Page 53 of Heated
Whoa.
Whoa.
Chocolate cake curdles in my stomach, and the thought of another bite is enough to send bile racing for my throat. Gingerly, I lean downand set the plate on the floor. Here is where I need to segue into something, anything, lighter. Distract him from the big toxic heap of truth I just dumped on him. Where did that come from? All he did was ask me about Sherlock Holmes, and like a door on creaking, broken hinges, it swung wide open, and I allowed all of that ...shitto spill out.
Say something, dammit.
The weather.
The cake. Talk about the fucking cake.
But my tongue, suddenly made of the heaviest concrete, sticks to the roof of my mouth.
“Makes sense now,” he murmurs.
What does?burns in my mind, but again, I can’t voice it. And what’s more? I’m afraid to hear his answer. Yet I sit there. I don’t get up and leave to the kitchen, the stairs, or even the damn front door. Because more than my need to escape is my desire to beseen.
“Why you left your parents’ home the other night,” he continues, as if I did pose the question. “But more importantly, why you volunteered to break up with me on Val’s behalf.”
Oh God.
“Cyrus, I—”
He narrows his eyes, and my voice fades away. “I respect your no-personal-questions stipulation, and I won’t pry any further into what you’ve just admitted. That’s safe with me. But I’m not going to ignore it either.” He shifts closer on the couch until my knee nudges his muscled thigh, and his cedar-and-leather scent reaches out and wraps around me in an ephemeral embrace. “All this time I couldn’t understand why such a strong-willed, sharp woman would allow herself to be used by Val. But it wasn’t that at all, was it?”
His gaze roams my face, and I curl my fingers into the cushion next to my thigh to keep from stroking my fingertips over all the places it lands on. My forehead. My nose. My mouth.
“It’s because of them, your parents. You did it because you can’t stand to see anyone end up like your parents. I bet you were the peacemaker in your house. And now you’re doing the same for your so-called friends. Am I right, Zora?”
I’m speechless.
Had I said I wanted to be seen? Old sayings are old sayings for a reason: because they’re true. Be careful what you wish for. I’m sitting here vulnerable, feeling more naked than I have when I’ve been stripped of clothes. And it’s uncomfortable. It’s frightening.
It’sexhilarating.
I choke back a cry and dig my fists into the couch cushions. My nails bite into the flesh of my palms, and the sting should ground me, center me, but it doesn’t. It only serves to heighten the vivid intensity of this moment. I’m seeing in sounds, breathing in colors, hearing in scents—everything is upside down because he’s ripped me open.
Those eyes that never miss a thing drop to my stiff arms, to my tightly curled hands, and then slowly rise to my face. He studies me for several long moments, and I struggle to remain impassive, to conceal the emotional maelstrom whipping me to shreds.
“Do you want to touch me?”
“No.” My answer is reflexive, born of years of learning to depend on myself.
But inside ... inside, a wail shouts at me to take, take what’s being offered. But I can’t. Old habits die hard. And at this point, I don’t even know how to take what I want. The one time I did, I ended up in my current situation: lying to him.
“Do you want me to make you touch me?”
Take the choice from me? Let me lean on all that strength for this moment? Let him hold me like in my description of my perfect date?
I can’t ...
“Yes,” I whisper.
He moves closer. And closer still. Breathing is a precious memory. Thinking is an outdated ideal.
His big hands gently grasp my wrists, and his fingers wrap around them, branding my skin. He lifts my arms, and I watch them, as if they don’t belong to me. I watch as he guides my hands to his wide dress-shirt-covered chest. One by one, he uncurls my fingers, running his fingertips along their lengths. That caress to each digit streaks down my palms and my arms to my breasts, my nipples, reminding me I’m very much attached. I’m very much present andalive.
He flattens my hands to his chest, and the beat of his heart echoes between my legs, my sex picking up the rhythm, and I squeeze my thighs against the ache that takes up residence there. It’s useless, though. I’m becoming that tempo, everything in me transforming to surrender to it.
