Secrets to Hide 3: Just a Little More (7 page)

“All right. We won’t open tomorrow, so plan to take the next couple of days off.”

“But—”

“That’s an order. Don’t argue with me. God, you’re stubborn.” Damien’s strained chuckle ended in a sigh. “You’ve got the number I gave you for Becky, right?”

The therapist’s business card was still in his wallet, as a matter of fact. Any doubts he’d had about calling her were gone. Tonight his coddling could very well have cost the woman he loved her life. No more. “I have it. I’ll be giving her a call first thing in the morning.”

“Good, good.” Muffled voices and the sound of clinking glass came through the line. “I’ve got to get things closed up here. Anything, Brad. Remember that. Contact me anytime.”

“I will.”

Damien’s grunt was doubtful, and Brad knew he’d be getting another call in the morning. The sound at least drew a smile as the phone went dead in his ear.

He closed and locked the door. Walking toward Angel was as much a compulsion as a necessity, one he had no intention of fighting. He ignored the closed-off expression on her face, the tight cross of her arms locking the blanket over her body. The reality that she was home and safe, the sheer relief of it rose in a tidal wave that swamped every thought except getting her as close to him as possible. When he scooped her into his arms and dropped onto the couch, he felt for the first time that night that everything would be all right.

“You shouldn’t hold me; I’m all wet,” she protested, squirming on his lap.

“I don’t care.” He tucked her head under his chin, leaned back so that she was tipped over onto his chest, and closed his eyes. He let his hands roam over her, reassuring himself that she was okay and massaging warmth into her body at the same time. The sense of rightness, of her being where she belonged, grew stronger. He wanted to stay there forever, but her clothes really were wet—he could feel the moisture seeping into his jeans. Better to get her fully warm and be a sentimental idiot later.

Scooting closer to the end of the couch, he measured the distance carefully before settling her back against the arm. “Here, let’s check you out.”

Angel watched as he pulled the blanket open. He checked her hands first, rubbing softly along her wrists and palms and fingers. Still cool, but not the ice-cold shock he’d felt in the car. Her skin was pale but not the stark white of before. Squelching sounds followed the wiggling of her feet, and it took some wrangling to get the tangled shoelaces untied and slide her shoes off. Her socks were wet. “Damn it.”

He shifted out from under her to sit at her feet. The socks dripped as he tugged them down and dropped them on the floor beside the couch, one after the other.
Plop. Plop
. When he gripped Angel’s bare feet, she flinched. Then moaned. He glanced up, but Angel pushed her feet harder into his hands. “Warm.”

“Mmm.” Just hearing the greedy pleasure in her voice choked him up. He massaged her delicate feet, rolled each toe gently between his fingers, but his eyes stayed on hers, watching her reaction, seeing what hurt and what felt good. “How do you feel?” he finally asked. “Any numbness? Do you hurt anywhere?”

Angel shook her head. “I’m…incredibly tired.” As if the words made it so, her head tipped back to rest gently on the arm of the couch. “Everything seems to be thawed okay, just achy.”

“Okay.” He wanted to let her rest, wanted to lie down himself and just let everything stop. He couldn’t. If they didn’t move, Angel wouldn’t get warm and dry, and she was a bigger priority than his emotional hangover. He grabbed her hands and drew her up with him as he stood. “You need to get out of these clothes and into the shower. It will get you good and warm. Should be safe by now.”

And if he hurried, he might not jump her when she needed it least.

She opened her mouth, probably to protest, but Brad ignored her. He pulled her down the hall and into his bedroom, straight through to the bathroom. Putting the lid down on the toilet, he nudged his chin at her. “Have a seat.”

“Brad, I can—”

“Sure you can.”

Angel’s hands fluttered around his as he guided her onto the seat and unzipped her coat. “What—”

He clenched his fingers in either side of her jacket. “Are you really gonna argue about me seeing you naked?”

“You seeing me naked? I don’t—”

“I do. I want you warm. I want to know you’re healthy, and whole.”
And mine
. If he was honest, that was the driving force behind stripping her. It might make him a selfish prick, but he needed to brand her, needed to know once and for all that she was his. He was finally, after all these years, going to see her fully naked. The thought made him shake like a druggie in need of a fix. Telling himself sex might not be in the cards, telling his cock to stand down, telling his overactive libido she needed taking care of, not ravishing, was useless against the knowledge that she was about to be bare before him. The best he could hope for was to get her in the shower quick and give himself a breather—elsewhere—while she got warm.

He resumed his stripping and got all the way to her bra before Angel seemed to break out of her astonishment.

She grabbed his wrists as he reached around her sides, going for the catch. “Brad, stop. Just for a minute.”

“Angel—” But he stopped. No way in hell could he pull away, though.

Angel wasn’t letting go either. She took his hands and guided them down to her denim-covered thighs. Her fingers stroked his while she seemed to struggle to gather her thoughts. Finally she shook her head. “Brad, I…I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” His wrist went cool as she released it, raising her hand to rub along the dark stubble lining his jaw. “Please believe me. I didn’t intend to hurt myself. I-I might not be as…stable…as I’d like to be right now, but I would never willingly leave you. Never.”

He wanted to believe her, but the sight of her sitting in that doorway, her eyes closed, was burned into the backs of his eyelids. “Then why didn’t you call me?” He covered her hand with his, holding her warmth to his cheek. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

Angel closed her eyes as if he’d stabbed her, which only added to his confusion. When she opened them, her midnight gaze was stark. “I can’t keep hanging on your coattails, Brad. You deserve a life, not a dependent.”

“A de—” The word sputtered on his tongue. “You’re kidding me, right?” Grasping her shoulders, he shook her gently. “Angel, when are you going to open your eyes? You’re not a dependent, and even if we were still just friends, I would be right here helping you. I love you. You would help me if I needed it, right?” He willed his words to sink deep into her heart, to finally, somehow, get through to her. “We’re in this together.”

“YOU DON’T NEED help.” Yes, she loved that he wanted to take care of her, but if he always gave and she always took, what good was she to him? What else would he get out of their relationship than, eventually, frustration?

“I sure as heck do,” he told her. “And it’s about time you stepped up to the plate.”

By the last word his voice had dropped to a sexy rumble that sent a shiver—the good kind—down her spine.

“Really?” she asked, a little breathless. “How?”

As if she didn’t already know.

A faint smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes smoldered as they dropped to her mouth. “I can think of a few ways.”

She could too, but at least one of them brought to the surface fears she’d tried hard to bury the last few weeks. “What if…?” She swallowed, the sound a dry
click
in her ears. “What if I can’t?”

Brad rubbed her thigh, his touch so gentle, so at odds with the heat from moments before, that tears welled behind her eyes. “Then you can’t. And it won’t be the end of the world. Or the last time we try. We’ll get there, when the time is right.”

The determination in his voice, in the lines of his face, that same determination she remembered even back when he’d fought Robby the Pervert out on the fifth-grade playground, bled through him and into her. She could feel it adding concrete to her bones, stiffness to her spine. She could feel the “me” she’d thought was lost, the Angel who didn’t take shit and gave Brad as good as she got, racing for the surface and breaking through. Filling out her hollow skin. And as she savored that feeling and the look in Brad’s eyes, she knew one more thing: she wanted this man not just for her own, for always, but she wanted his body, tonight. Right now. She wanted what they had to go from the abstract to the real—and she was no longer too afraid to make it happen.

“I love you,” she whispered, her heart aching. “I want you; you have to know that.” She took a deep breath, gathering every ounce of love and hunger and courage writhing inside her into a big ball. “I scared the shit out of more than one person tonight. I don’t ever want to do that again, to you or to me. I know I need help.”

The gray of his eyes went dark. “I know you do too, and we’re going to get you what you need.”

“It might be a while before things…before
I
am normal again.”

Brad brushed a kiss along her lips. “Beautiful, if I have any say in it, things will never be normal again. They’ll be much better.”

“They will?”

He smiled. “They will.” He gave her thigh a light squeeze. “You can do this. I don’t care how many times I have to say it, how many hours or days or months it takes until you believe it. It will still be true. You can get better, and I will be right there beside you all the way. You belong to me.”

The truth of his words shone in his eyes, heating her up in places far beyond her heart. Demand beat in her very blood. She was going to take back control of her life, and she was going to start with the most important thing in it. She reached around and, with a deep breath and a flick of her fingers, did something she’d never done with a man before: she popped the catch on her bra. The damp, silky straps slid off with a dip of her shoulders, leaving her bare to his gaze. “Then show me.”

The sexiest little hitch interrupted his breath as he stared down at her breasts. “God, Angel. Just…God.”

Slowly she reached for his wrists, pulling his arms down until his palms centered on her peaked nipples. “I love you, Brad. Show me I’m not alone, that I’m yours. Please.”

His fingers splayed, not grasping her breasts but not letting go either. “Angel, we need to get you in the tub.”

She set her hands over his, curling their fingers down until he held the swelling mounds—and her heart—literally in the palms of his hands. “Then join me. Take off your shirt.”

At her words, his fingers clamped down, rolling her breasts against his work-roughened skin. The breath in her lungs rushed out at the pleasure that pierced her, but still he hesitated.

“Brad, do it.” She flattened her palm against his belly and slid down, coming to rest against a firm erection that spoke louder than words about how on board he was. “Now,” she said with a gentle squeeze.

“Shit!” He pressed into her touch, throwing his head back in a primal display of need. “Angel!”

She could hold him in her hands forever. There was nothing quite as powerful as the feel of him lengthening under her touch, the deep growls escaping him as she kneaded the heavy flesh tilting forward into her palm. Except maybe hearing the word
shit
on his lips. She knew his rule, knew he tried never to cuss in front of her—stupid protectiveness. But she wanted him to lose control, to be mindless under her touch. Just the thought made her hungry, made need shiver deliciously down her spine to settle between her legs. She squeezed him lightly once more.

The clothes between them were too much. She needed him naked; she needed her naked and available to every touch, every experience she could possibly have with this man. And so she pulled her hand away and tugged at the tucked-in hem of his dress shirt. “Please.”

Kneeling in front of her, he stared into her eyes, and Angel stared right back, letting him see the truth she had no desire to hide. She wanted him to know everything about her, not just her words but the secrets that lay deep down inside.

Whatever he saw must’ve settled his lingering doubts, because he leaned in, his breath skimming her mouth. “Well, okay then.”

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, he stood. Angel felt her heart flutter as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it, buttoned and all, over his head. The sleeves caught at the closed wrists. Brad jerked impatiently at them, and the buttons popped—one, two—so he could toss the shirt aside.

God
. The wide expanse of heavy muscle that made up his torso had always fascinated her. He was perfect; he’d always been perfect. Even when they’d been teenagers playing at the lake every summer, before he’d reached manhood, filled out, and become mouthwateringly sexy, he’d drawn her like no other. Now, as his fingers deftly undid the button fly of his jeans, she knew all those late-girlhood dreams—not just kissing him, but seeing what actually lay beneath his wet swimsuit or clingy sweatpants, feeling the most intimate parts of him respond to her touch, watching his face as he lost himself in the throes of orgasm—were coming true.

She couldn’t wait.

Brad shucked his jeans, taking his briefs and his socks, one leg and then the other, with them. When he stood, she noted the red flags of color topping his cheeks. Signs of his desire, she was sure, because he had nothing to be embarrassed about. Her gaze drifted along the faintest dusting of brownish-blond hair across his chest to the thicker trail that bisected his hard abs, to the triangle of curls that framed his beautiful penis. Proud, tall, flushed at the tip with the faintest purple hue. Without thought Angel stepped forward, her hand brushing his hair-rough thigh to grasp his shaft. Goose bumps skittered along his skin as he arched into her touch. “Fu-u-c-c…”

The word stuttered out, disappointing her. She rubbed her thumb lightly against the V just under the head of his shaft. “Don’t. Don’t hold back, Brad.” She stared up into his eyes, willing him to understand. “I can take it all.” Leaning forward, she took her first taste, one smooth lick along the proud vein lining his length.

Brad grunted. When she glanced up beneath lowered lashes, his eyes were black with hunger. “Fuck, Angel,” he whispered roughly, “what you do to me.”