53 Letters For My Lover (14 page)

“Drink.” He hands me a glass of water.

It works. I can’t drink and laugh and cry at the same time.

“Just because you’re here, doesn’t mean anything.” He takes the empty glass and turns on the TV. “We’ll get room service, talk, watch a movie.”

My eyes go round.

“Not
that
kind of movie,” he laughs.

The warm chuckle melts my bones.

“No?” I feign disappointment.

He swats me with a pillow. I retaliate, swinging back with a hard whack.

“Really?” His eyes narrow.

And then we’re rolling and tumbling on the bed, pillow fighting like kids at a sleepover.

Except we’re not kids. I can feel the raw strength in his arms, the ripple of hard muscle under his shirt, his carefully controlled desire. We stop at the same time, breathless and flushed, the air between us pulsating with that crazy, hungry energy that eats up every sane thought in my mind. He reins himself in first.

“What do you want to watch?” he asks, leaning back.

“Doesn’t matter.” I prop up a pillow next to him.

He pauses at the music channel. Safe, comfortable, non-flammable. I have no clue what we’re watching. I doubt he does either. He puts his arm around me and I snuggle in, like it’s the most natural place in the world for me to be.

He’s wearing faded blue jeans and a soft, white t-shirt. I’ve never seen anyone rock every day essentials the way he does. My eyes follow the long line of his legs. His toes are surprisingly pretty.

I smile.

“What?” he asks.

I shake my head and focus on the TV. “This must be a first for you.”

“It is. The cuddling usually comes after.”

“I meant getting a room and then having someone chicken out on you.”

“Are you afraid, Shayda?”

“Of...?” I swallow, wishing he’d go back to pretending we’re watching music videos.

“Of this? Of me?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“Of...me,” I reply.

It’s true. I don’t know this person lying beside him.

We sit, separated by a tiny band of pale skin on my ring finger. For the first time in thirteen years, I’ve left home without my wedding band. I feel the tension, like spring coils compressed into the space between us, expanding and contracting with each breath we take.

He’s waiting.

Let me in.

I move my foot towards his until our toes are almost touching. Almost, but not quite. The rise and fall of his chest ceases. He holds his breath. The TV drones on.

I can stop this right now, this crazy stupid insanity. Walk out the door and run like hell.

My foot brushes his. It’s the smallest movement, but it’s all he needs.

His hand slides into mine; our fingers entwine. His thumb draws circles in the center of my palm. We watch images flicker across the screen, but every nerve is focused on what our hands are doing. He traces up and down my fingers, lingering in the gaps between them, teasing, caressing.

Have I been touched there before? Surely I would remember this sensation, so simple yet so exquisitely loaded.

The back of my fingers run across his palm. He sucks in his breath as he feels my nails on his skin. The thinly stretched cord of control snaps.

He flips me on my back and pin my wrists over my head. I close my eyes, anticipating his kiss, yearning for it. But it doesn’t come.

He sucks my fingers instead, one by one, like they’re covered with the sticky, sweet filling of a freshly baked pie. His tongue traces the blue-green vein along my inner wrist, making me squirm against him.

I wait for guilt to set in. I wait for self-loathing to roll in. I wait for my feet to carry me to the door. But when his lips graze mine, whisper soft, I know this is what I’ve been waiting for. How long have I thought about this? How many weeks? Months? Years? His lips on mine. Like this. My fingers running through his hair. Like this. The hard, muscular length of him against me. I open my eyes and fall into the endless sky of his irises while Gloria Estefan sings ‘Here We Are’.

In this moment, it doesn’t matter that he is Troy Heathgate.

‘Wealthy, debonair, visionary leader,’ say the business magazines.

‘Hazardous, womanizing, master of seduction,’ says the trail of broken hearts.

No. In this moment, he is just a man, raw, primal, stripped of all the labels and titles—bare eyes, hungry mouth, intent on one thing and one thing only. Me.

If Troy Heathgate locks in on you, you’re done for.

Clearly, whoever said that had made a very important public service announcement.

Troy’s mouth is devastatingly insistent on my lips, building to an intensity that makes me cling to him as my world spins out of control. Yes. Yes yes yes.
This
. This is what a kiss should feel like. Like nothing else exists. All yearning and dizzy and falling and flying. Great big galaxies of want and wonder spiral inside of me.

“I’ve waited so long for this,” he says in my ear.

I push a lock of hair away from his face. Such dark hair, such light eyes. The seductive pull of the devil, the redeeming touch of an angel.

He grabs a fist full of my hair and pulls, exposing my throat. I expect pain, teeth, fangs even. Happily. But he drops a tender kiss on the vein that pulses life into my heart. I feel the light stubble on his jaw as he nuzzles in.

“Mmmm. Roses.” He moves his face back and forth against my neck, caressing my skin with his nose, his mouth, his cheek, the soft parts of his face, the ridges.

“Turn around,” he growls.

No. Keep going. This is good. This is so good.

“Turn.” He flips me over and swipes the hair away from my nape, continuing his sensual attack.

I was wrong. This is even better. I feel teeth. Sharp, little nips, followed by soothing tongue. Lips, soft, then hard. Fingers sliding down the back of my neck, tugging at the zipper of my dress.

“Shhh,” he whispers when he feels me tense.

It’s easier this way. Not having to look at him, my face buried in the pillow. I feel a slight chill as my dress starts to part, followed by the heat of fiery kisses. He makes a slow descent down my spine, exposing one inch at a time. When he gets to the small of my back, his tongue dips into the slight indentation. A moan escapes me.

“Ah.” I feel the curve of his smile against my skin.

He holds down my hips as his mouth ravages the bundle of nerves I never knew existed. I buckle against the bed.

“Behave,” he says.

How can the softest whisper be edged with steel?

He replaces his lips with the heel of his palm. The rhythmic, kneading motion feels even more intense, pushing the pulsating core of me into the mattress. Hot, unbidden images flash before me and I stifle a sharp, agonized breath into the pillow.

“Your skin...” He trails off, tracing the curve of my spine with knowing fingers. Up and down.

His touch feels like rain on parched earth.

“Now.” He turns me over. “Let me look at you.”

My arms cross instinctively against my chest, keeping the front of my dress in place. My face burns from the intimacy of being undressed by him.

“Hello, Beetroot.” His mouth is hot on my skin as he nudges my bra straps past my shoulders.

His lips move lower, caressing the exposed skin of my breasts. I cling to my dress, but inch by inch, it retreats. Who can resist to be disrobed so? With lips and tongue and lover’s breath.

My fingers slide into the thick mat of his hair. I gasp as his mouth closes over my swollen nipple.

“Raspberry.” He circles the peak with his tongue. “I wondered what color you’d be.”

I give myself up to his hungry kisses, but he wants more. More. Cupping, kneading, sucking, teasing. Pulses of pleasure rush through me, pulling some primitive cord inside of me. I twist hard and fast against him.

A guttural sound vibrates from his chest. He pulls my dress off in a frenzied motion.

“This too.” He tugs at my bra. His eyes are darker now, pupils dilated, burning with need.

I shake my head, holding on to the cups of my bra, even as my breasts spill over.

“Fine. I’ll go first.” His t-shirt hits the floor.

There are few men that are born just ridiculously sexy. One happens to be half-naked in front of me now. I take in the smooth expanse of muscle and sinew, the taut, flat stomach, the way the tattoos encircle his corded arms. I want to breathe the solid wall of his chest, to feel those arms around me. I want our legs entwined, our breaths mingled. I want to know his face in ecstasy.

His breath catches at the fleeting expressions on my face.

And then we’re kissing madly. Hot, fevered, hungry. I feel the rough texture of male hair against my legs. When did he take his pants off?

Our eyes lock.

What is this madness?

I don’t know. I don’t know.

“God, you’re so beautiful.”

I bask. No. I glow.

He trails his hand down my body and dips his finger into my navel. Round and round, he traces it. The soft flesh beneath trembles. The back of his fingers stroke the space between my belly button and the top of my panties, back and forth. One finger slides under the waistband.

My stomach clenches. I can’t control the shaking. My breath starts to come in short, shallow bursts. I place my hands on his.

Stop. Wait.

But he pins them to the bed and buries his face in my stomach.

Ohhh. So warm. So hot.

I feel his breath on my tummy, blazing a stream of promises across my skin. He grips the edge of my panties with his teeth and tugs.

God.

With my arms held to the sides and his weight on my legs, he holds me motionless. All of my senses zone in on the slow, slow descent of my panties. I feel the moistness of his lips through the fabric, the warmth of his exhalation, until little by little he exposes the pulsing, throbbing core of me.

The tremors intensify inside of me.

He lets go of my hands and splays his fingers across my trembling tummy, steadying me, holding me down, as his lips taste the throbbing button between my folds.

“Mmmm.” The humming vibration rocks through me.

Then his hands slide under my hips and he claims me. Completely. With his nose and his mouth and his tongue and his lips.

My nails claw at the sheets. It’s overwhelming, these sensations, so raw, so intense. I start pulling away from him, flexing my legs.

“Shhh...just a little more,” he says.

How do I tell him?
Should
I tell him?

Troy, I don’t know how to do this. I wish you’d stop because it frightens me. I wish you’d stop because if it doesn’t happen with Troy Heathgate, God of All Things That Make a Woman Squirm, I’ll know I’m flawed. Lacking. Defective.

I writhe against him, trying to free myself, but he has me pinned to the bed, completely at his mercy. Suddenly, I’m under Pasha Moradi, reliving those ugly moments of helplessness and terror. Troy’s face disappears and everything turns dark.

I start kicking and fighting with everything I’ve got. The heaviness lifts off, almost instantaneously. When I can breathe again, and the darkness has dissipated, I find him watching me.

“I’m not going to hurt you.” He holds his palms up.

I nod, shivering. My body is drenched in cold sweat. He strokes my hair, coaxing me into his arms. I lie on his chest, listening to his heart. How could I mistake this beat for that monster’s?

“You want to talk about it?” He half-kisses, half-talks against my forehead.

“I just...” I swallow the fist in my throat. “I have to go.” I start pulling on my panties with as much grace as I can muster.

“You’re not going anywhere until you tell me what just happened.” Gone is the adoring lover. In his place is cold steel and ice.

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? You can’t what, Shayda? You can’t trust me? You can’t stand being touched by me?
What,
Shayda?” He spins me around hard against him so we’re face to face, kneeling on the bed.

“I can’t use you!” I can’t use him to heal myself, to put together the broken pieces and make me whole again.

“
Use
me?” He lets out a deep, throaty laugh. His hold softens and he runs his hand up and down my arm. “Do I look like a man who can be easily used?”

Um...no. He looks...he looks...sinfully hot. How does he bring me from the depths of churning despair to a simmering bliss in ten seconds flat? And how did I miss these? Red briefs? Really? Who wears such sexy, bold briefs, that hit the thigh and leave little to the imagination?

“Like my trunks?”

Shit. I’ve been staring.

He takes my hand and puts it on his thigh. I stroke the fabric tentatively, feeling the muscle underneath.

“Ahhh.” He closes his eyes. “I love when you use me.”

“You think I’m naïve.” I remove my hand.

“A little. Yes.” He sits back and sighs. “It’s one of the things I find disarmingly seductive about you.” He runs a finger from my forehead, down the ridge of my nose, to my lips. “And just so you know, I love making you squirm and quiver and hot and wet.” He slips the tip of his finger inside my mouth, stroking the soft, inner flesh.

“Why did you fight me, Shayda?”

“I just...I don’t like being pinned down,” I reply, resisting the urge to suck on his finger.

“No kidding.” He traces the scar on my lip. “But look, I can do it hands free.”

“Troy!” I pull him back up.

“Mmmm?” He starts nibbling my neck.

“I...”

“You...?” He props himself up and plays with a strand of my hair.

“I’ve never been able to orgasm with anyone.” There. I want to die from shame.

“So?” The nibbling moves to my ear.

“Did you hear what I said?”
I’m no good. I suck at this
.

“I did. And I’m guessing you’ve had all of what—one sexual partner?”

I don’t reply.

“Tell me something. Can you make yourself come?”

How can it be this quiet when so much blood is rushing to my face?

“Why, Beetroot!” His eyes dance with amusement. “I believe you can.”