Page 63 of Quarantined with the Billionaire

Chapter Eighteen

I could have lain in his arms forever without ever getting under the covers. Between the heat of his body and the warmth emanating from the fire, I didn’t need anything else. But he lifted me up to slide the covers down before pulling them back up over us both and holding me close in his arms.

I thought he might have fallen asleep, based on the way his breath was flowing over my ear. His body cupped my ass as we both spooned in a relaxed fetal position. I should have been tired enough to sleep, but I couldn’t. Instead, I ran my hand along the flesh of his arm.

After a long time, I rolled over and touched his stubbly cheek before kissing his chin, then lips, then nose. But the poor man was out cold. I snuggled up against his chest, tracing patterns over his tight flesh in the semi-darkness. Finally, I had to get up and use the restroom and I debated for a few seconds if I wanted to use my restroom or his.

Silly.

I used his.

When I came back, Maddox had rolled over onto his other side. I could have awakened him, making him either roll back over or make room for me on that side of the bed, but I wanted to let him get his rest. Curling up next to him, pressing my face into his back, I tried sleeping again and couldn’t. After a while, he moved a little, and I opened my eyes, wondering if he’d be up for talking.

Or maybe round two. I didn’t know that any man ever had made me feel this aroused—or this desired—before.

As my eyes scanned his flesh, I noticed something on his back. Moving my finger over the spot, I at first thought maybe it was a birthmark. It was so damned dark in that room. I brought my face closer, squinting my eyes. And then I saw it for what it was: a tattoo. Tiny black script on his shoulder blade.

We will meet again one day, sweet Madeline.

What did that even mean? And who was Madeline?

Why did I feel like she, unlike Kate, was a threat? And how would I even bring it up with him? My fingers traced the delicate letters as I tried figuring out what my words would say when I asked. How could I ask without sounding like a jealous psycho?

Maddox made a sound while he stretched his back, and I wondered if maybe I’d awakened him with the way I’d been running my fingers over his muscles.

“You found the tattoo?” Even though he phrased it like a question, it sounded more like a statement.

“Yes.” My index finger continued stroking the lettering as if I had no control over that appendage. “I probably shouldn’t even ask who Madeline is, should I?”

“You have every right to ask,” he said, rolling over so that I could no longer look at the sole tattoo on his body. “I just don’t know that I’d be very good at explaining it.”

I knew a blow-off answer when I heard it. In the dimness of the room, it was impossible to assess his expression. And trying made me realize that whatever my brain was attempting—imagining Maddox in my life for any longer than the next few weeks I’d be working for him—was just a pipe dream.

“What have I told you about Kate?”

Why the hell did he want to talk about his ex-wife? Was Madeline another ex? Was I going to find out Maddox was a serial husband?

“Uh…she’s your ex-wife. Your divorce was pretty nasty—she tried to take everything from you.”

“Yes. Our marriage had been falling apart for a while. The signs had been there for a long time, and our metaphorical house was coming down around us, brick by brick. Then there was Madeline. Sweet Madeline. She was the final straw.”

What the hell was he talking about?

“You know what? This is pretty difficult to talk about. It would be easier to just show you.”

His voice was all but cracking, so I knew we were in touchy territory—but I wanted to know.

Needed to know. Even if Maddox and I were nothing but this moment, I wanted to know about this woman so important that Maddox had etched a permanent reminder of her in a place he’d have to struggle to see.

He sat up, sliding his legs over the side of the bed. At first, I thought maybe he was going to change his mind—and I started to move over, ready to wrap my arms around him. But then he got up and walked over to a dresser across the room. Pulling out a pair of gray sweatpants, he slid them up his muscular legs and turned back to the dresser, opening another drawer. I hopped out of bed, still wide awake, and picked up his shirt off the light beige carpet, fastening a couple of the buttons. The cologne on the shirt couldn’t overpower his own scent, and I suddenly felt warm and loved, just like his arms around me had always made me feel.

“Ah, that’ll work. I was trying to find something in here that might fit you, but I think you’re far too tiny. The shirt, though. Damn. I don’t know why we like to see our women in our own clothes. I needed that.”

Despite the way my stomach was roiling, I smiled at his statement but kept my words to myself. What he’d actually said, the full meaning, didn’t sink in with me until much later.

“Follow me.”

Holding out a hand to me, he walked through the doorway. I slipped my hand in his as he led me a few steps away to the one room in the house I hadn’t been allowed to enter. I’d obeyed him, trying hard not to think about it. What could be in here?

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