Page 48 of Mangled Memory
“I only demand control in the bedroom, Princess. And you’ve never had a problem with that.”
I hold his eyes but fight not to let the shiver coursing through me be visible. The heat at my core must be evident, or at a minimum I’ve given something away, because his eyes smolder and his lips tip just enough to keep the shiver moving.
“I’ll remind you soon enough. This—” he points to his shoulder with his good hand. “This will simply delay me a bit.”
“Good to know. I’ll go… get ready or something,” I toss over my shoulder as I head for the hall.
“Need to change your panties?”
I spin back to him, my mouth agape, and the man has the nerve to wink.
He freaking winks.
I don’t even respond, well… at least verbally. I turn on my heel, head held high, and go to my bathroom to brush my teeth. The espresso I made tasted like battery acid, and I need thatflavor gone. A little makeup and a change of clothes later, I’m making my way out of the bathroom as Christian enters.
He loops a palm around the back of my neck and holds my gaze. “You look positively edible.” His eyes drop to my mouth for a moment before he squeezes and lets me go, sliding past me for his closet.
Damn my traitorous panties.
Recuperation is torturous.
Christian is fine, mind you. He works and, with the exception of his exercise routine, everything seems to be business as usual. Except his flirting has skyrocketed. It’s as if gunpowder ignited his libido, and he can’t seem to turn it off.
Or he doesn’t want to.
And I’d be lying to say I’m not falling for it. I want to know more about how he won me the first time, but instead, I’m seeing it in action.
He isn’t shy about his feelings. He doesn’t bait me and play with his food. He’s bold as brass in his desires, his needs, and I feel it in my bones.
My mind is at war. I love the flirt and the chase. I adore this being desired and wanted. There is no doubt.
And I’m desperate for his touch.
At the same time, there’s something—and I can’t put my finger on what—that holds me back. A gnawing in the pit of my stomach that is just not right.
It’s the shadow in my brain of less than happily ever after. It’s a niggling suspicion that we might not have been wholly blissful. Is this a do-over? Or is this reality two-point-oh.
After a week at home, fighting these demons alone, I head for the salon to see Jessi. I promised myself a blowout weeks ago, but mostly I need what I’ve dubbed follicular therapy. It means my hair gets therapy while I have time with my friend who is agoddess among women. She’s good for my head but she’s great for my heart.
“Keep doing that.” It comes off on a moan as she massages my scalp.
“That’s what all the girls say,” she replies with a smile.
“I’d believe it. Your fingers are magic.”
“They say that too.”
How she’s remained humble with as talented as she is is a mystery.
Warm water stifles any conversation before a hot towel wraps around my hair and she tilts me back upright. We move to the chair where she begins her magic.
“No, really. How have you been?”
I look at her in the mirror and shrug. “Good. Fine. Not fine. I’m fucked in the head and am over it. I need a therapist who won’t think I’m batshit for what’s happening up there.”
“I know someone. If you want a rec, I’d be happy to give one. She’s trustworthy. I wouldn’t steer you wrong.”
“Yes, please. Now tell me how you are and don’t leave out things you may have mentioned before. It’ll all be new information, I promise.” I roll my eyes and give her a fake smile.
