by Jo Raven
But when he glances down to our entwined hands, he nods, as if satisfied. It’s funny. And strange. And it warms my heart for reasons I don’t quite understand yet.
As for me, I don’t want him to release me. His touch ignites my blood, sends electricity dancing on my skin. I don’t want to get away from him.
I want to get closer.
The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and we enter the narrow box. It’s so small we barely fit in there together—or maybe it’s Rafe’s broad shoulders that seem to fill the space from side to side.
Then even that thought flees my mind, because all of a sudden we’re mashed together, my breasts crushed to his hard chest, and his arm encircles me, steadying and strong.
His sharp inhale echoes around us, and he shifts his weight, the thick muscles in his thighs bunching against me. He’s quickly hardening where he’s pressed to me, and I stifle a gasp.
“Dammit,” he mutters and steps back, releasing me. The button of each floor lighting up shows me his face, his clenched jaw. He buries his fingers in his short blond hair, pulls, his mouth now hard like the rest of him, pressed into a flat line. “Sorry.”
This boy is confusing the hell out of me.
“Rafe…” I start, but just then, with impeccable timing, the elevator stops and the doors open.
Grabbing my hand, he pulls me out. Swallowing my questions and doubts, I walk with him down a dark corridor lined with doors. This handholding… it’s like a promise, a pact written in Braille, and God, I wish I knew how to read it. Sometimes, I guess, you have to close your eyes and find answers in the dark.
Talking of the dark… There’s a whole lot of that inside Rafaele Vestri, behind the golden eyes and powerful physique. Dark, and storm, and a raging fire that burns through his gaze, through his skin.
Through me, wherever we touch.
His door is indistinguishable from the others down the corridor, and he lets go of me to unlock and open it, ushering me inside.
Holding my breath, I enter. He flips on a corner lamp, and in its soft light, I make out a small living room with a battered sofa and an easy chair. I wander toward them. The coffee table is low and covered in books and empty glasses. A drum set dominates one corner, silver and black. Two tall posters are taped to the opposite wall.
Deathmoth posters. I recognize Dakota at their center, Rafe in a corner, but I can’t remember the other guys. They’re pretty cool photos, black and white with red lettering.
A framed drawing hangs behind the easy chair—some sort of tribal design, with bold, black strokes and yellow dots. Made by ZM. Zane Madden? It’s beautiful. Simple and powerful. Looks like a devil’s head, fanged mouth open wide.
My neck prickles and heat spills down my back. I turn back around.
Rafe is peering at me from across the room, a hand clasped to the back of his neck, the intensity of his gaze hitting me like a laser beam.
“Nice place.” I clear my throat and move toward the sofa. “Live here alone?”
He blinks. “Yeah.”
I tug on my jacket to keep my hands busy. “Must be kinda lonely.”
“Yeah.” He shakes his head and a shadow flits over his face. “I guess it kinda is.”
Sadness grips me. I know the feeling. Raylin wasn’t much of a friend, but at least she was company.
“Why don’t you get a roommate?” Then I hear my own words and cringe. “I didn’t mean…”
He lifts a pale brow at me, and I blush again, because turning red like a tomato only once in the same evening just isn’t embarrassing enough.
“I’m not suggesting you take me as a roommate,” I clarify, mortified. “Didn’t realize it sounded so much like a come-on line.”
Both his brows lift. Hey, what do you know? I’ve caught him by surprise again. A good or a bad thing?
Good thing, I decide when he laughs. It’s a quiet laugh, head bent forward, hair falling in his eyes. A rich sound, deep and resonant, that makes me want to laugh, too.
“You had a roommate. This Raylin, right?” He’s grinning at me, killer dimples and all, and I swear my panties are melting.
“Yeah. She left without an explanation. I tried to contact her, but she never replied.”
“So you live alone now?”
I shrug. “I have Raf.”
“Raf?”
“A kitten.”
“Seriously?” He walks around the sofa, unzipping his jacket. He leans over to straighten a book on the low table—a History of Punk Rock. “He’s named after me?”
“Yeah. No! It’s a coincidence. Besides, he’s Raf, not Rafe.”
“You named him that?”
“He was named Horatio. How would you feel if you were called that?” I shudder.
Then I realize I’ve practically admitted I named the kitten after him, and clap a hand over my mouth.
Oh shit.
But Rafe is laughing again, his shoulders shaking as he stands up to his full height. “Yeah, Horatio wouldn’t suit me, either. Is he a ginger?”
“More blond than ginger. Kinda like you and—” I bite my lower lip viciously, to stop the flow of stupid words.
“Oh fuck.” His gaze lowers, focusing on my mouth and he takes a step toward me. His eyes darken. “Fuck, when you do that…”
He’s crowding me again, but nothing is stopping me from moving away this time. Only I don’t want to. I look up into his face, and my breathing stops. He’s like a golden god, the faint glow of the lamp casting shadows on his features.
He lifts his hand, brushes his thumb over my lips. He traces the outline of my mouth and his breathing quickens.
“Like chocolate,” he whispers. “You’re like a box of my favorite chocolates, and I can’t decide where to start.”
He bends his head until our lips are an inch apart, and his familiar, sexy scent surrounds me, the light musk of his clean sweat added to the heady mix.
“Tell me to stop,” he mutters. “Meg, tell me to stop.”
All I can do is shake my head. How can I, when all I want is for him to kiss me? When all I can think about is how delicious his mouth must taste?
His hand trails down my cheek to the side of my neck and I shiver all the way to my toes. He starts walking me backward, his other hand on my waist, a brand of fire I feel through the layers of cloth and skin down to my bones.
The moment my back hits the wall, he molds his body to mine, his hardness caught between us, his chest muscles shifting against me.
“God,” he groans and his hands slide up, until they frame my face. “I have to stop. Your boyfriend—”
“No boyfriend,” I whisper.
“But that guy—”
“Not my boyfriend. I don’t have a boyfriend.” The certainty in my voice finally gets through, and his gaze snaps up to mine, questioning, confused.
Then it’s like a switch has been flipped. One second he’s still as a statue, the next his hand slams next to my head and his mouth crushes on mine, the whole muscular expanse of his body covering mine, pushing me into the wall.
He tastes thrilling, intoxicating—like chicory and cinnamon, sugar and bitter almonds. His other hand slips around my head, cupping the back of my neck, holding me in place as he devours my mouth. His tongue licks me up, his teeth sink gently into my lower lip, and fireworks go off behind my eyes.
Every nerve in my body goes live under his assault, and my arms automatically curl around his neck as I kiss him back. My tongue dances against his, and he groans deep inside his chest, the vibrations rolling through me.
God, he feels so good. I want more, I want to touch more of him, his naked skin, I want to see the ink on his chest and arms, I want…
He breaks the kiss, pulls back, and I lean forward, needing more.
“Shit, Meg.” His harsh breathing fills my ears. “Why can’t I control myself around you?”
“Why would you want to control yourself around me?” The question that has been plaguing me.
> “You don’t need more violent men in your life.”
I study his expression. His amber eyes are heavy-lidded, but there’s no hiding the worry lurking in their depths.
“You’re not a violent man.” He doesn’t seem like someone who enjoys making others suffer. In spite of his strength, he’s always gentle with me.
“You said this before, but you know nothing about me.” He still hasn’t released me, though. Hasn’t pulled away.
“I know you run every Sunday morning, early, because you can’t sleep. I know you take good care of your friends and that they’d do anything for you.” I dig my fingertips into the hard muscles of his neck, and he grunts, his pupils dilating, eating up the gold. “I know you train a lot and that you’re very strong. I also know you ran out of the coffee shop where I work Sundays because a loud noise startled you. What are you afraid of, Rafe Vestri?”
His expression closes off and he takes a step back, releasing me, his hand trailing on my shoulder before falling to his side. “Nothing.”
“Everyone is afraid of something.”
He doesn’t deny it. He’s silent, his gaze distant.
“You came to the coffee shop where I work— worked—every afternoon,” I whisper. “Why?”
He grunts. “Meg… Dammit. I was gonna take care of that.”
“What?” I don’t know what made me ask the question, but now I’m curious. “Take care of what?”
He sighs. “You have a stalker. I had a street kid follow you. It’s a guy with prison tats. I had to be there, make sure you were okay.”
“See? I know you’re a good guy,” I whisper, my voice catching on emotion and sudden, ice-cold fear. The room starts to spin in lazy circles. “Crap, a stalker? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
Oh dear God. I was afraid Carson would send someone after me, but it’s one thing to fear the idea of a monster and another to be told it’s real.
“Meg.” He’s back in my space, his eyes concerned. “Are you okay?”
My heart is beating a tattoo against my ribs, and there’s a dull roar in my ears. “Sure.” Only problem is I can’t seem to feel my feet. I feel cold.
How can I be okay? I have a stalker, as I feared all along. Someone following my every move, walking behind me on the street, noting the people I talk to, their faces, maybe even their addresses. Monitoring me. Waiting for the right moment to grab me and hurt me.
Invading my private life, my new life where I thought I was free and safe.
“Damn, girl, come here.” He reaches for me, but I back away.
Not sure I can stand to be touched right now. I crash into the coffee table and turn blindly to my left. I need a moment.
I feel like I can’t breathe right. Something’s lodged in my throat, cutting off my air. I stop in the middle of the room, face the apartment door.
Why? How could Carson find me here? Where would he get my address? Only Mom knows it, and she’d never tell him.
Would she?
“Meg.” Rafe is two steps behind me, and I spin around. “Don’t run.”
His eyes are wide, his mouth tight. He looks worried for me, and that alone makes me stand still.
Was I going to run? Wouldn’t it be stupid, after finding out I have a stalker? And yet I’m in such a daze, I might. My mind’s so frozen with panic, I can’t think straight.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers, and when he closes the distance between us, I let him. He draws me to him, wrapping himself around me like a warm blanket. My face is pressed to his chest, to his cotton T-shirt, where his masculine musk is stronger. It makes me tingle all over. It grounds me.
Now he’s the one walking backward, taking me with him until we reach the sofa, and he sits down, pulling me onto his lap. He keeps me close, cradling me as I struggle to draw breath.
“I’m okay,” I whisper, but I’m grateful he doesn’t release me from his hold, because I feel as if I might shatter into a thousand pieces.
He hauls me even closer, so that my cheek rests on his padded pec, and I listen to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong.
And he holds me close as I come apart.
***
Some time has passed. I can feel it in the cramping of my muscles where I’m curled up tight on his lap, in his embrace. My eyes are dry now, and I’m not so cold anymore. His arms are warm and solid around me.
“Meg?” His hold tightens fractionally. “How are you?”
“Better,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” He rocks me a little, and somehow it makes me smile.
I clear my throat. “So that was why you kept coming to the coffee shop.”
He nods, his chin dipping against the top of my head. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just wanted to be around you, check on you.”
“Thank you.” A spot of warmth blooms inside my chest at the thought of him sitting there, day after day, making sure I was okay, while I avoided him. I feel so stupid for doing it now. “Sorry I didn’t serve your table.”
Another rumble winds its way up his chest. Laughter, I realize. “You did that on purpose?”
I shrug. “You told me not to be near you.”
“Right.” He laughs again silently, his body shaking underneath me.
We sit there in silence, and I’m wrapped up in his warmth, his arms snug around my back and over my hip.
After a while, he nuzzles my hair. “Can you tell me more?” he asks softly. “About who this guy is and why he’s after you?”
He makes me feel safe, and that’s probably why I start talking—to this guy who has refused to give away anything about himself to me.
I tell him about Philly, about the danger on the streets where we lived, and Mom’s drinking habit. About my dad, a Greek, owner of a restaurant below our apartment, until one fine day, when I was maybe four, on which he sold the restaurant and moved away without leaving an address or phone number.
About Mom’s next boyfriends, assholes, every single one of them, guys who liked beating her to hear her scream before they fucked her and then vanished again from our lives.
But I don’t tell him about the baby. I can’t. Telling him everything else already hurts too much, opening wounds I thought had healed, but as it turns out they were only scabbed over.
“And this last boyfriend?” Rafe quietly asks after I’ve stopped talking and just curled into him, needing a moment to convince myself it was over, and I was okay. “The one after you?”
“Carson. Carson Ames. Told you, I turned him in. He’s in prison.” I swallow hard. “He has a rose tattooed on his cheek. Mom thought it was romantic.”
His arms tighten around me until I whimper, and yet it feels so good. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
And I believe him. I know he’ll do all he can to protect me, just like I know about the dark shadow of pain in his eyes. The key is his past, I realize, as it is for me. What he suffered through when he was young has marked him in indelible ways, has branded him, and somehow, instead of destroying him, instead of turning him into a bad person, has made him into the strong man he is.
Anyone else would have buckled, I think. Anyone else would have lain down to die, put a bullet through their brain.
But not him. He takes care of everyone, and everyone relies on him. His tattoo shop is a haven for those who have been adrift, and Zane told me he’s feeding an army of street kids and homeless people from his salary.
I admit I hadn’t taken his words too seriously at the time. Zane tends to talk when he’s drunk, and I don’t trust drunk people’s words, but now… Now I think it’s all true. He does take care of everyone in need.
I wonder who takes care of him, though. Even the strongest have moments of weakness.
There’s so much I want to ask him, but I’m reluctant to break the moment, to miss the light in his eyes. I think he could open up if I take my time, if I’m careful. He’s like a big golden cat, like a tiger, powerful and yet distrustfu
l, skittish. I don’t know if I’d like to try and tame him, if that’s even possible, or run away with him.
“So… Philly, huh?” he mutters. His voice has this deep rasp that sends shivers over my skin. “Ever thought of going back there?”
“Sometimes I do. Mom’s still there, and despite everything…” I choke on that. I miss her. Time blurs her bad decisions, her bad moments, makes me wish for her. Makes me think everything will be perfect if I go back. It’s dangerous, how memory works. “But I don’t think I will. And with this stalker here…” I sigh. “Maybe I’ll leave, move to another state.”
His hold on me tightens again. “Leave? Really?”
The note of alarm in his voice has my heart racing. He doesn’t want me to go? I reach up to touch his face. “We’ll see.”
His lashes lower as I stroke his jaw, my fingertips rasping over the light stubble, then reaching up to tangle in his silky hair. A sharp exhale, and his eyes turn almost black as his body responds to mine. I can feel him hardening underneath me. He shifts uncomfortably, and I wiggle thinking to help him accommodate his growing erection, but it only makes him groan and pant.
“Oh God, Meg.” Then he leans over me, and this time his mouth closes over mine without hesitation, warm and hard and delicious.
He lifts me up and turns me to face him, helps me straddle his lap, my jeans-clad legs folded on either side of him. Boy is so strong, he lifts me like I’m filled with feathers, and when I sit down…
A moan rises in my throat at the sensation of his hard length pressed between my legs, into the most intimate part of me. Even through the layers of our clothing I can feel the heat he gives off, can feel how he’s still hardening, growing bigger. I’ve never experienced anything so sexy.
Never wanted anyone like I want him.
I roll my hips, a light grind, and we both gasp. Pleasure skitters up my spine, need pools in my belly. When I do it again, his hands tighten on my hips and his breath hisses out. I run my hands over the hard planes of his chest, over the small hard nipples.
I love to see the raw need in his amber eyes, the shivers of delight running through his frame, the way his grip grows painful as if he’s about to lose control for good. I want him to lose control, lose that terrible tension in his shoulders…lose himself in pleasure.
