back the blanket and setting me on the mattress. I climb underneath the covers, expecting him to undress and follow me. Instead, he stands above me and stares at me, and that wall he’s evoked between us in the past is here in the present. I can’t read him. I find myself holding my breath again, waiting, but for what I do not know. I’m blown away when he turns and walks away, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him.

  I stare at the door. I seem to do a lot of that where Kayden’s concerned, and I’m more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.

  fourteen

  He doesn’t come back. It’s nearly five in the morning when the physical and emotional toll of the past few days wins, and with nothing but Kayden’s unique spicy scent clinging to the blankets and surrounding me, I fall asleep. I wake to sunlight and an empty bed. As I sit up, disappointment fills me as I scan the room for any sign he’s been back, but find none. I glance at the clock and it’s nine in the morning, not exactly the definition of a good night’s rest. A sound comes from the bathroom and, certain it has to be Kayden, I throw off the blanket to climb out of the bed, tugging my shirt closed and rushing in his direction.

  Reaching the open doorway, I scan the solid white room, disappointment filling me at the absence of the man whose presence I crave. That is, until he walks out of the closet, stopping in the archway, his hair lying in damp tendrils around his face, while black jeans and a snug black sweater, tugged up to display his powerful forearms, hug every inch of what I know to be his perfect, hard body.

  He doesn’t speak, his expression impassive, his gaze never leaving my face, and the silence that follows is not as comfortable as it was at last night’s dinner. In fact, I’d call it excruciatingly awkward, and I can’t take it. “Hi,” I say, offering a ridiculous little hand wave that couldn’t make my nerves any more obvious.

  His reaction is to close the distance between us, and there is no mistaking the predatory gleam in his eyes, matched by his long strides. When he stops in front of me, there is no question that he is pure sex and intimidation. “Ella,” he says softly, and my name does not bleed from him this time, nor is it a greeting. It’s … I don’t know what it is.

  “When did you come back?” I ask.

  “An hour ago.”

  “Where did you sleep?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Because I was here?”

  “No. Because I needed to think.”

  “About me?”

  “About a lot of things.” A muscle in his jaw tics. “Who’s David?”

  I swallow hard at the reference that tells me he read my notes in the security room, wondering how I’d managed to sleep through his return, and his obvious shower. “I came to Italy with him.”

  “Who is he to you?”

  I’m embarrassed that there was yet another man in my life, and my gaze lowers to his chest. “Ella,” he repeats, and this time my name is a command.

  I press my lips together and look at him. “We were eloping, but things went very wrong.”

  A beat of silence throbs between us. “Did you love him?”

  “I feel nothing but anger when I think of him. I don’t understand why I was eloping with him. It makes no sense. Nothing adds up.”

  “Did you love him?”

  “No,” I say. “I did not love him.”

  “But you thought you did.”

  “No, I don’t think so. No. No, I didn’t love him. I’m telling you, there’s more to the story. I just can’t remember it.”

  “What was his last name?”

  “I know nothing else.”

  His one reaction is a slight narrowing of his eyes, and I now have confirmation that he chose to let me see his emotions last night. He doesn’t choose to do so today. I might still be in his room, but I fear he’s already shut the door with me on the other side.

  “There is more to the story,” I insist.

  “I’m going out,” he says, obviously done talking. “Until we deal with Gallo, you’re stuck in the castle. Study the file and when I get back, we’ll figure out what comes next.” He’s already walking away.

  I rotate and follow him, and he’s almost at the door, and I don’t want him to go. “Kayden,” I call out, and he stops but doesn’t turn, stirring dread in me over what I’m about to ask. “You brought me here and then left. Do you want me here?”

  “Too much. That’s the problem.”

  He exits the room, shutting the door with a finality that tells me he won’t be back any time soon. Too much, he’d said. I decipher that as confirmation of what I’d thought before, and the reason he’d been angry when I’d shown up at his door. While he drives away my demons, I’m the trigger that awakens his. I shouldn’t be here.

  Everything or nothing. Kayden’s words replay in my mind as I walk to my room. I then proceed to take a long, hot shower, and the only flashbacks I have are of last night, every single kiss and touch we shared. The idea that he might have chosen “nothing” twists me in knots. I know that he and I are new to each other, but we seem to know each other in ways no one else can. I’m also fairly certain that our bond tears down a wall Kayden doesn’t want destroyed.

  Once I’ve dried off, a clawing need for stability has me organizing the items in all of the bags on the counters and in drawers. I avoid the one with the gun, though, as I’m really not in a mental place this morning to deal with the memories it creates. I just need a little peace and quiet today. With the bags unpacked and folded, I dress in a light blue V-neck sweater and faded jeans, and pair the outfit with ankle boots. I open my new blow-dryer and flatiron and put them to use before moving on to my makeup. The selection of products in the bags is impressive but I keep it simple, satisfied with the pale pink shadow and gloss I use. My hair is another story, though. The honeysuckle shampoo and conditioner paired with a pass with the flatiron have rid me of frizz and turned my dark hair impressively soft and silk
y, but I still don’t look like me. This color is just wrong, like David. I shake off the thought, afraid it will trigger one of the flashbacks I’m avoiding this morning.

  “Coward,” I whisper, and I force myself to grab the journal before heading to the kitchen, promising myself I’ll write in it while attending to my growling stomach.

  As I make my way down the hall and into the living area, my thrill at the architecture I can’t wait to explore in more detail is detoured by the smell of fresh-baked bread that lures me straight to the kitchen.

  “Smells yummy,” I say, stopping in the entryway as Marabella hums while preparing sandwiches.

  Her head lifts, eyes lighting at the sight of me. “Good morning! How are you feeling?”

  “Hungry,” I say, not about to explain my lack of sleep. “Is that homemade bread?”

  “Is there any other kind? And fresh mozzarella as well. Sit down and I’ll bring you a plate.”

  “Sounds terrific,” I murmur, my eyes landing on the table, a memory of lying naked on top of it, while Kayden’s mouth was in the most intimate of places, heating my cheeks. Eager to direct my thoughts elsewhere, I sit down, sliding the folder closer and opening the journal to stare at my not so masterful butterfly. The image takes me back to that hotel room I’d shared with David. “We can’t even get married here!” I yell. “They don’t allow US citizens to get married here.”

  “An oversight.”

  “You don’t make oversights.”

  His cell phone rings and he answers it. “I’ll be right there.” He ends the call. “I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?”