Page 38 of Forbidden Confessions: Vol. 2
I wish like hell I could heap pleasure on her. But I know better. Look but don’t touch. Fantasize but don’t cross the line.
I’ve been inside when she’s at work, checking locks, updating security. Sometimes I linger longer than necessary, learning her habits from the books stacked beside her bed, the coffee mug always left in the same spot. And sometimes, I stand in the doorway of her dark bedroom while she sleeps, counting her breaths, making sure she’s safe.
But that’s as close as I can get to the life I want with her.
I feel like a mutt choked by a too-tight collar.
But I can’t be distracted. The men I’m protecting her from are the scourges and dregs of the criminal world. The worst of the worst. And the accountant who keeps asking her out doesn’t know how close he’s come to having his hands broken. In fact, I memorize every man who stares at her, file away their faces for future…reference.
Vanessa needs me…even if she doesn’t know it. I don’t dare walk away. I can’t.
Especially since I already know the taste of her sweet kiss. I’m haunted by it. And if my boss knew I was the first man to taste the innocence of his baby girl’s lips, I’d be dead.
It’s a no-win situation.
Tonight, Vanessa takes refuge from the storm on her porch. When it stops abruptly, she chats with her elderly neighbor, grabs her mail, and heads inside. All normal.
I wait for the lights to come on. And I wait. Then I wait some more.
They don’t.
Something is wrong. I feel it in my gut. I’m still alive because I listen to my instincts. So I do the one thing I haven’t in all the months of watching her.
I get out of my car and head for her house, looking for her through her windows. Nothing. In the gathering darkness, I draw my weapon and peer through a crack in her door. I see the vague outline of her purse on a nearby chair. There’s a pile of something—clothes?—on the kitchen floor. Her alarm isn’t whining.
Vanessa is still nowhere in sight.
Before I charge in, she tears around the corner. The moonlight shafting through the room tells me she’s not naked—but it’s close. Under silvery beams, I glimpse a flash of her pale hair and glowing skin. Stark shadows silhouette the rest of her, emphasizing her pouty breasts and the hard points of her nipples. The slight sway of her back is like a willow, curving gracefully into the swells of her pert ass. Her thighs are slender, her calves strong, and her feet delicate.
One look is all it takes. I burn. I hunger. I need.
I push desire aside when she runs to the kitchen like her very fine ass is on fire and scoops up her clothes. Then she charges in my direction, yanks her slightly squeaky front door wide open, and runs headlong into me, as if she was too afraid of what might be behind her to look straight ahead.
She gasps. Yeah, she’s not expecting me. I don’t want to scare the hell out of her, but her trembling tells me that ship has sailed.
What spooked her?
I need to find the threat and neutralize it—now.
Vanessa drops everything, eyes wide, backing away from me like I’m part of the problem, rather than the answer to it.
If there’s danger in the house, she’s not going back inside.
To ensure that, I wrap my arm around her in an unyielding grip, jerk her against me, and crush her body to mine.
Holy fuck, I’ve only once been as close to Vanessa Hartley as I am right now. And it ended with her lips on mine.
The memory, even if it’s ancient, isn’t helping my restraint.
When she opens her mouth to scream, I clap my hand over it and whisper, “Shh, Vanessa. Don’t be afraid.”
3
Vanessa
* * *
Don’t be afraid? I’m terrified—until the stranger’s voice penetrates my haze of fear. “Rush?”
