Being Me (22 page)

I charge to the open bathroom door and enter as he steps inside the see-through glass-encased shower. I keep walking and I open the shower. “You can’t?” I challenge. “What does that even mean? You can’t be with me? Do you want me to leave?”

He leans out of the shower and kisses me. “It means I can’t,
and won’t, do anything I think will make you want to leave.” He strokes a wet thumb over my cheek. “And right now, I will.”

But the edge of his mood has shifted in that rocket-swift way it does. He is not who he was just a few minutes ago. I dare to step into the shower and hug him, the spray of warm water enveloping me, and to my relief his arms do as well. I feel the hard length of his cock expanding, thickening, and I am further encouraged until I blink up at him and see the barely banked storm. He’s not as okay as I thought. Not even close. He says sex isn’t a part of how he deals with his pain, but he’s aroused, and I can’t hurt him. I
won’t
hurt him. I have only pleasure to offer him.

I press him against the wall, out of the beating force of the water, and he lets me. Taking that as a good sign, I slowly slide down his body and drop to my knees. His soft intake of breath is further encouragement I welcome. I brush wet hair from my mouth and wrap my hand around his pulsing shaft. I don’t tease him. He needs hard and fast, a release, relief. I think. I hope. I suckle the soft skin of his taut erection into my mouth and the salty taste of his arousal teases my tongue. Without lingering, I take all of him I can and his hand comes down on my head.

“Harder,” he orders, his voice a gruff command, his hips arching into the suckle of my mouth, and I can feel him throbbing against my tongue.

My gaze lifts, and I watch him watching me, the grit of his teeth, the tightness of his jaw, the lust and fury, in his hot stare. It’s arousing to have this powerful, sexy man respond to me, want me, need me. And he does. I have never been as sure of this as I am now.

My fingers tighten around him and I draw on him with more force, taking him deeper. He pumps against me, driving to the back of my throat, fucking my mouth, and his desire is a living, breathing thing that possesses me. I can’t get enough of it, of him. My tongue slides down the pulsing underside of his cock, and he moans, deep and guttural. His head falls back against the tiles and I feel him slip into mindless oblivion.

My body burns from the taste of him, the feel of him against my tongue, with the power I have to take him away from his pain. I wrap my hand around his thigh for leverage, the tension there telling me how close he is to release.

“Good, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low, husky. Sexy. “So good.” His hand tightens on my head and urgency surges through him into me. He begins to pump harder, pushing his cock deeper into my throat and I take him, I take him, hungering for the moment that arrives with a hoarse moan sliding from his lips. His shaft spasms in my mouth and I taste his salty release seeping into my taste buds, where his anger had bled not long before. I drag my tongue and lips up and down him, slowly easing him to completion.

His chin lowers and Chris gasps and stares down at me. I push to my feet and he drags me against him. “Tell me I helped,” I say, and it’s a demand. I need to know I can be what he needs, that we can get through the darkness together.

“You do more than help. You’re the reason I take my next breath.” The hoarse declaration whispers against my lips a moment before he kisses me, the tenderness in the touch of his tongue caressing mine telling me more than his words.

The kiss ends and we don’t speak. We lather each other up,
lost in each other, and it has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with the deepening bond between us. When the moment comes that he presses me against the wall, and slides inside me, our eyes connect the way our bodies have, and what passes between us fills me in a way I have never been filled. He needs me and I need him. I’ve never doubted that to be true. I’ve always known we were two puzzle pieces that fit together in a hollow that is our pain. There was a time when I was certain we were too damaged not to destroy each other. Now I think we are saving each other.

My hope that the turbulence in Chris has passed is quickly dashed not long after we arrive at a charity luncheon. We sit at one of twenty-five tables and listen as a man tells potential donors the story of his child dying of cancer. I cannot help but think of Dylan and my gaze leaves the speaker to study Chris. He’s in profile to me, his expression impassive, his spine stiff. I know he knows I’m looking at him but he just stares forward, the muscle in his jaw flexing back and forth. I reach down and take his hand and he slowly turns to me, and for just a moment, he lets me see the pain splintering in amber flecks through his green eyes. I trace his cheek, silently telling him I understand, and he squeezes my hand, his attention slowly returning to the front of the room.

Once again, a stark certainty fills me. Chris
is
darkness and pain, and no matter how much he says he has that part of him under control, he doesn’t. I’m not sure he truly wants to have
it under control. I want to heal him, to be there for him, but I wonder if I really can be. I’m not sure he will let me.

This thought lingers with me through the rest of the speakers, and I am relieved when the luncheon comes to a close, but there is no fast escape from the event. Chris and I mingle with the guests and I’m amazed at how well he maintains a façade of lightheartedness, tossing out just the right comments at the right times, to bring smiles to many faces.

An hour later, we are at the hospital visiting some of the kids, and Chris crafts sketches of funny animals and cartoon characters. Amazingly, no one but me seems to notice how troubled he is. I watch him, seeing beyond my gorgeous, sexy man to the man who, despite his own pain, gives so much to these families, and I fall even more in love with him.

Once we’ve finished our visits, Chris and I are heading down the hall toward Dylan’s room, which we plan to make our final destination, when Chris stops walking and glances down at a text message.

The grim look on his face has me worried. “What?” I demand.

He punches in a message before replying. “Blake says the lock on the storage unit wasn’t changed but the unit looked rifled through. He wanted to know if things were thrown everywhere when we were last there.”

“No. Tell him no.”

“I already did.” He reads another message, starting to relay information as he does. “He thinks that lowlife PI changed the locks while the power was off and the combination was popped open.”

I see where this is going and fill in the blanks. “We didn’t seal the unit with my lock. We popped his into place so he could return when he was ready.”

“Right. I’m sure he was looking for that opportunity the night you met him. We can assume he replaced the original lock that was yours when he got what he wanted out of the unit.”

My head begins to throb. “How bad was it rummaged through?”

“Sounds like her things are tossed all over the place.”

A frustrated sound slips from my lips. “Can we call the police?”

“Blake says we’ll never prove someone else was inside the unit and we still shouldn’t involve the police when we’ve decided to hold off.”

Reluctantly, I accept the helplessness of the situation. “If there were any more journals, they’re lost forever.” And with them the potential answer to where she is, and who is responsible for her disappearance.

“Blake and the entire team at Walker Security are the best. If anyone can find Rebecca, they will.”

“If they’re as good as you say, and it hasn’t been easy to find her, Chris, I’m more concerned than ever.”

Chris’s mouth tightens. “Unfortunately, I agree.”

I try to shake off my somber mood before we enter Dylan’s room, but it’s an effort lost once we arrive. The energetic boy I’d met the day before is nowhere to be found. He’s in bed, bent over a pan, throwing up, while his mother is beside herself trying to soothe him. The only thing that keeps my feet on the ground is the absolute need for me to keep everyone else’s feet there.
Brandy’s hand shakes every time she moves, and Chris’s energy ratchets up a notch. He’s like a wild animal pacing a cage he cannot escape.

Somehow, though, he reins it in and discovers Brandy hasn’t eaten or slept. He forces her to go take a break while we sit with Dylan. Chris sits on the edge of Dylan’s bed and caves to a plea for him to draw another Freddy Krueger picture. Miraculously, Dylan perks up when Chris starts to sketch on the pad he’s been carrying with him.

At four o’clock Chris has to leave for a donor meeting, and I stay behind with Dylan and Brandy with plans to meet him at the hotel at five thirty. At five forty-five, I’m still standing in front of the hospital after waiting for half an hour on a cab. I’ve texted Chris but he hasn’t replied.

Finally he calls. “I just got out of my meeting. Did you get one?”

“No,” I answer frantically. “There’s two big conventions in town and a movie premiere.”

“Tell the cab company there’s a hundred-dollar tip in it for them and I’ll meet you at the front of the hotel to pay them. If that doesn’t work I’ll send a private car.”

Fifteen minutes later, Chris greets me at the front of the hotel in jeans and a plain white T-shirt, with his hair lying in damp tendrils around his face. He yanks open my door and leans inside the front passenger window and pays the driver. In a rush to shower and dress, I step out of the cab, and Chris settles his hands on my shoulders and kisses me solidly on the lips. “I missed you.”

Though Chris is inherently private, right now he’s oblivious
to the people all around us. I blink up at him and glimpse that rare vulnerability in his expression that always roots its way deep inside me and turns me inside out. I stroke a damp strand of his hair and a waterfall of emotions crashes down on me. “Chris, I—” A horn honks and Chris pulls me forward as a cabbie guns by me. I step onto the curb and silently finish my sentence . . . l
ove you
.

“Crazy cabdriver,” he grumbles, twining his fingers with mine.

We start walking toward the hotel entrance, but my spontaneous confession has been sideswiped by a yellow cab. I tell myself that’s a good thing. I was crazy to do this now. It’s the wrong time and place, but I can’t seem to rid myself of the feeling that I’ve lost a moment I will regret.

•   •   •

I rush through my shower and slip into the hotel-provided robe to do my makeup and hair. I’ve just finished flat-ironing my hair into a sleek straight style when Chris appears in the doorway, wearing his tuxedo. I set the brush down and turn to him, soaking in the way he defines his clothes. Perfectly fitted and pressed, the pants and jacket hug his lithe, muscular frame with delicious results. And while he’s conformed to the expected “monkey suit,” as he’s called it previously, he is unshaven, a light brown shadow dusting his jaw, and his blond hair is rumpled and a bit wild, the contrast declaring him both the man I know and love and a rebel with a cause.

“You are the sexiest man alive,” I declare.

Chris smiles, and for the first time all day it reaches his eyes. “I’ll let you prove you mean that when we get back tonight.” He
pulls a black velvet box from behind his back. “This is for you.” His lips curve. “And me.”

My breath catches as I read AdamandEve.com on top of the box. It’s the sexy online store I’d told Chris about on the phone two evenings before. “I’m guessing that isn’t a pink fluffy paddle.”

“Don’t look disappointed,” he teases. “I’ll order one to be delivered when we get home.” He flips open the lid and lying on black silk are three pieces of jewelry. Two matching silver hoops, each having a long strand of dangling rubies. The third has a silver hoop and a teardrop laced with the same rubies.

“To wear under your dress,” he announces.

Unbidden, I hear one of Rebecca’s entries replay in my head, as if she is speaking to me.
He turned me around, tugged my dress and bra down, and clamped my nipples, ordering me to endure the pain
. I cross my arms in front of my chest and shake my head. “No. I can’t wear those to the party.”

Chris sets the box on the vanity and advances on me. I step backward, but he’s already in front of me, framing my face with his hands. “They aren’t clamps, if that’s what you think. I wouldn’t ask you to wear clamps for an extended period of time. This is jewelry. Nothing more than delicious friction for you, and a tempting distraction for me, which, believe me, I need tonight.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” he repeats, his lips curving. He reaches for the thick tie on the robe, his stare holding mine. “Let me show you.”

The panic of moments before transforms into a simmering warmth low in my belly. I don’t look away from his penetrating gaze. I drop my arms and the robe gapes open, the cool air
teasing my bare skin. Approval slides over his face and his fingers lightly brush my nipples. I attempt to swallow a whimper and fail. Chris shifts our position, settling my backside against the vanity, his hips molded to mine, the thick pulse of his erection settling against my stomach.