Page 12 of Color of Love

The air thickened between them; heat radiated from them both creating a heady sensation. Neither of them said anything, just kept their hands on each other, both of their breathing ragged as they moved in sync. His mouth was dry, his body exhausted, his mind empty and yet he felt more alert than he had in years.

The evening breeze blew a tendril of hair across her face, and it settled over her bottom lip, the scent of vanilla wafting to him. He had to fight the urge to reach up and brush the strand away.

Or do you just not like men prettier than you?

Her words hammered across his mind. Did she like the way he looked? Did he care?

“You did it,” she whispered, and his eyes moved back to hers. She was looking up at him, her expression so open and genuine that his chest ached. He snatched his hand away from her abruptly. He had, he’d done it, he hadn’t passed out, he’d pulled himself back. She had helped pull him back. He looked at her, bewildered and unable to explain what just happened.

“Thank you,” he said around the lump in his throat, his voice rough.

“Whatever you did, that’s your technique for helping with your anxiety and panic attacks. I can show you more Blake, just let me in.” Her expression was so earnest, it twisted him up inside. He couldn’t let anyone in, didn’t want anyone to see how truly fucked up he was. He couldn’t. He pulled away from her, dug his keys out of his pocket and unlocked his car.

“Sorry I ruined your performance,” he muttered, and opened the door, refusing to meet her eyes.

“You didn’t,” she replied softly, stepping back so he could get in. He needed to leave, needed to be away from her, too vulnerable after what they had just experienced together. He shut the door and started the engine and drove away.

He made it around the lot and was nearly out of sight before he gave into the urge to look in his rear-view mirror. He raised his eyes and found her, still stood in the parking lot, bathed gloriously in the moonlight, orange dress floating around her in the breeze, watching him go. He sped off before he turned around and did something stupid.

*

Justine came into the office earlier than normal, excitement waking her up before dawn, like a kid at Christmas. Today was her first session with Blake after the incident at the bar on Saturday night and she had high hopes for what they would get out of today.

She replayed that night in her mind. As soon as her set had finished, she looked out into the crowd and her eyes immediately found him, like they always did. His expression had been glazed, but as people swarmed around him, trying to get to the bar in the short interval, he had come back to himself.

She’d noticed his breathing change, his eyes darting around and the way he stumbled off his stool. She knew he’d been triggered and was on the verge of a panic attack. When he’d tripped out of the bar she had immediately gone after him, needing to make sure he was okay. Which he wasn’t, not that he would admit it, stubborn ass. His eyes were panicked, ferocious and lethal, as they’d swung to her, even in that moment though, he had been in control. He hadn’t hurt her the way he’d attacked Beau. She knew she could reach him if only he’d let her, she just needed a connection.

She shivered as she remembered how her hand felt, pressed against the hard, muscled wall of his chest. The way his big palm had fit to her chest, and she’d prayed her heartbeat didn’t run into overdrive. His hard callused palm partly covered her dress and partly covered her sensitive skin, abrading it wonderfully. She’d stared up at him, watched him wage a war against his own instincts and conquer them. His mind was powerful, he controlled himself did he even know how difficult that was?

Her stomach clenched as she pictured the moonlight shining down on him, creating a halo around this tortured beautiful devil. She needed to stop thinking about him like that, he was her client, nothing more. Then why did you put on a nice dress and spend ages on your make-up, her brain piped up. She told it to shut the hell up.

She heard Hilda come in and went out to greet her.

“Morning Hon, you’re in early,” Hilda said, and began bustling about the office.

“Yeah, busy day with clients and I needed to make some notes, I’ve got a bit behind,” she lied, hoping Hilda wouldn’t see through her charade.

“You’re so dedicated.” Hilda gushed, and Justine felt a pang of guilt. They chatted for a little while before Justine went back into her office and made some notes on other clients. She glanced at the clock and saw it was nearly time for Blake’s appointment. Her heart started to speed up in her chest and she took a deep breath to calm herself. She was just excited because they’d made progress, not for any other reason, purely professional.

By 9.15am she wasn’t excited, she was angry. Where the hell was he? Five minutes later she heard the door open and a deep rumbling voice echoed through the building. She stood up, peering towards the door hopefully like a teenager with a crush, and she mentally checked herself. He came in, his eyes raking over her from head to toe then he cleared his throat.

“Sorry I’m late, I was dealing with a police matter,” he said, and shut the door. She smiled at him brightly, sure he was late, but he’d actually spoken to her.

“Thanks for coming, it’ll be a shorter session if that’s okay as I’m back-to-back all day,” she replied. He nodded and sat down on the couch, folding his arms over his chest. His expression was wary and guarded. When he said nothing more, her heart sank with disappointment. Really, were they back to this?

“How has your week been?” she asked, knowing he wouldn’t answer. She had hoped after Saturday night that they were past this but obviously not. She tried not to let the disappointment show. Instead, she stood up and grabbed her small recorder from her desk, wondering if he had looked at her ass when she bent over. Oh my God, cálmate, pinche calenturienta! She gritted her teeth against her devilish thoughts and set the device to record, placing it on the coffee table. She was through playing nice with him.

“Are you okay if I record our session?” she asked.

“No, I’m not.” he replied curtly.

“Okay then.” She offered him a professional smile but made no move to turn the device off. He stared at her, his eyes flicking to the recorder, and back to her. That muscle ticked under his eye again. He opened his mouth and then clamped his lips shut.

“Anything to say?” she taunted him.

He fixed her with a hard stare, his eyes hot with anger and something else she didn’t recognize. “Why did you ask, if you’re not going to do what I said?” he gritted out.

She smiled at him again in that way that she could tell pissed him off.

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