Emotionally Compromised (Emotionally Compromised Series) (23 page)

Jeremy hisses through his teeth at the contact as he pulls my shirt over my head. Without
hesitation, he reaches behind my back and unhooks my bra. With delicate fingers, he slides it off my shoulders, running his thumb down my arms as it glides off my body.

He leans down farther and kisses the nape of my neck, over my collarbone
, and to my breasts, taking my nipple between his lips, sucking and nibbling.

I moan, unable to keep silent. "Jeremy, I want you
."

T
he vibration of the hum that escapes his lips on my sensitive buds sends me over the edge, and I twist my hands in his blond hair.

Pulling away, he pushes me back on the bed, watching me as he pulls off each of my shoes, then my pants and panties in one swift move. I am naked and waiting
.

He undresses gracefully, and once he is
naked, I am rewarded with the incredible view of the Adonis that is Jeremy Hunt. It's mouthwatering.

He climbs over me and
starts his kisses at my feet, and then up my calves, taking his sweet time nipping and kissing his way up. I'm squirming, and begin to beg.

"Jeremy
," I whine.

He looks up at me from my inner thigh. "I want to appreciate every inch of you
, and we have at least twenty-four hours, right? Why rush?" His eyes heat with raw sexual prowess.

Before I can
respond, his mouth reaches the apex of my thighs, and all I can manage is a gasp.

Family Photos & the Dead

JEREMY HUNT

I stir in my sleep, reaching out for Alex, hoping to bring her closer. Even in my dreams I can't help but relive what happened earlier. I can still remember the stranger's burly arm coming around my neck. This overwhelming sense of panic washes over me as I recall those quick, intense moments.

Even now, a sheen of sweat forms on my brow at the thought that I could be dead right now. He actually had a gun. What was he going to do with it? Shoot me in broad daylight? Drag my body to a dumpster?
Shit.

I shiver at the thought, and suddenly
, I am thankful for my girlfriend. I have never been one to let others fight my battles, let alone a girl, but I am alive because of her.

I remember hearing that bullet whistle past my face. I was sure it was heading right between my eyes, but when it didn't, and the man released me, the shock of the situation gave me no chance to process what was happening. All I could do was watch the scene unfold, and in the end
, watch the guy bleed on my floor from the brutal blow to the head dealt by the woman who owns my heart.

I still feel nervous. I reach out for her, but there is nothing but a cold empty space on the other side of the bed. My eyes fly open
, and I feel shaky and uneasy. Maybe I was too shocked before to digest the events, but now, recounting every single second makes me
scared
.

I sit up in bed, trying to put my fear aside, and rub the sleep out of my eyes. Blinking a few times, I remember that I am not home. This is Alex's
loft. My eyes dart everywhere, taking in my surroundings. It's simple and plain. There is a large painting of a forest on the back wall above the bed. It is stark black and white, but serene. The only other notable item is a large dresser on the opposite wall with a matching mirror above it.

Alex Turner, despite being the object of my affections, still feels like an enigma to me. I'm starving for knowledge about her. I can't push her, but I can at least take notes from other things
—like her living space.

I am a man whose job is details, and I am damn good at it. I may not be a secret agent or a spy, but I know how to take notes from my observations, be it an environment, facial expressions
, or inflections in a person's tone.

Alex has been an interesting case for me. She's her own suspense/thriller novel, and I am aching to get to the end of the book. Maybe we could write a sequel to it if our relationship makes it through all this
.
Maybe? No, it will.

I lean back onto the soft pillow
, and take a deep breath. It still smells of her. Like lavender and soap and sex. It's a heady mixture. I miss her.

I sit up again and try to regain some composure. I climb off the bed, find my boxer
briefs, and slip them on. I walk around the edge of the bed to Alex's dresser in hopes of finding another clue. I run my fingertips along the edge of the whitewashed wood. The dresser is vintage and Victorian in style, girly even, and I smile to myself, thinking,
Alex doesn't seem like the girly type.

The dresser is bare except for a picture frame that lies curiously
facedown. I grab it and look at the battered frame. It's plain, dark wood with scratches and chips, and the glass has a long webbed crack that runs from the top to the bottom. Its fractured state distracts from the actual picture it holds. It's as if this frame has been thrown, tossed, and knocked around quite a few times. I shake my head, wondering what kind of temper Alex might have.

I turn my attention to the picture. It's a family photo. It, too, looks worn and ripped, but also old. The crack over the glass makes it hard to make out the image, but if I squint hard enough I can see it's a family of three. There is a striking young woman with long dark auburn hair and catlike yellow eyes that look adoringly at the man standing next her. The man is tall and broad
-shouldered with a short, black hair in a military cut, a five o'clock shadow, and green eyes that glitter with happiness as he beams back at the camera. His hands are perched on the tiny shoulders of a young girl with a sweet disposition. Shaggy black curls devour the young girls face, and her smile is timid, maybe even shy. I squint at the image. The girl can't be more than seven. Her eyes glitter like her father's, and it's obvious through their shine who that little girl is—it's Alex. I'm overwhelmed with curiosity.

She has never spoken of family or any relations. This photo is old. I turn around to see if there are any more fallen picture frames, but there
is none.

I dart my eyes back to the photo
, and commit it to memory. The little girl looks like a perfect combination of both her adoring parents. Her gold-flecked hazel eyes are a DNA miracle of both parents combined. Her smile is nothing like I've ever seen. It's innocent, and her eyes are warm and kind. I have never seen that smile on Alex, maybe because her innocence is long gone, but that look
I've seen. It shines in her eyes in the morning when she sees me, and it is there when I kiss her hands.

I let out a sigh as I look at
the photo. What happened? When did it all change for lil ol' Alex Turner? When was she forced to become hard around the edges? When did the innocence vanish?

I put the frame back on the dresser, but this time standing it upright. I take in one last glance at the photo
, and its fragile state. What makes Alex so inclined to toss this around?

I turn around to face the open wall. The bedroom overlooks the living room like a balcony. I stroll over to the edge and look down into the living space, but Alex isn't there.

I decide to go find her. I have this aching need to hold her close. I want to ask her about the photo, but I worry it's a bad time.
When will it ever be a good time?

I meander down the stairs and see that the time on the clock on the wall is only 3
p.m. We've been napping all day, it seems—well, at least I have. I don't know when Alex slipped out of my grasp.

As my bare feet hit the hardwood
floor, I hear something. It's a slight thump, like someone tossing a baseball against a wall—a sound reminiscent of my childhood.

I stroll into the living room, and look around as I walk. The back wall harbors a TV screen set into the wall
and facing a large maroon sofa. Everything is sleek and contemporary in contrast to her girly bedroom. She obviously isn't hurting for money. I mean, why should she be? The government owns the rights to her soul.

I don't like that thought
.

I
walk down the hall, and at the end, I see the edge of a sofa peeking through a doorway, with feet perched on the armrest.

I smile at her wiggling feet, eager to see her.

I'm about to enter the room when a knife swiftly flies past the doorway, past her feet, and I hear that loud thump as it makes contact with the wall. So, not a baseball, then.

I stop mid-step and shake my head, baffled by what I have just witnessed.

Her feet disappear, and I hear her getting off the couch. Her full profile comes into view, and she stops as she makes eye contact with me.

Even though I am still a little shocked, seeing her makes my stomach do a flip. She is wearing nothing but my
T-shirt and her underwear. Her hair is in a sexy, tousled, bed-head mess. Her face looks tired, but in its pure, natural state, it's still strikingly beautiful, and I am reminded of the women in the picture.

She
seems to go goes wide-eyed with mild embarrassment, and offers me a shrug of her shoulders as she says, "Hey." I can see worry flit over her face as she walks back to the wall, pulls the knife out, and goes back to lying on the couch without another glance at me.

Huh?

I was hoping she would fly into my arms, but she doesn't. I freeze for a moment and worry about what's going on.

I walk into the roo
m, and peek inside. She's lying on the plush, leather sofa, tossing the knife up in the air, catching it by the handle with ease as it falls.

Reminder: never fuck with this girl.

I take a quick second to scan the room. It's an office. The couch sits in the middle of the room over a large olive-green rug that dominates the space. The large desk on the far left wall holds four computer monitors. On two of the screens, I recognize live video of my building, a third still has the picture of that mystery woman's face, and the last I recognize as a mug shot of the person who tried to kill me only hours ago.

My face pales
, and my throat goes dry while my body tenses. Did that happen only hours ago? Fuck.

I look back at Alex
, who still hasn't looked at me. For some reason, my body fills with dread. Her face's soft, feminine features look stoic and emotionless.
This is new.
I'm reminded that we are still getting to know each other, regardless of our strong attraction to one another.

I don't know what else to do, so I lean against the
doorframe, watching her toss the knife.

"Bad time?" I whisper.

She catches the knife by the handle, closes her eyes tight, and without looking, flings the knife toward the wall again. It makes contact in practically the same spot with sharp precision. The sound as it hits the wall makes me jump.

She exhales sharply, bringing my eyes back to her. I'm lost in the moment, confused by what I should do. I want to bring her close, but I get the
impression she needs some distance. I am no good at this relationship thing.

I stroll inside and grab the knife from the wall, noting the hundreds of deep indents where this knife has landed many times before. I turn around to walk back toward the couch and notice her eyes are open and watching me with interest. Her eyes dart all over my face, and she looks apprehensive, as if I might bite.

I grab her feet, lifting them up so I can take a seat, and place them back in my lap. I hand her the knife, and its heavy weight surprises me as I give it to her handle first. "Here ya go."

She takes it. I cannot deny the weirdness of all of this. Knives
, guns, attempted murder. What the hell am I supposed to do?

I stare into space
, taking it all in for a moment, and then I let out a long breath. Her legs shift, and the next thing I know, she is sitting up. She wraps her arms around my neck, and takes a deep breath. She's warm and inviting, contrary to her earlier emotionless state. My arms come around her, and stroke her back because I want this too.

She nuzzles my neck, and I rest my chin on top of her head. To soften the tension
, I say, "Again, I think you wear my clothes better than I do."

I finally feel her smile against my chest, and I
let myself relax a bit. Maybe my loving girlfriend is just below this hard shell right now.

She pulls away from me, but still sits close. I move my hand, placing it on her bare thigh,
touching her warm, smooth skin.

"I like your shirts,” she says, her voice soft, like a child's
. “They smell like you."

I wasn't aware she likes how I smell. The corner of m
y mouth perks up at the thought, watching the warm glint fill the empty blank void that was her eyes moments ago. I can't stop thinking about that photo. I bring my hand up to her face, rubbing my thumb over her cheekbone and bottom lip. "You're really beautiful, you know that?"

Her eyebrows furrow
, and since I won't have that, I rub the soft V that forms between her brows. Every time. Why can't she accept the words that come out of my mouth?

She smiles at the sweet contact
, but her look still seems far off. I can tell she's a woman of few words right now, and I feel a bit lost about how to handle her mood shifts. One moment she is flinging knives—in what? Frustration?—and then I am rewarded with her adorable smile—in what? Happiness? I never can tell.
Such an enigma
. More mercurial than the wind.
Still so much to learn about each other.

She pulls away and tosses the knife onto the nearby desk, laying back down on the couch.

"Are you OK, Jeremy?" It's a sad statement, blurted out.

"Of course, I'm fine." I run my hand through my hair, looking at her. I want her to believe me, because I am
—aren't I?

"No. I mean it. You can't possibly be
all right with all this."

"I told you I am. Just take it for what it's worth." Are we on the verge of arguing about this?
Then it hits me. "Are
you
OK with all this?"

That lost girl look washes over her again, and she sits up to face me. She seems angry as she says, "No, Jeremy. I am not
OK with any of this! My boyfriend almost got killed, and now I am locked up with my arms tied behind my back because of protocol. I can't call anyone, and the only window I have is my computer." She points at the monitor with the picture of my attacker. "And I want to kill that fucker." She covers her mouth. "I didn't mean that."