If I Were You (19 page)

“I don’t. Just you.” And suddenly his mouth is on mine, his
tongue pressing past my teeth, stroking me until I’m mindless. We are all over
each other, touching and kissing, and I barely register the robe falling away.

“Damn it, woman, you are making me crazy,” he groans,
pressing me against the wall, his fingers caressing my breasts, teasing my
nipples, his mouth already devouring mine.

I can feel him shoving down his pants. “Hurry,” I plead. “I
need-“

He kisses me. “Me too, baby. Me too.”

And then somehow, he’s inside me. Oh God.
Yes
. He’s
inside me, thick and hard and I’m no longer on the ground or against the wall.
He’s lifted me and my legs are wrapped around his waist. He is thrusting into
me, pulling me down on top of him, pushing me so that I’m leaning so far back I
feel like I might fall; only he has me. His arm is around my waist, his
powerful body pushing into mine, his hot gaze raking over my breasts, and he
has me. He won’t let me fall and that knowledge, that certainty that comes from
some place deep inside, allows me to let go. I let myself feel and not think. I
am lost to the passion, to the moment, and the push of him inside me, the
pleasure of him stretching me, is more than I can take. An orgasm ripples
through me with a sudden, intense blast, my body clenching around his. He
groans with the impact and God, that groan is hotness personified. I feel the
wet, warm heat of his release and I am past my release, and clear-headed enough
to revel in the beauty of his face etched with the pleasure I am giving him. I
am spellbound by the sight of him, hanging on every second of his release,
watching the tension in his features slowly ease into relaxation.

He pulls me close and buries his face in my neck and just
holds me for long seconds, still standing, holding my weight and his. My gaze
goes to the window and I am aware of the blue sea and gorgeous city beneath us.
Of the feeling of sanctuary I’ve found here and nowhere else, if only for a
short while.

Slowly, Chris slides me to the ground and offers me a paper
towel which I demurely accept, feeling a wave of shyness. Yes indeed, I’m a
contradiction these days. Chris fixes his pants and then grabs the robe and
pulls it around me.

“I’d like to take you somewhere and show you something I think
you’ll like,” he says. “Overnight, if you can?”

Overnight with Chris? The idea thrills me more than it
should and I remind myself this is a hot fling. Enjoy it while I can. Don’t get
attached. Don’t fall for him. “Where?” I ask.

“Is that a yes?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Then it’s a surprise but you’ll like it, I promise.” He
glances at a clock. “But if we’re going to do everything I want to do, we have
to get going.”

“I have to go home and shower and get clothes. I don’t even
have a shirt to wear out of here.”

“You can use my shower, and you leave clothes to me.”

“Chris-”

He picks me up and I yelp. “What are you doing?”

“Taking you to the shower. Me Tarzan. You Jane. Do as I
say.”

I laugh at his silliness, and think that he’s the
contradiction. All rough, tough manly man and a gentle bear at the same time.

We pass the coffee table. “Wait! I need my purse.”

He backs up and leans down enough for me to grab it. I
snatch it. “My skirt-“

“I’ll get you clothes,” he says, charging up the steps from
the living room to the foyer by the elevator and down another hallway I hadn’t
even noticed, and then up a winding set of stairs that ends in his bedroom,
which is spectacular. A massive black bed on a pedestal with an incredible view
I only get to see in passing before I am deposited on the white marble floor of
a bathroom the size of my bedroom.

“I’m leaving you here and shutting you inside because if I
join you, we won’t leave anytime soon.”

I open my mouth to object but it’s too late. He kisses me
quick and hard on the mouth and then steps out of the room and shuts the door
behind him. I am alone in Chris Merit’s bathroom and all I can do is smile.

Chapter Twenty-One

I use Chris’s soap and shampoo; it has a sandalwood musky
smell that reminds me of him, and makes me wish he’s in the shower with me.
Images of the things we’ve done together, the conversations we’ve shared, pour
through me as the hot water pours over me. Chris confuses me on every possible
level. Or maybe I’m confused anyway. Until this past week, I’d convinced myself
I had life figured out.
Did I
let my father beat me by leaving
everything behind? Part of me says no. I escaped with my own identity. I stood
up for what I believed in. My love of art had been like my mother’s, a
frivolous hobby, not a career. My role would have been like my mother’s, that
of servitude to my father, and in my case, also Michael.

Another part of me, well, it grimly says that I ran rather
than stood up to my father and demanded he accept who and what I am, not who he
wanted me to be. I’d always hoped my mother would stand up for herself, and
what had I done? I’d simply left. I’d run. Chris is right. No wonder I wanted
to hit the man. He’d made me see the bitter, hard truth of my actions. He’d
made me wish I’d been braver, made me see I’d lost five years of my life I can
never get back. Still, I don’t want to see my father. I don’t want his damn
money. I can’t be certain I’d have stayed in my current state of mind, but I
would have fought for my dream, rather than hiding from everything. Wasn’t that
the entire reason I left? To be me? I inhale and let it out. Me. I don’t know
myself.

My stomach is officially in knots and I turn off the water.
I did run. I can’t deny it. Damn it to Hell, I’m furious with myself. But I can
create my own life and success now that I’ve decided to try. Resolve forms deep
in my soul, where I’ve not felt anything for a long while…until Chris. I am
going to embrace what is before me, including this weekend with Chris. Chris is
my escape. This new job is my hope. 

Pushing open the glass doors, I wrap myself in a fluffy
white towel I’d found in a cabinet and wish for my clothes. Chris might dig up
a shirt for me, but I’m sure he knows I need more for the weekend. We’ll have
to make time to stop by my place, and the idea bothers me. My place. My little
hole in the wall the size of Chris’s bedroom and bathroom. It shouldn’t matter
but somehow it does. 

Stepping to the vanity mirror, I find the hair dryer easily
since it’s sitting on the shiny white tiled counter. Hair products are crucial
though and I pull open the spacious medicine chest to hunt some down. Chris’s
electric shaver, and various toiletries, including cologne and lotion are
inside. No hair products. He has such great hair, and it’s as long as his chin,
so it must require gel or some kind or product.

I start to close the cabinet, and hesitate, picking up the
cologne, and spraying it in the air, drawing in the familiar scent of Chris,
warm and wonderful, and strong in ways I’ve never experienced before.
If you
think the guy trying to protect you instead of walk all over you is the one
trying to run your life, you’re just as fucked up as I am.
Ah yes, I think.
Exactly. I am. So is he. We are destruction waiting to happen to each other;
he’s a drug, as Rebecca had called the man in the journal, I’m already addicted
to.

I shake off the thought and return the cologne to the
cabinet. Still without hair products, I decide to focus on my makeup. Grabbing
my purse, I pull out the journal to get to my makeup and set it on the counter,
staring at it like it’s some exploding device. “Where are you?” I whisper
softly, but I’m not sure I’m talking to her or me. I am lost in her life, and I
wonder if I want to be found? Does she want to be found wherever she is? Has
she escaped into a new life like I have?

With Rebecca on my mind, I focus on creating a soft, natural
look with my makeup and I finish with lip gloss. With no hair products, I turn
on the dryer, and wish for some straightening serum. Ten minutes later, my hair
is dry and a bit wild. I’d kill for a flat iron right now. 

I drop the towel and grab the robe, wrapping it around me,
ready to find my clothes. I pause at the medicine cabinet and open it again,
reaching for Chris’s cologne and squirting it all over me. Inhaling, I draw in
the spicy scent and smile. I like smelling like Chris. 

Tentatively, I pull open the door to the bathroom and Chris
is nowhere to be found, but the bedroom door is open. My bare feet touch the
hardwood floor and my gaze settles on the massive bed. On top are a good seven
or eight bags, all from two high-end brand name stores I know are in the
building next door. On the floor is a woman’s Louis Vuitton travel case which
would sport a $2500 price tag.

My throat goes dry and my chest hurts. I walk toward the
items and when I reach the bags I see they are packed with clothes, shoes, and
even, yes, bath items and a flat iron. A very expensive flat iron that puts my
bargain special to shame.

I’ve been in the shower maybe forty-five minutes and somehow
he’s pulled off an entire shopping spree. Or rather, he called downstairs and
the staff jumped through hoops. These are expensive items, thousands of dollars
expensive.

My heart begins to thunder in my chest. These are all stores
I used to shop at. Stores I enjoyed. Sure, I left the money behind, but a more
humble life hasn’t been easy. I’ve found a place to store away the hunger for
more, along with everything else associated with my past. I’d convinced myself
I was fine, that I don’t need these things. That I didn’t care. But staring at
these bags, there is an ache inside me, and I know it’s not simply about nice
things. It’s about everything I left behind, about how easily that old life
forgot me, even if I didn’t forget it.

“Anything you don’t like we can take back when we get back
to the city.”

I turn to find Chris standing in the doorway, one shoulder
propped against the doorjamb, looking sexy and all man. “I can’t take these
clothes, Chris.”

He pushes off the doorjamb. “Of course you can.”

“No. No, I can’t.” I feel panic rising inside me.

He stops in front of me. “Sara-“

“I just want to run by my place and get my things.”

“I made us reservations someplace special. We have more than
an hour’s drive. We need to get on the road right away.”

“Chris.” There is desperation in my voice I can’t suppress.
”I
can’t
take these things.”

“Sara, baby, if it’s about money, that’s not an issue. I
want to spend it on you.” He slides his hands to my cheeks, framing my face.
“You’ve spent five years without the nice things you grew up knowing. Let me do
this for you. I
want
to do this for you.”

“Chris--”

“You can’t tell me you don’t miss these things.”

“I do fine with the simple life.”

“That’s not the point. You
have
to miss these
things.”

Denial is on my lips, but he’s watching me closely, and he’s
too smart to not see the truth. “Out of sight, out of mind. It’s how I cope,
not like this.”

He runs a hand through my hair. He’s gentle and I fight the
urge to lean into him, aware it will lesson my position. “You think I’m going
to get you used to nice things and then leave.”

“I know you are, Chris.”

He presses his forehead to mine, strokes my cheek. “I told
you. You’ll be the one who’ll run away, not me.”

Me? Run away from him? He keeps saying that and now more
than ever, it confuses me. Mr. No White Picket Fence, and no relationship, is
sounding like he’s in this to stay and I’m not. His actions and words don’t
compute and there is deep-seated need inside me rising and taking shape. A
relationship with Chris beyond sex is becoming far too appealing to be safe. I
don’t want to fall for him. I don’t want to convince myself there is more
between us than there is. “Chris--”

He kisses me, a long, deep, drugging kiss that leaves me
panting. “Get dressed, baby.” He nuzzles my neck and pulls back, a surprised
look on his face. “Are you wearing my cologne?” And the erotic heat in his eyes
burns away my objections about these gifts.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I like smelling like you.”

The yellow flecks I adore in his green eyes burn nearly
orange. “I like you smelling like me.” He kisses me again, his tongue stroking
mine in a deep, seductive caress before he sets me away from him. “Get dressed
before I don’t let you.” He turns and heads out the door, shutting it behind him.

I stare after him, feeling dazed, and my confusion ranks as
perpetual. He really wants me to have these clothes, I realize. And more so, it
feels like he wants me to have them to please me, not him. Though I’d not
allowed myself to have the thought upon seeing the bags, deep down I’d feared
he was trying to make me fit some acceptable mold before taking me to a public
place he knows well. I’ve been there, done that, lived in the place where I had
to meet standards to be seen in public.

But no. I don’t believe Chris needs me to fit some perfect
image to be on his arm. I felt his sincere desire to do this for me. Emotion
wells inside me. This is the first time since my mother died that I truly feel
cared about. It matters to me. Chris is beginning to matter to me. I have to
take the gifts.

My gaze falls on the bags. Maybe I do need these things.
They will motivate me to study and earn a place at Riptide. It’s not like
before, when there was no hope of extra income. Yes. I am good with this. Chris
is helping to motivate me.  

Nevertheless, there’s a knot in my stomach as I go through
the items and pack the suitcase, finding several dresses, a pair of boots,
several heels, lingerie and toiletries. The lingerie is beautiful and
expensive, and my blood heats thinking of wearing it for Chris. Since we are
traveling and I have no idea where we’re going, I decide to go casual since
Chris is in his typical biker gear.

After trying on a few items and picking my favorites, I
choose a pair of slim black jean leggings and a sleek camel-colored blouse with
sequins. The outfit is complete with a pair of high-heeled boots that lace up
to my ankles. Beneath it all, I am wearing a cream-colored jeweled bra and
thong set I’d pulled a ridiculous price tag from.

The flat iron is a relief, and I quickly put it to use, and
note that I also have a curling iron for later use. For now, thanks to a high
quality flat iron, and some styling products also in the bags, my hair falls in
sleek, shiny brunette waves down my shoulders. I glance at the two kinds of
perfume that were included but I choose to spray on another dollop more of
Chris’s cologne.

Finally, I’m ready and I head to the living room with my new
Vuitton bag in tow. Chris is sitting in a leather chair, legs propped up on an
ottoman and a sketch pad in hand. He sets the pad aside the instant he sees me
and stands up.

“You look beautiful, Sara.”

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure how to dress.”

He walks towards me, all loose-legged swagger and hotness.
“You would have been perfect no matter what you chose.
You
are perfect.”

No one in my life has ever said that to me but my mother.
That it’s Chris saying it now, that he is saying it with appreciation glowing
in his hot gaze, warms me in ways well beyond the words.

He strokes a lock of my hair behind my ear, something I’m
becoming accustomed to him doing, but I still shiver from the gentleness of the
touch. “Ready to leave?”

“Yes. Where are we going?”

His lips curve. God, he has great lips. “I told you, baby.
It’s a surprise.”

More of the emotion I’d felt in the bedroom, rises inside
me. “Chris--”

“Don’t thank me. Just be with me, Sara.”

“I am. I want to be.”

His lips curve. “Good.” He motions toward the exit. “Let’s
blow this joint, then, aye?”

I laugh. “Aye.”  

We head to the elevator, me pulling my roller Vuitton and
him with a black leather case he throws over his shoulder. There is a raw
energy and excitement in the air, and we glance at each other and smile. I’ve
never had that kind of energy with anyone. I feel suddenly light and free. This
is an adventure. Chris is an adventure.

We exit in a garage and I immediately spot not one, not two,
but three Harleys, and stop dead in my tracks. “Holy cow, they’re all yours,
aren’t they?”

He grins. “Yeah. You ever been on one?”

I shake my head.

“We’ll have to fix that soon.” He clicks his key ring and
the Porsche’s lights flicker.

We approach the car and next to it I admire a sky blue,
classic Mustang that’s been remodeled. “Is this yours too?” I ask, pausing
beside it.

“I have a thing for remodeling old Mustangs.”

“How many do you have?”

“Five.”

I blink at him. I know he has money. I know he’s sold a lot
of work. But still. “How rich are you, Chris?”