Passion and Ink (Sweetest Taboo)

by Naima Simone

  “I’m sorry, stalker. But I just left my father back at his house. You followed me. Which, I might add, is creepy as hell.” She slams her door shut and rounds the hood of her Mercedes.

  “We both know I’m not your father. And thank fuck for that, or it would make what we did last week a whole helluva lot creepier than me following you.” The words are out there before I can rescind them. She stiffens at my pointed reminder of how well we really know each other. And though it would be wiser to shut up, to not push her since we need to talk, my mouth has different ideas. “While I’ve never been into that daddy shit, hearing you say it might change my mind.”

  Even though she’s wearing a coat, the same one from the other night, I can still catch the rapid rise and fall of her chest. The flash of heat in her glare. The subtle, almost imperceptible sway of her body toward mine.

  “What do you want?” she asks, and yeah, it’s through clenched teeth, but fortunately, I’m fluent in You’re Irritating the Hell Out of Me.

  “To talk. That’s all,” I tack on as a reminder to myself. And my dick, which is trying to drill a hole through my zipper.

  “What about?”

  I cock my head to the side. “Really, Ro, I mean, Cypress?” I drawl. “Is that how you want to play this?”

  She sighs, tipping her head back and muttering something under her breath. It sounds like “fuck my life,” and I agree with the sentiment 100 percent.

  “Fine. We talk, and then you go.” She pauses, as if waiting for my agreement, but I’m not saying a thing. Because by the end of our conversation, I fully expect her to be the one going. As in, out of this shithole.

  Still, she must accept my silence as acquiescence because she hits her key fob, engaging the alarm on her car. Well, thank God for that, at least. Although, some of the guys I grew up with wouldn’t let a little thing like an alarm prohibit them from stealing this vehicle. Not with what the parts would bring them in a chop shop.

  My mood darkens once more, and by the time she unlocks the motel room door and closes it behind us, my irritation has hit mercurial. Especially when I scan the interior, taking in the water-spotted wallpaper that was probably slapped up when this place was built, the rickety table and chairs, a bed that looks like it’s seen a lot of bouncing from the sagging middle, and a rug with stains I don’t want to begin to analyze. The bathroom must be a goddamn crime scene.

  “First. What are you doing in this pit?” My fear for her safety edges my tone with razors, but dammit, the flimsy lock on that door wouldn’t keep out a toddler, much less someone intent on breaking in to…

  I squeeze my eyes closed, clenching my fingers so tight, an ache blooms across my knuckles. I can’t go there in my mind, what some depraved asshole would do to her in the middle of the night. Her screams wouldn’t mean a thing here. Wouldn’t incite someone to call 911 on her behalf. Damn sure wouldn’t make a bystander get involved enough to save her.

  “I thought you had an apartment,” I try again, calmer…on the outside.

  She slowly removes her coat and drops it on the bed. Though I’m seething, I’m no eunuch. The dress covers more skin than it reveals, but the way the soft-looking material skims and clings to her breasts, hips, and legs, she should be the centerfold in a Playboy magazine. It’s refined. It’s sophisticated.

  It’s a mind-fuck.

  Needing a distraction from the siren’s call of her body, I stalk the few feet to the window and yank back the heavy curtain. Satisfied both of our cars are still there—and that the raggedy fragments of my control remain intact—I turn back to her.

  Arms crossed over her chest, she studies me, her full lips firmed into a flat line. Well, as flat as those full lips can get. At some point, I might manage to look at that mouth without feeling it sliding down my dick. Right now is not that point.

  “I did have an apartment,” she states. “But my roommate decided she couldn’t live without her ex, so three’s a crowd. Which meant I had to go.”

  “Are you serious? She just kicked you out? How could she do that if you’re on the lease?”

  “I found her through a Craigslist ad. She let me move in right away, so I didn’t quibble about not being on the lease.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “Wait, wait.” I hold up a hand, confused. “Beggars can’t be choosers? You make it sound like you came here with just the clothes on your back and didn’t have much choice. Or money. Dan said you had this great job back in California, which means great pay. Am I wrong?”

  She glances away, and a muscle tics along her jaw. The silence between us stretches. What is she doing? Deciding whether or not to lie? Parceling out what to tell me? The urge to charge forward, grasp her shoulders, and demand she let me in rises swift and hard. It shouldn’t matter if she’s honest with me—not if she’s just a one-night-stand-turned-stepsister.

  But I’m not operating on logic now. Not when she’s standing in the middle of a red-light-district motel room with God-knows-what happening in the other units. And not when she has that protective streak that has gotten me trapped in so much shit screaming like a warning siren.

  “No, you’re not wrong. I did earn good money as a financial manager. But I also made the mistake thousands of people do, which is spending it as soon as it comes in. Not to mention, I still helped sup—” She breaks off, and I swallow back the order to finish the sentence. I don’t have that right, and don’t want it either. At least, that’s what I tell myself. “Anyway, my admittedly small savings and last paycheck went fast after I returned home. And when faced with homelessness and hunger, you take whatever place opens up first and whatever job is available.”

  As if embarrassed that she revealed even that little bit to me, she picks up her coat from the bed, spins on her heel, and marches to the tiny closet at the back of the room. She gives more attention than necessary to hanging it up, and I don’t have to know her well to recognize the stalling tactic for what it is.

  If she guessed how much that flash of vulnerability has my limbs tingling with the need to wrap around her, to shield and protect her, she might lock herself in the bathroom. Cypress strikes me as the kind of person who accepts sympathy or hugs as well as Superman embraces kryptonite.

  “None of that explains why you’re here, sweetheart,” I murmur. She turns, her gaze jacking up to meet mine. Surprise, caution, and a flicker of something dark—they flash one by one through her eyes. My hand itches to cup my dick at that last emotion. An emotion that has no place between stepsiblings. “Your mother lives here. You have sisters.” Dan’s daughters that I didn’t know existed. “Why aren’t you staying with either of them?”

  Her chin hikes up as she strides back toward me. This woman has no shortage in the pride department.

  “Because Dara shares a home with her mother, and while my sister and I are close, her mother can’t stand the sight of me. She already has one reminder of Dan; two is too much. And Jesse lives with her controlling asshat of a boyfriend who hates anyone he’s forced to share her attention with. Even if they allowed me to move in, the probability of one of us ending up on the six o’clock news is too high. It’s best for all those involved to avoid a potential homicide.” She holds up a third finger, ticking off the list. “And staying with my mother isn’t even an option. So shithole motel it is.”

  “I’m sure Dan and Mom would—”

  “Don’t even finish that sentence,” she snaps. “That’s even less of an option.”

  “Dammit, Cypress, this is a dump.” Frustration eats at me, and I thrust my fingers through my hair, fisting the strands so I don’t go over and shake some sense in her. Damn that. So I don’t touch her at all. “This place isn’t safe.”

  “It’ll have to do until I find another one,” she argues, temper clipping her tone. “I hate to point out the obvious—well, actually no, I don’t mind doing it at all. This isn’t your business. I’m not your business.”

  “That’s where you’re
wrong,” I growl.

  She snorts. “Putting your dick in me doesn’t give you rights. If that was the case, there would be—”

  “Don’t. Fucking. Say. It.” I take a step toward her. Stop. Take another step. Stop again. She’s waved a bright-ass red flag in front of my face, and I’m seconds away from charging.

  She’s right; we smashed, and that’s the end of any “us.” I have as much rights to her as a squatter. But hearing her utter another man’s name or even speak about other men who stroked that perfect body like I did will only stir the hungry, dark thing inside of me that has no other purpose but—how did she say it?—putting my dick in her again. And again. And again, until I wipe all thought of other men out of her memory.

  The silence between us stretches, thickens. It’s weighty with exactly why her welfare is my business. She’s family. But contrary to what she claims, because we did have sex…because she trusted me not to hurt her when she was at her most vulnerable…because she put her body and pleasure into my care, I do have a right to protect her. I don’t know what kind of assholes she’s used to, but I’m not one of them.

  “Look,” she says again, on the tail of a sigh. “I appreciate your—”

  “Come home with me,” I cut her off again, and the blunt words reverberate in the room.

  Her eyes widen as her lips part, the soft gasp echoing like a sonic boom.

  The same shock ricochets off my rib cage, ping-ponging its way up my throat. I hadn’t intended to deliver that offer—hell, who are we kidding?—order. I hadn’t even known the idea germinated in my head until it broke free of my mouth. But now that it’s out there…I’m not rescinding it. Even though me, myself, and I just had a conversation about Cypress being off-limits and keeping my distance, I still don’t take it back.

  A calm, a sense of rightness settles in my chest, dispersing most of the shock.

  No doubt, she’s coming home with me. It’s either that, or I’ll have to stand here all night guarding her…and our cars.

  “No.” She shakes her head, the tips of her hair hitting her chin. “Absolutely not. I can’t.”

  I cross my arms and prop a hip on the outdated set of drawers, silently praying it doesn’t collapse under my weight. “Can’t, or won’t?”

  “Can’t,” she stresses, glaring at me. “I cannot stay with you.”

  “So you would rather remain in this pit where there’s a high chance you could be robbed, assaulted, or worse rather than stay at my apartment? An apartment you’ve already been to and know is a hundred times better than this place,” I drawl. “Yeah, sounds legit.”

  A growl rumbles from her, and like back in that alley, it rolls over my skin, strokes my cock. I lower my arms and my fingers tighten around the rim of the dresser.

  “You don’t understand,” she snaps. Then, heaving a heavy gust of air, snatches off her heels and drops to the sagging mattress. She tunnels her fingers through her dark hair, her head bowed. Defeat damn near radiates from her, and it’s a haymaker to the jaw. I’ve seen Cypress angry, bold, fierce, confident, even nervous. But I’ve never witnessed her defeated; not even at the dinner table earlier when every word she uttered ended up being a lobbed verbal bomb.

  It’s not sitting right; it doesn’t belong on her shoulders.

  Before I can caution myself about the wisdom of getting close to her, I cross the space separating us and stroke a hand over the soft, thick strands of her hair.

  She stills. We’re so close, our knees bump, her scent—apple and roses warmed by skin—teases me. My fingers cover hers, and after a moment, she drops her arms, and I sweep my palm down her head, cupping the nape of her neck. Her dark fringe of lashes flutters against the delicate, faintly bruised skin under her eyes. I’m on intimate terms with those kinds of bruises. They denote restlessness, lack of sleep…worry. What’s causing her to stare up at the water-stained ceiling in the black of night? What is swirling so hard in that sharp mind that it steals her rest, her peace?

  This time, I don’t question the roar of protectiveness that howls inside me. No, she’s not mine, but, in this instant, she’s also not alone. I’m not leaving without her, and she’s going to know, maybe for the first time in her life, that a man isn’t going to walk away unless she’s right there beside him.

  “Talk to me, sweetheart,” I gently press her, squeezing her neck with careful pressure. “Whatever you say is safe with me,” I promise.

  More beats of silence pass, and I swear I can feel the battle waging in her. This woman doesn’t trust easily. Probably because too many people have broken her faith in them. I don’t want to be another name on that list.

  “My mother had a heart attack three months ago,” she finally whispers, those beautiful, soul-deep eyes staring into mine.

  “Oh, babe, I’m sorry,” I murmur, cradling her jaw with my other hand and brushing my thumb back and forth over her smooth skin.

  “For years, I’ve been all she’s had left of my father, that piece of the man she loved beyond reason and sanity—still does. I’m not going to lie. Being that living souvenir like a magnet stuck on a refrigerator to remind her of the life she lost? It’s been…hard. A burden.” Her harsh crack of laughter is painful to hear. “I feel like such a bitch for admitting that.”

  She falls quiet again. What? Is she waiting for judgement from me? She’ll be waiting a long-ass time. I’m the man who carries the secret of his mother’s attempt to kill herself. I, more than anyone in this family, am well-acquainted with parental burdens. And resentment toward them. No, she’ll get no condemnation from me.

  “Still, when I was in California and got that phone call from the hospital, the nurse reciting in her detached, this-is-business-as-usual voice that my mom was in critical condition and headed to surgery, I panicked. I’ve never been so damn terrified in my life. Because in that second, it hit me that while I’ve felt so suffocated by being all that she has left to call her own in this world, she’s all I have left, too.”

  Flattening her palms on the mattress, she straightens her shoulders, leaning back into my hand on her neck. “At that time, my life had been falling apart, but I didn’t hesitate to pack what I could in my car and drive home. To take care of her. And now, she’s better, but cutting-edge heart surgery, even with insurance, isn’t cheap. Fending for her and myself ate up what little savings I had, and The Rabbit Hole doesn’t even begin to cover the co-pay on her medical expenses and the surgery. That’s why I went to see Dan today.”

  At that time, my life had been falling apart. That part of her confession is still cycling in my brain when the puzzle pieces of why she’d shown up to Sunday dinner clicked into place. She’d needed his help.

  “When we were younger, he set up education funds for my sisters and me,” she continues.

  “Simon and I didn’t even know he had two other daughters,” I say, still stunned that they’d never been mentioned. I’ve known Dara for the five-or-so years she’s been working at the bar, and I’d had no clue she was family. Hell, I can’t lie. Realizing Dan hadn’t acknowledged his other kids to us has suddenly altered my view of him. Why was only Cypress good enough to bring around? Did Dara and their other sister not matter?

  “Yes, he cheated on my mom. Neither Dara nor Jesse have close relationships with him, but they accepted the money he set aside for us. I didn’t and was damn proud of the fact that I didn’t need him or his help. But now…” She pauses, giving another of those barks of laughter, but softer this time. Tinged with more than a little bitterness. “Now, I need that ten thousand dollars to help pay down Mom’s bills, and I can’t afford pride.”

  “He said yes, right?” What kind of man could turn down his own flesh and blood when she came to him for help? Dan might’ve kept his own secrets, but the stepfather whom I’d known for years couldn’t turn his daughter away.

  “Oh, he said yes,” she affirms, but her tone is…off. More of that bitterness, resentment. “With conditions. I send him the bills to pay be
cause, given my current life choices, I can’t be trusted with the money. And also”—her lips twist into a hard, arctic smile—“I can’t be trusted to keep my hands off my stepbrother. So as long as I stay away from you, he’ll keep covering the medical expenses.”

  “The. Fuck,” I rasp. On reflex, my hands tighten, squeezing her neck and jaw. Deliberately, I ease my grip, but nothing can dam up the rage flowing through me like a flash flood, swollen and furious. “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, Jude. He finds out we’re involved in any way, and he cuts me—cuts my mother—off. And I didn’t ask him for an exact definition of ‘any way,’ but I’m pretty sure living with you would fall under it.”

  She pushes to her feet with a small groan that, in spite of the still hotly running anger and the topic under discussion, grips my gut with a hard, greedy cinch. Given my body’s involuntary reaction to anything she does, I should accept her answer and retreat. But unlike that night we spent together, my little head isn’t ruling my big head.

  She’s still homeless—’cause this motel barely qualifies as a room, much less a home. And I have the space. Plus, there’s just no way in hell I’m leaving here without her behind me.

  None of those factors have changed.

  “So we make sure Dan doesn’t find out,” I announce. “Does he know where you’re at now?”

  “No,” she says, hesitant.

  “Will your sisters cover for you?”

  She frowns, scanning my face before replying, “We have each other’s backs no matter what. But…”

  “Then if he asks where you’re staying, you tell him you’re with one of them. If there’s no love lost between them, it’s not like he’ll drop by and check for himself. In the meantime, you stay with me until you find an apartment. I have a guest room that’s yours. And sweetheart—” I lean forward, lowering my head to hers until our mouths are bare inches apart. “I’m not asking. Now unless you want a roommate in this fine establishment, I suggest you pack your shit so we can get outta here while our cars still have tires and rims.”