Page 30 of Mangled Memory
“Ayla.” The desire in my name on his tongue is my undoing.
When his lips meet mine, I’m gone. The man kisses like he owns the world, like he owns me... and my body.
He devours me. And the moan that rips from me is fuel on his fire.
His lips trail to my ear as fingers on one hand press under the swell of my breasts, down my sides, leaving fire and desire in their wake.
“Let me make you feel good.”
The thrumming between my legs is demanding my attention, but I can’t acquiesce.
“Christian.” My voice sounds desperate, but it’s not for his touch. It’s panic. “Stop.” I shove against his shoulders, but he doesn’t retreat.
Nor does he push harder. His face drops to my neck, and he speaks quietly there, his voice full of anguish. “Princess.”
My breaths are coming in pants and I’m fighting the rising anxiety of being pinned to the wall.
“Please.”
“Please what?”
“Please step back.” My voice breaks on the words, and I fight to keep my self-control.
He takes a large step back, his hand trailing down my arm as he goes as if fighting not to lose the connection. On his second step back, I slide down the wall, ass to ankles, and press my face between my knees. I need all the space I can get to breathe and quell the terror that spiked at the out-of-control kiss.
After several long moments, my body is lifted off the ground and carried to the wall of windows. He sits, me in his lap, wrapped loosely in his arms. So loose in fact, it’s not an embrace, but a safety measure for me not to roll off and hurt myself. Or at least that’s how it feels.
“I’m sorry.” I am. I’m so sorry at the state of my fucked-up life, at my heart that knows fear and at my mind that can’t piece together my thoughts and feelings. “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head. “No, Princess. But I will be, because we will be.” He takes my right hand and kisses my wedding ring there and interlaces our fingers. “Are you okay?”
“I will be.”
“You will be. You’re the strongest woman I know. So, what do you think of the room?”
I take it in. The white walls, save the one dark one with the print front and center, surrounded by a gilded frame, somehow highlighting the moose’s staring eyes. The lone bright blue velvet sofa that we’re sitting on is near the windows. A minimalist white desk is placed to one side.
“I love it.” It comes out as a whisper.
“I’ll show you some cool details about it later, but we came up here for some equipment, remember?”
Our lips are a hair’s breadth away from each other.
“I remember.” But instead of pulling away, I lift my chin and kiss him slow and tentative, leading for once. We’ve been touchy twice in less than twenty-four hours. I wasn’t prepared for it either time and don’t need to court danger by touching him. I pull back before things go too far.
Yes, he’s hot. Yes, his tongue is wicked. Yes, technically and legally, I’m his wife, but for me, this is a twenty-four-hour live-in relationship with a man whose middle name I don’t even know.
I drop my forehead to his chest. It is the least threatening option as I’m still in his lap.
“So, if I were equipment, where would I be?” I wonder aloud, feeling his grip loosen and turning to get out of his lap. He sets me on my feet and points. To my left, around the corner, just out of sight of the room’s entry is a bookcase with glass doors. Inside are several of my cameras.
Not my favorites, but they’ll do for tomorrow.
I grab one SLR, four lenses, and a bag to place them in.
“What time did you want to leave in the morning?” His rich voice is soft from the sofa.
“I don’t need shots at dawn. What do you think of beating morning rush and leaving here around six?”
