Page 51 of So Close

“When were you here last?” I ask.

“I left at dawn the morning after the Coast Guard called off the search.” Your voice is even and untroubled, but your dark eyes reveal darker emotion. “I haven’t been back.”

You set me down by the sofa and embrace me from behind. The walls are painted a matte black with a semigloss trim in the same shade. There is a cluster of green velvet sofas in front of the fireplace and a dining table made from richly stained wood with an extravagant grain.

Throw blankets and pillows of charcoal fur and green crochet cover the couches. Potted plants and crystals of various sizes and shapes are everywhere, displayed on gray-washed rattan end tables and shelving units.

The rear of the house is entirely open to the veranda, with a folding glass wall that can be slid open to its outermost points. A framed print on one side cautions against letting anyone steal your magic. A matching print on the other side says Lily was one hundred percentthatwitch.

Outside, hills of sand grass part in the middle to form a pathway to the public beach.

Lacing my fingers over yours, I lean into you. My gaze roams. Unlike the penthouse, personal photos are everywhere here, framed on every shelf and table. Above the mantel is the only change I note. A single large image replaces the random-sized art pieces previously displayed there, dominating the space.

It’s a watercolor over pencil, the image of a siren seated on a rocky shoreline, her back to the artist, her face hidden. Flowing black hair falls to her hips and flutters in the breeze. Her tail begins as pale pink at her waist, the hue deepening into progressively darker shades of red until the fins at the end are as inky as her hair. With her left hand, she beckons a three-masted schooner with black sails and hull; she calls forth a storm to wreck it with her right.

Such a fanciful image. I’m curious as to why it speaks to you, although I agree it’s striking and perfect for the space.

Your lips touch my temple. “I need to prepare for a meeting I have in a few minutes. Will you be all right?”

“Of course.” I steel myself to be alone for however short a time. It’s worse because I have begun to hope we’ve turned a corner.

I straighten, digging for inner strength, and you step back. Then you round me, coming into my field of vision, staring at me with firestorm eyes. I watch, apprehensive and expectant, as time slows. Your eyelids grow heavy as your dark head lowers and tilts to find my mouth. I clutch your waist.

There is no one to see us. This is not a performance.

This moment is for me. For us.

Your lips brush mine. The caress is light and so very gentle. A silent sob of longing escapes me, and your hand at my hip flexes fitfully, tightening and releasing.

Your tongue strokes the seam of my lips, and I open to you, my fingers twisting into the fine weave of your shirt. The deep lick you reward me with makes me shiver.

Pleasure floods me in a searing, drugging rush. Strength melts into languor.

You tighten your grip, pulling me fully against the hard column of your muscled body.

Oh … you taste like honeyed whiskey. The flavor of your kiss is extraordinary and intoxicating. I’m already addicted, desperate for more. My lips circle your tongue, and I suckle softly, seeking your smoky-sweet essence. We’re aligned from chest to thighs. Your deep groan vibrates against my breasts.

With one hand curled around your nape and the other holding the back of your head, I won’t let you retreat, although you’re not trying to. I drink from you, devouring, my tongue following yours into the heated depths of your mouth. Your embrace tightens, your body begins to quiver … or perhaps I’m the one trembling. Soft, desperate cries flow from me, my hunger so great I can’t stop them.

You drench my senses. Your skin has warmed with lust. As your scent deepens, I breathe deeply and surge onto my toes, responding instinctively and fiercely to your silent demands.

Your hand at my hip dips to the lower curve of my buttock, and you tug me into your straining erection. Your penis is hard and thick against my lower belly. My tongue plunges into your mouth as I need your body to plunge into mine. Your honeyed flavor grows deeper, stronger. Your returning kiss is feverish, your tongue a velvet lash. It strokes into my mouth with furious licks, your hunger ravenous. We’re fucking each other’s mouths, our tongues frantic and tangling.

You break contact first. We’re both breathing hard. My fingers weave into the heavy silk of your hair as your forehead touches mine. Your rough gasps betray the limits of your control.

“Kane …”

“You shatter me,Setareh.” There is erotic heat in your words. “I’m in pieces.”

Covering my hands with yours, you pry my fingers open with tempered strength so you can pull away. You press soft, lingering kisses to my knuckles. Then you let go.

I watch as you walk backward a few steps before turning to take the hallway to the only downstairs bedroom. Restless, anxious, filled with vibrating energy, I take in my surroundings and debate what to do. I’m aflame, bright and burning. I feel like running, dancing, screaming, spinning, fucking you until I can’t move, can’t think, can’t torture myself anymore.

Kicking off my shoes, I untie the bow of my blouse and pad on bare feet to the patio doors. I unlock them and push each side open. The house feels like it takes a big deep breath, the stagnant air inside dispelled by the salt-laden breeze.

Here, in this house, we are a couple. In the penthouse, there is only me without you.

Moving to the bookshelf, I study each of the photos in turn. I pick up the large silver frame that holds wedding photos. Lily wore floor-length red lace with a high-neck halter secured by three pearl buttons at the nape. The back of the dress was open and plunging, falling into a short train. Her hair was worn up with sprigs of baby’s breath tucked within the black strands and elaborate pearl earrings dangling from her ears. The bouquet was Blacklist lilies and red roses.

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