“Give me your hands,” I order, but it’s really a question: Does she still trust me?
She studies me for several beats, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly, and I do not know what she sees in mine, but she offers me her hands. I wrap the silk around her wrists then lean in close to her, my cheek against her cheek, my body touching her nowhere else. “Now you’re at my mercy.”
“Yes,” she agrees. “I am.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“Warm.”
My lips curve with the answer that is every bit the combination of sweet, sexy honesty I’ve come to expect from her. “I’m going to make you warmer.”
“Promise?”
I go still with that question, which on the surface is innocent, but I wonder if it truly is or if it’s about those shadows in her eyes. “I promise,” I say. “And you know, I never—”
“Make a promise you don’t keep.”
“Exactly,” I say, and her reference to my previous words tells me that I am not the only one on a mission of trust, and I intend to deserve hers.
I bring my hands to just above her shoulders, letting them lightly touch her before beginning a slow caress downward. She makes a soft little sound that has my cock thickening and my blood running hot, but I won’t rush this. My lips follow, tracing a line down one of her arms, then the other. I lean and caress my lips over hers, a feather light touch that teases me, if not her.
I take her hands in mine, pressing them behind her head. “Hold them there, for me, so I can see all of you. Understand?”
“You intend to tease me incessantly,” she says, without so much as a hint of hesitation. “Yes. I understand.”
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her naked body against me, my free hand on hers above her head, our mouths a breath apart. “I intend to lick every part of you, and then do it again, so yes. If that’s the definition of incessant teasing, then yes. I am going to tease you incessantly.” I close my mouth down on hers, my tongue licking into her mouth, a deep, hungry tasting I force myself to end far too quickly. “That was the beginning. Should I could continue?”
“Yes. Please.”
“Please,” I say. “I like that.”
“I think I might want to reverse this and make you say ‘please.’”
“Sweetheart, there are many reasons I’ll say ‘please’ to you.” I drag my lips over her cheek, her jaw, back to her neck, and ear. “Please, can I touch your nipple? Please, can I lick it? Please tell me where you want me to lick you.” I turn her to face the bed, my hands on her hips, leaning in close again, my hand on her belly, my cheek pressed to hers. “Where do you want me to lick you?”
“I’m not really picky.”
I smile against her neck—no one would have convinced me I’d smile anytime this night, or anytime soon—the sweet feminine scent of her teasing my nostrils. “I love how you smell.” It’s all over the sheets. I want it all over me. My teeth scrape her neck. My hands slides to her breasts, cupping them. “Do you know what I’m going to do to you?”
“Fuck me?”
I go still with that answer and the realization that my quest for control has done exactly the opposite of what I’d intended. I’ve made this about me, not her. Not us. I turn her back around, pulling her arms between us. “No. I am not fucking you. In that bathroom I fucked you. Right now, I’m making love to you.” I untie her arms and cup her face. “But I still want to kiss every part of you before this night is over.” I kiss her now, a slow slide of tongue, and I don’t rush it. I revel in the taste of her. In the soft little moan she makes. In the way her hands settle at my waist and press a little harder against me with every slide of my tongue, until finally I say, “Kissing you all over isn’t about teasing you incessantly. It’s about enjoying you and making that moment when I’m finally inside you feel better.”
“Shane, I—”
“Just like that,” I say, brushing my lips over hers. “Say my name again, not ‘please.’ Okay?”
“Yes,” she whispers.
“Good,” I approve, my hands settling at the sides of her breasts, fingers stroking the delicate skin, and slowly I lower myself to my knee, blowing warm air on one nipple, then the next. I repeat my attentions to her nipples but this time with my tongue. She lowers her hands and her fingers slide into my hair, and when I suck her nipple into my mouth, her grip tightens, I smile and drag deeper. My reward is her sexy little moan. I take my time, licking and sucking; waiting for that moment she finally gives me.
“Shane.”
It’s a plea, and the one I wanted. I stroke her nipples one last time and move lower, my mouth caressing a path to her belly button. But still I make her wait, and not because I really do want to tease her incessantly. Because kissing her, exploring her body, might make my body hard, but it softens another part of me, it unravels that “something” I fought in the bathroom. I want her to know she’s mine and that means I cherish every part of her. My hand settles on one of her hips, my fingers slip between her legs, into the wet, slick heat that speaks of how aroused she is, but I want more.
I lap at her clit, and her fingers go to my hair. I do it again, and she grips me a little tighter. My mouth closes down over the swollen nub, and yet a little tighter. I sink my fingers inside her and she outright moans. “Shane.” It’s all the motivation I need to give her what she wants. To lick her all over, stroking her with my fingers and tongue with one goal: her pleasure, not my control. And when she comes, she is sweet honey on my tongue, addictive in every way. She trembles with her release, and I wrap her hips, holding her a moment before her knees give way.
Her body gives way, melting against me, and in that moment, I am struck by all she has been through, and how completely she gives herself to me. I didn’t need to look for her trust. It is mine to lose, not find, a gift I do not think this woman gives easily, but even after witnessing one of my darkest moments in that bathroom, she gives it freely to me. I press my lips to her belly, lingering there a moment before I look up at her, her cheeks flushed.
“Why, when I know control is an issue for you, did you so readily offer me your arms?”
“Because it’s you. You make me feel safe.”
“Safe.” It is a surreal word to hear, on a night when I feel as if a life has been lost that I could have saved.
“Yes,” she says firmly. “Safe.”
My lashes lower with her confirmation, and I try to revel in those words, to tell myself I deserve them, but that dark something I’ve fought since hearing the news report at Majors stirs inside me. Emily shocks me then, reaching down and cupping my face, our eyes meeting. “Shane,” she says softly. “Wherever you just went, don’t go there.”
“I’m right here, where I want to be.”
“No. You’re back where you were, right before you punched that mirror.”
I am baffled by how easily she has read me. “How do you know that?”
“I don’t know how I know or why we connect, but we do. I can be safe for you too. If you let me.”
“I did let you. You saw me in that bathroom in a way no one else ever has.”
“Because I was worried enough about you to walk in even though you shut me out. I witnessed what was already happening. What you chose to show no one.”
“What I didn’t want to exist.”
“But it does. It did. We all have those moments.” Her fingers stroke my hair, tenderness in her touch I do not think I have felt from any other human being. “Even Shane Brandon,” she adds.
I catch her hand and kiss it, standing as I do, and sit her on the edge of the bed, my lips brushing hers, our eyes lingering a moment, the air shifting and changing, something between us changing with it. Deepening in some way I cannot name. I step back from her and shove down my pants. Her gaze strokes boldly down my body, over my erection. It is sexy and bold, a reminder that she isn’t timid. She isn’t submissive by nature. Closing the space between us, I join her on the bed, layi
ng us both down. Her hand flattens on my chest, and my fingers slide into her hair, our mouths coming together, my cock pressing into the slick sweet spot between her legs. There is that same tenderness to this kiss as I’d felt in her fingers in my hair.
I lift her leg over my hip, cupping her backside, and while our lips part, our breathing becomes one, our bodies with it as I press inside her, then pull her down my shaft. For several moments, we don’t move, and as easy as it would be for me to take what I want right now, to take her body, that is not what she needs right now. It’s not what I need, either. I roll to my back and pull her on top of me, her chest molded to mine. “Now you have control,” I declare.
She sits up, every curve, every sweet spot on her body, displayed for my viewing, and says, “We both know that’s not true, Shane Brandon.”
I sit up with her now, one hand settling between her shoulder blades, fingers splayed. “I don’t think you understand the power you have over me. And that’s big for me, sweetheart. To let you have that and to do so willingly.”
“Then why won’t you let me understand what really happened tonight?”
“I told you the part that matters. The part that won’t let go of me, and therefore it affects you.”
“Death,” she says, repeating what I’ve told her.
“Yes. Death. That is the honest truth I would tell no one else.”
“I guess I’m selfish with you because I need you to share more.”
“It’s okay to be selfish about wanting more from me. I’m damn sure selfish about wanting more from you.”
“And yet you’re not saying more.”
I open my mouth to shut her down, but I know it’s a mistake I don’t want to make with her. “I will. Not now. Not tonight. But I will.”
“When?” she presses.
“Soon.”
She leans back and holds my shoulders, searching my face. “Promise.”
That my promise matters to her is everything, and to give it to her and not mean it is a betrayal I know we would not overcome. “Emily,” I breathe out, not wanting to see the fear in her eyes that I myself fear that this part of my family, of me, will stir in her.
“You aren’t really going to tell me, are you?”
There is defeat in her voice that I am certain will turn to withdrawal if I let it, so I cup her face. “Damn it, woman, you’re stubborn. I will soon. I promise.” My mouth comes down on hers. One stroke of my tongue against hers, and we can’t get enough of each other, some sense of needing to hang on, between us. She can’t get enough of me, and I can’t get enough of her. Our bodies sway and rock and I forget the promise. I forget everything but her touch, her taste. But when finally we are sated, her body in front of mine, her back to my chest, I hold her close, listening to her steady breathing. And then, I think about that promise I cannot betray. I have to tell her about Martina and it has to be soon. But I will not put fear in her eyes. I will end this before I tell her, no matter what I have to do to make it happen.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EMILY
I wake to a shadowy room, with the light of a new day peeking through the curtains hiding the wall of windows in the bedroom, the scent of Shane lacing the air, the sheets, and my skin, but he is not here. I know this even before I roll to my back, and I am not surprised at his absence. He is troubled. He is fighting a war against not just his family, but also himself. I know that now, and it makes his silence on some matters easier to swallow. I glance at the clock, noting the seven A.M. hour, proof I’ve slept later than I should have, and that the shadowy room must mean that the snow Shane walked through last night is still with us.
Stretching briefly, I climb out of bed, the chill of the room unfriendly to my naked body, sending me scrambling for my robe. Finding it on the floor on the opposite side of the bed, I pull it on, and grab the sash from the floor. I inhale, staring at it, the memory of Shane ordering me to give him my hands coming back to me. But it really wasn’t an order. It was a question, timed on a night I’d spent worrying about him, and questioning myself. I waited for hesitation to come to me, but there had been none. His admitting to me that he was tempted to the dark side was a confession my stepfather would have never made. Shane is a good man in a bad situation and I’m not sure how to help. I just know I have to try. He also blames himself for Brody’s death, which is very confusing. How could he be to blame for a car accident? I don’t let myself go where that might lead me. Shane promised to tell me what’s going on. I believe he will.
I walk to the closet, flip on the light, and look at the row of clothes Shane bought me, his words replaying in my mind: Don’t tell me I can’t do that for you, the woman who is the one good and right thing in my life. He’d shut down my objections with a statement that says much to me about where his head is now. The world of law had been right and good for him. Brandon Enterprises isn’t even close to his passion, but it will be if he can run it the way he believes it should be run. I refocus on the clothes, and while it’s hard to shake that feeling of being a kept woman, as I believed my mother was, in my heart I do not think that was Shane’s intention. I also believe the last thing he needs right now is for me to reject a gift that my instincts say was from his heart. And I haven’t even thanked him, a situation I need to remedy.
Allowing some excitement to rise in my belly, I start looking through my options, which are insanely wonderful. I can’t even choose what to wear and I start trying things on, loving almost everything. Finally, I have a long-sleeved pale pink Chanel dress picked out and I kneel on the floor to dig through a bag, where I find ribbed black tights.
“Do you like the clothes?”
At the sound of Shane’s voice, I turn to find him leaning against the doorway. He is the picture of tall, dark, and handsome in a charcoal-gray suit, perfectly fitted, the pinstripe a pale gray that matches his shirt and tie, not to mention his eyes. He is refined masculinity, with dark, neatly styled hair, but something about it looks different today. “Is your hair wavy?”
“More than I like. It was curly when I was a kid.”
“Curly? Really?”
“Oh yes. I hated it. You didn’t answer my question: Do you like the clothes?”
“Yes. I do. Very much. Jessica has amazing taste, and she, and you, spent way too much money. Thank you.”
“I’m glad they please you. I would have sent you yourself but you wouldn’t have gotten what you need.”
I grab a tag. “I don’t need a fifteen-hundred-dollar dress.”
“You do if it pleases you.”
“Shane, I don’t need you to do this. I need you. Not clothes, but I don’t want to sound unappreciative. You doing this is special, but I don’t need you to take care of me.”
“No,” he agrees. “You don’t. And somehow that only makes me want to take care of you more. I’ve never had anyone I wanted to take care of until you.”
My hand balls at my chest and my eyes actually pinch. “Okay. That just took me off guard and made me get emotional.”
He closes the space between us, his warm hand sliding under my hair to my neck. “Why did that make you emotional?”
“Because no one has ever really tried to take care of me and to tell you the truth, letting you do this scares me.”
“Why does it scare you?”
“What if I forget how to be on my own? What if it changes me?”
“Nothing will change you that you don’t allow to happen. Of that I am sure. And I don’t want you to remember how to be alone. But since we’re talking about money.” He reaches into his pocket and produces a credit card.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not taking that.”
“I have made a lot of money and I invest it well. How much? I’m going to tell you so you won’t be afraid to spend when you need or want to spend. Millions. I’ve made millions. Money that has nothing to do with my family or their business. It’s blood and sweat and I have never wanted anyone to share it with me, until you.
Take the card.”
“Millions? You’ve made millions?”
“Yes. I have. Does that make you feel better?”
“No. Not at all. I mean, I’m amazed and impressed at everything you are, but it’s not my money. I still want to make my money.”
“You can make your own. I’ll support you any way you want, even if that means you only let me cheer you on when you buy your Bentley with your money. But you’re still sharing mine.” His lips curve. “And I’ll share yours.”
“Could anything be more perfect?”
“I’m glad it’s perfect. Take the card, woman.”
I reach up and take it. “I’m not going to—”
“You will,” he says. “Because you’ll have to if you’re a part of my life.”
A part of his life. It is exactly what I want him to say, and still it terrifies me. “What if we decide this isn’t going to work?”
“I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“What if I snore?”
“You don’t.”
“What if I start?”
“I’m quite sure it will be sexy when you do.” He changes the subject. “We had an early dinner last night. I’m starving. Are you hungry?”
“I’m starving too.”
“Your normal omelet?”
“Yes,” I say. “My normal omelet.”
He kisses me. “I’ll wait twenty minutes and then order.” He releases me but I catch his arm, inspecting his hand, which is now black and blue.
“Does it hurt?”
“The memory of doing something that ridiculous is what hurts. It’s fine. And when Jessica asks you how I did it—”
“I’ll tell her an alligator jumped out at us on the way to the car, and you were the hero that fought it off and saved me from it.”
His lips curve. “Where did that come from?”
“Random stuff just pops into my head. It was actually very helpful in law school.”