Page 181 of Mangled Memory
Fuck that.
I toss back the covers. My tee isn’t appropriate for anyone but me, and my panties are drenched. And I can’t bring myself to care about either.
I throw the door wide, march into the bathroom, and stop dead.
Christian is in the shower. Steam billows and fogs the glass wall. One hand on the stone tile, head bowed, he fists his cock, pulling in merciless, rough jerks. I should look away. I should run away, but I don’t.
I can’t.
He looks up and holds my eyes. The anger in them is unmistakable. His eyes never stray as he chokes his dick with angry strokes. His abs are tight and defined, bunching and making grooves that water runs down until it meets that deep vee.
By the time my eyes have traveled his gorgeous, muscled body and hit his face again, my anger is gone. Well, not gone, but definitely back-burnered to other things… namely, appreciation and lust.
The sound of water and our mingled breaths fill the room until his abs contract and he spills himself over his hand, and his taut body relaxes. Water sluices over his head and down his back, around his shoulders and along his body.
His face is no longer angry, but it’s still equally as tortured. “Ayla.” My name on his lips is a whispered prayer.
I move closer to the shower as if drawn by some magnetic force, my feet going where my brain does not send them.
When I get close enough to touch him, he fists my tee and drops his mouth to mine in a kiss so raw, so passionate, my toes curl into the fuzzy bathmat below me.
Oh God, can he kiss. It’s consuming, deep, as if he’s branding me or taking from a well that’s just his. The groan that slides from me spurs him on and he tangles one hand deep in my hair twisting to position exactly where he wants me.
This is the best kiss I’ve ever had, the most all-consuming, most owning, most powerful. It’s everything. I can’t imagine?—
Wait.
I snap my eyes open and pull back as much as I can. He feels my retreat and closes his eyes—those molten chocolate eyes full of desire and hunger—and lets black eyelashes rest against his cheeks.
“Ayla—” His voice is rough, but it doesn’t matter.
I don’t want to hurt him, but this is too much.
“I can’t…” I try to show him how sorry I am, but instead, he releases me, and returns to the shower, his hands clenched in fists, and gives me his back.
I take the hint and see myself out, only to climb back under the covers.
My lips are warm and swollen. My tee has a wet handprint from his fist. And my panties are worse off than they were when I orgasmed in my sleep.
I told Halley I was struggling. Struggling doesn’t cover half of it. I roll away from the door but think better of it since I’m facing his side, so I face the door again, hoping I don’t look too eager.
I fall into a deep dreamless sleep and never hear Christian leave the shower or the bathroom. I don’t know if he comes back to bed.
But when I wake, it’s alone.
Very alone.
As in the house is empty.
A note from Corinne indicates fresh croissants are in the cooled oven and butter and cream in the fridge. I guess she assumes I know how to use the coffee contraption that cost more than my first car.
7
plays more in the shadows
Ayla
After a few minutes of searching, I find my purse in the drop spot in the mud room. I grab it, double check the new-to-me phone, and walk into the garage. Three spots, two cars. I’m not feeling the Navigator and the G Wagon is gone, so I take the A5. It’s champagne silver, brand spanking new, a hint pretentious, but so lush.
