Page 2 of Yours to Conquer

“Until that day, I reserve the right to dislike them,” I say as I gobble up the omelet. “This is amazing,” I sigh and give him the satisfied look he craves. “What makes it so good? It’s just veggies, bacon, and eggs.”

“I make it good. Without me, it’s just an omelet.” There’s that cocky arrogance that I love. Anthony has a swagger to him that most men can’t pull off, but on him—it’s sexy. He takes my empty plate and walks over to the sink.

“Since you cooked, I’ll clean.” I stand beside him and bump him out of the way with my hip. He steps aside and watches me while I wash up. He isalwayswatching me. He moves behind me and threads his hands under my arms, rubbing my stomach.

“I love having you here. I thought I was going to get you out of my system that first night. When that didn’t work, I took you to Catalina so I could spend the week trying to erase you from my mind. That didn’t work either. It’s been nearly four months, and I still want you as much as I did then.”

CHAPTER TWO

I lean my head against his chest as he kisses my neck. His hands tug at the tie that holds my robe together. As it falls open, I can feel the cool morning air against my skin. Anthony’s hands run up my stomach and settle on my breasts. He caresses my skin as a soft moan escapes my mouth.

I love his hands. I’ve spent many hours looking at them and have them memorized. His right index finger has a small scar across the middle knuckle. It happened before he mastered his knife skills in culinary school. His hands are soft with nicely groomed nails. It surprises me how such large hands can be so tender and loving. I’ve watched what hands can do when they’re angry, but Anthony has only used his hands to create beauty and passion.

“Hey, babe, where did you go? I lost you there for a minute. What are you thinking about?” He turns me in his arms to look into my eyes.

“I was thinking about your hands and how you always use them for pleasure, never for pain.”

“I would never lay a hand on you unless I meant it to give you pleasure. I know your life had been tough. You have some awfulmemories, but those are in the past, and no one will ever lay a hand on you again.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me tightly.

“Did you know my mom died twelve years ago this week?” I ask with a sigh.

“I didn’t know. It would help if you shared these things with me. We can get through the tough times together.” His big blue eyes are full of concern.

“I was standing here with your hands on me, wondering if she ever felt like this in her life. Did she ever get to feel the soft caress of a man’s hand on her body? Or was it always the sharp sting of an angry slap?”

“I don’t know, but I can promise you I’ll never hurt you with these hands.” He raises them, slightly wiggling his fingers before lowering them back down and around my waist. “I want to use my hands to make you scream in passion, never in pain.” He lowers his head and presses his lips to mine. My arms encircle his neck as my legs wrap around his waist. Cupping my bottom, he carries me with ease onto the deck and lowers us onto the chaise lounge. Turning me effortlessly in his arms, he settles me between his legs and wraps around me in a protective embrace. I look out over the ocean as the waves lap gently onto the shore.

“We’ve never talked about it, but I want to know what happened when you were a kid, Em. I know your dad was abusive; you’ve alluded to that. I need to know what you went through so I can help when things get you down. You’re a woman who loves passionately, and yet I always feel you’re holding something back. It’s like you’re afraid of losing yourself, so you refuse to let your guard down.” Pulling me deeper against his chest, he continues. “I haven’t pried because our relationship was new, and we were busy with the grand opening ofAhz. Now that things are slowing down, I want to take more time to get to know you. I know you physically, like the back of my hand, but I want to know what’s going on in your pretty littlehead. I want to earn your trust, Em. You need to be able to depend on me.”

I curl up onto his lap as he holds me against him, and I breathe deeply before I tell him my truth.

“My dad is a long-haul truck driver. He was gone most of the time. I always wondered why he would choose to be away from his family when he could’ve worked locally. Sometimes he’d be gone for weeks. Those were wonderful weeks. My mom was relaxed and carefree. She smiled a lot when he was gone.” I take a breath, deciding where I want to go with my story. Do I give him the rose-colored version, or do I give him the hard, gritty truth?

“We’d cuddle up on the couch together and watch movies likeSixteen CandlesandThe Breakfast Club.I’d see her eyes tear up during the romantic parts, and I often wondered what was behind those tears. Being twelve, I had no idea what happened in a grownup’s life.

“She was my protector, and for as long as I can remember, she defended me. He was always mad at me. I did nothing to deserve his wrath, but somehow I was always his target. I could sit at the table coloring, and he would lash out at me. If I were in the way, he would push me or knock me down. My mom would always rush in to intervene. She often stepped between us, forcing him to take his anger out on her.

“When he came home, he always smelled of cigarettes and alcohol. She would shuffle me off to my room or send me to Kat’s for the night. I’d hide in my locked room and listen to her screaming and crying. She was always bruised and bleeding when he left.” I pause as I remember the last day I saw her. She was beautiful with her long brown hair pulled back in a barrette and her green eyes brighter and happier than I’ve ever seen. I left for school without a care in the world.

“I don’t understand, Em. You told me that your dad was gone, and by the way you’re talking, it sounds as if he’s still alive and kicking.Can you clarify, babe? I want to understand.” His voice is soft and calm as he pulls me out of my deep thoughts. He has a soothing effect on my raw nerves. I hate talking about my past; it brings back such painful memories. I’ve seen horrifying things happen. I watched my mom get her heart ripped out and her ass beat over and over. I’m afraid of giving my heart away. The little bit I keep for myself protects me from being completely vulnerable.

“I told you he was gone, but I never said he was dead. He is gone, has been for a long time. I haven’t seen him since the funeral. The only time he has contacted me over the years has been to throw accusations and spew venom in my direction.”

“I misunderstood. I’m sorry,” he says as he places a gentle kiss on the top of my head. “Go on.”

I pause for a minute as I look out at the ocean. The water is almost glass-like, except for the gentle waves that are breaking on the shore. The view is a stark contrast to the storm I feel inside of my body.

“I don’t know what happened that last day. I came home from school, and he was there. I snuck in the front door and hid in the living room. He was yelling at her. He told her he was working hard to support her and her kid, and the least she could do was lay on her back when he got home. He said, ‘her kid’ like I didn’t belong to him. The tone in his voice terrified me. I ran straight to my bedroom as soon as I heard him yelling. There was so much noise.” I pull my hands to my ears, covering them as if it will help silence the memory. “I can hear breaking glass like it was yesterday. She must have heard me come in because she screamed for me to go to Kat’s.” Tears slip from my eyes while I tell the story. “I was afraid to walk out the front door, so I climbed out of my bedroom window like a coward. I heard the unmistakable sound of him hitting her. There is a sound that a fist makes when it crushes bone, and that’s the sound I heard as I jumped from my window ledge to the ground. She screamed that she hated him. I ran to Kat’s.”

“Did you always go to Kat’s when things got bad?” His large palm strokes my hair softly, and his voice coaxes me to continue.

“Yes, they always took me in. I’m pretty sure they knew what my life was like. It would be hard not to notice that every time my dad came home, my mom had horrific accidents. There was a range of injuries, from burns to broken bones, but his favorite was punching and kicking my mom in the stomach. No one but me got to see those injuries. I only saw them because I would have to help her bind herself to stabilize her broken ribs.”

“How did your mom die?” His voice is quiet. I can sense he’s afraid to ask the question. I’m not sure I want to answer it. It is hands down the most painful day of my life.

“I want to say he killed her. Deep down inside, I know that it’s true. He didn’t deliver the final blow, but he did enough that night to make her run. At some point, she packed up the car. I know she was planning to take me away because my clothes were there as well. Video footage shows her filling the car up with gas at the Shell on Baldwin Avenue. The video is grainy, but you can see she was beaten badly. Her left eye was swollen shut, and her right eye was not much better. She pulled out of the parking lot, and she must not have seen the semi coming. They said she died instantly.” Tears are spilling from my eyes at the memory.

“Oh, God, babe, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. I thought it was just an accident.” He pulls me close. “I got you. It’s going to be okay,” he whispers in my ear. I bury my face in his bare chest and cry. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried. In fact, I don’t think I ever really had time to grieve the loss of my mom. It forced me into self-preservation mode the minute she died.

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