Inarticulate

by Eden Summers

  She turned and hated that his pain seemed to outweigh her own. His expression was etched with remorse from the shadowed depths of his irises and the creases marring his forehead.

  “You’re an asshole.” The statement whispered between them. “You should’ve told me.”

  He nodded as if he understood, but he didn’t. He had no clue what he meant to her, or how harsh his betrayal had hit.

  “No, I mean a really big asshole.”

  He flashed his teeth in a sheepish smile that melted her like cheap candle wax. He’d won. With that smile and the sorrow in his eyes, he’d slaughtered her restraint. He tugged her into his body, then led her backward to lean against the warm car hood.

  “What do I mean to you, Keenan?” She wanted the reason for being here painted in black and white. The truth set apart from the lies.

  His brows furrowed, his pain evident as he palmed her cheeks and held her captive. He leaned into her, his thighs pressing against her while those beautiful lips approached.

  She didn’t want his kiss. She wanted answers. Yet the silken sweep of his mouth told her everything she yearned for. The brief, barely there brush of exquisite softness curled her toes and doused her in sensation. He stoked a warmth inside her, the delicate caress of his affection burning hotter than lust ever could.

  She placed her cell on the car hood and gripped his wrists. He was ice, his skin chilled at an unhealthy level. “You’re freezing.”

  He didn’t respond. Didn’t confirm or deny.

  “You should take me back to the hotel.”

  “No.” He shook his head and parted her legs with his knee, sending the first clenching pulse of desire to her core.

  “Spencer will be looking for me.”

  A flash of possession narrowed his eyes. She waited for his anger and received a brutal smashing of his lips instead, his mouth taking hers in a victorious assault. His palms left her face, one arm moving to encase her waist while the other hand tangled in the mess of her ponytail. He stroked her tongue in harsh lashings and brought them chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis, every inch of her being paid homage by the brush of his body.

  She clung to his shoulders and whimpered, but the connection was dizzying. It made the world disappear and her troubles vanish. She wasn’t thinking. Only feeling. And that was a dangerous position if their past was any indication.

  “Stop.” She shoved at him and fought a cry as he retreated. “I can’t do this. I’m not sleeping with you.”

  He glared at the ground, as if it took an enormous strength of will to pull himself together. His head tilted, slowly, showing the briefest acknowledgement of her request.

  “Please take me home. I need to pass out.”

  He retrieved his cell from his pants pocket and typed—Then stay here. He typed again. Stay with me.

  “No,” she chuckled and gave another shove to his chest, only to have her wrist engulfed by his grip. Her humor faded as his seriousness bore into her, pleading with her. “Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t be nice when nothing good can come from this.”

  He leaned in, almost nose to nose. “Stay.”

  “Keenan…”

  “Stay.”

  She tangled her fingers in his shirt and shivered at the chill emanating off him. He wasn’t giving her an option, she knew that. He was laying down the first layer of his attack, hoping she’d take the path of least resistance so their battle of wills didn’t escalate to the next level.

  Her ragged breaths panted between them, her need to fight not as prominent as it should be. The truth was, she wanted him. She wanted this, whatever the hell it may be. She just didn’t want to be blindsided again.

  “Please don’t make me regret this.”

  He brushed the stray strands of hair from her face and nodded with solemn conviction. “I won’t.”

  But it was too late. She grabbed her cell, already regretting the heavenly way he entwined their fingers and the first step they made toward his house, because with that brief movement, she said goodbye to her heart and gave him all the power in the world.

  He led her inside, into the warmth that infused her with drowsiness. There was a flick of lights—outside off, inside on—then he was guiding her up a spectacular staircase that overlooked a sparkling chandelier.

  “I assume you have at least one spare room.” She slowed and released her hand from his hold.

  He paused at the top step and turned to face her with a succinct nod.

  “And I assume you plan on putting me in there…”

  His lips twitched, while the rest of him remained fierce, under control. He descended the two stairs between them and made her squeal as he lifted her off the ground, one arm beneath her legs, the other cradling her back.

  “Flexing your muscles won’t change my mind.” Well, maybe it would, but she was going to hold out a little longer.

  He carried her down a hall, past numerous closed doors, and into a room owned by his scent. With a flick of the lights he exposed her to a king-sized bed that would easily be dwarfed by his brilliance. The dark wood side tables were unadorned, the chest of drawers holding a flat screen television and nothing else. On the other side of the room, an open door led to darkness. And that was it. There was nothing to give her insight into his character, not a family photo to be seen. His private room was as revealing as his silence.

  “Please put me down.”

  He complied and moved ahead to pull back the ruby bed coverings and pat the mattress like a father to a child.

  “Where are you going to sleep?”

  He frowned, giving her a let’s-be-reasonable look. But there was no reason, no sense, and no self-preservation. He crooked a finger, enticed her to his side and placed his hands on her shoulders to gently guide her to sit on the bed. With gentlemanly finesse, he removed her jacket, placed her cell on the bedside table, then lowered to his knees to tug off her shoes, like a pauper to a princess. All she could do was watch while he became her knight in tarnished armor. A waking dream she didn’t want to fade.

  “I should probably have a shower…” She felt dirty, her skin tinged with sweat and grit that didn’t call to her quite as much as the need to close her eyes…or kiss his lips.

  “Sleep,” he mouthed and slid his hands up the outside of her thighs, his steely gaze peering up at her.

  Yeah, because slumber was possible when his touch crept toward the most sensitive part of her body.

  He gripped the tops of her thigh-high stockings and tugged, lowering them inch by agonizing inch. The further he strayed from her pussy, the more her throat tightened in protest. Soon she’d be starved of oxygen, the fight between exhaustion and lust pushing her toward unconsciousness.

  He dropped the flimsy material to the floor and lifted her ankles, encouraging her to lie on the bed. “Sleep.” He stood, unbuttoning the top of his shirt, and then walked to the door to flick off the light.

  He was joking, right? He’d run his hands under her dress, removed her stockings, teased her with the glimpse of his chest, and now expected her to drift off? That was going to be a challenge worthy of its own reality TV show.

  She imagined him undressing, could practically see it in Technicolor when she heard the hollow thunk of his shoes, the clink of his belt, and the delicate whoosh of clothes hitting the carpet. The bed covers rustled, and she measured her need for breath as he slid in beside her.

  Everything around her stilled—the air, the bed, Keenan—yet she was buzzing, her thoughts bouncing from one thing to the next. She needed his seduction, his lust, his greedy passion, because this caring side of him left her uneasy. It implied emotions she didn’t want to acknowledge, in him or herself.

  “You scare me, Keenan,” she murmured. “Being like this with you scares me.”

  He slid closer, wove an arm around her waist, and nodded against her shoulder.

  “I don’t want to like you.” She rolled away from him, his agreement drying her throat. “But I do.” Too damn
much to be healthy.

  He spooned in behind her and pressed a brief kiss to the back of her neck. She didn’t know what she’d expected from her admission, maybe cockiness, or the grind of his erection against her ass. Instead, his sweet affection infused her with something that seemed a lot like heartache.

  She was lost to him, carelessly and undeniably. And it wasn’t the usual instigators that made the pain tighten her chest. She wasn’t thinking about their positions in rival companies, or Penny, who would enjoy tearing them apart.

  All she could think about was settlement day, and how she’d have to leave him to return to San Francisco, no matter how close they became.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  For the first time, Savannah awoke with Keenan still peacefully lying beside her. He was breathing deeply, his hand possessively on her back, his presence making her core tingle in the most torturous way.

  Sleep had softened his features. There was no scowl or tight jaw. He was flawless in his slumber. Less imperious and entirely endearing. She wanted to remain like this forever, because waking him meant facing reality.

  He’d admitted he was falling for her, and she experienced the same descent. Only she wasn’t eager to embrace it. She would prefer to forget the complication and count down the days until settlement on her own. Safe in solitude. But the sight of him, the excitement and invigoration while being around him, made reality less worthy of her time. The thrill of him was far more important. The desire to be with him like a drug.

  His eyes opened under her gaze and a gentle kick curved her lips. She clung to her pillow—his pillow—and sank under the spell of him blinking back at her.

  “Morning,” she mouthed the word, maintaining the quiet.

  “Morning.”

  She wondered how many women embraced his silence and how many demanded to fill the void with unnecessary chatter. She wondered about everything and anything that pertained to this man. She itched to know it all—the secrets, the degradations, the achievements.

  His hand began to rub in slow circles, the warmth of his palm infusing the low of her back to spark a fire in her core. Around and around, he swept away the sleepiness and increased the dosage of his appeal. He inched toward her, his smoky irises so close, so intimidating, as his touch rose. He teased her waist, her ribs, the sensitive part of her shoulder and up to her neck, his fingertips barely brushing her tingling skin.

  Casually, he marked her, drawing his affection over her chin, along her cheeks, and against her bottom lip. She couldn’t hold in the whimper when he stopped.

  His eyes blinked in lazy strokes while he raised his hand between them. His fingers outstretched, as he indicated his face in a swirl of movement, then closed them tight before reopening them all at once.

  She frowned, unsure of the gesture.

  He mouthed a word, an indecipherable movement of lips, that increased her confusion.

  She prepared to question him, had the syllables on the tip of her tongue, and paused. She didn’t want to tamper with their moment. She didn’t want to spoil the silence and become like every other woman he’d been with.

  A devilish grin of understanding was her reward. He did the action again, slower, indicating his face in an intricate pattern.

  This time she understood when his lips parted. This time she knew what he was telling her, not from the word he mouthed for a second time, or the sign language, but from the look in his eyes. The gaze that told her exactly what his fingers had tried to announce.

  Beautiful. He thought she was beautiful.

  She sank her head into the pillow, trying to hide the way her cheeks flamed in a celebration of vanity. His touch tickled her neck, below her ear, then his grip was on her chin, gently guiding her vision back to his.

  This time he raised both hands, fingers clenched, thumbs up and wove them in a mimicked movement like an hourglass. That sign was universal, probably used since the dawn of time.

  Sexy. He thought she was sexy.

  She chuckled and shook her head in admonishment. The least he could do was teach her something that might further their communication. Maybe how-are-you, or yes-your-butt-does-look-good-in-those-pants.

  His lips quirked and his right hand flickered in a mass of movement. Not just one sign, but a mass of different gestures one after the other.

  Her frown must’ve said it all. She was clueless.

  He slid down the bed, his descent lithe yet controlled as he rolled on top of her, his weight sinking into the needy parts of her body. She feigned ignorance even though she had a crystal clear idea of what he was implying from the erection he ground against her pubic bone.

  He leaned to one side, resting his elbow beside her upper arm and signed again.

  She shrugged, hoping her feigned lack of intellect would lead to more of his heavenly teaching.

  He smirked at her, formed a circle with his thumb and index finger and then used the index finger of his other hand to penetrate the circle in a lascivious simulation of sex.

  Her bark of laughter enveloped the room, accompanied by his soundless chuckle that vibrated against her chest. They stared at each other, reading thoughts and finding secrets for breathless moments.

  “Have you always been silent?”

  Bliss left the room in a vacuum. He broke eye contact, his emotions masked by a lack of expression as he made to roll off her.

  “Don’t.” She grabbed his arms and kept him close. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” Not yet. Not in this moment.

  “What time is it?” She was seconds from caving, mere beats of her pulse away from letting him know he’d won her heart as well as her body. Her tongue worked around the declaration, her lips were starved of the words to assure him his silence was inconsequential, only she wasn’t ready to concede defeat just yet.

  He leaned to the side, grasped his cell from the bedside table and flashed the screen her way. The move was probably made to show her the time, yet all she could see were three missed calls from Penelope Augustine.

  “I think someone’s trying to get a hold of you.”

  His morning lethargy morphed into an annoyed glare as he cleared the notifications.

  “Why would she be calling?” The need for answers wasn’t inspired by jealousy. Not entirely. It was based more on confusion over why her cousin was trying to hold a one-sided conversation instead of communication via text or email.

  He typed and flashed her the screen again. Thanksgiving lunch.

  “Oh, shit. I completely forgot.” She tried to move, to sit up, but he wouldn’t budge from his position between her legs. “How long until you have to leave?”

  He grinned and tapped at the time stamp on his cell—1:38pm

  “You missed lunch?” She shoved harder this time, working her arms and knees to make him roll back to his side of the bed. “How the hell did I sleep that long?” She sat up and flung back the covers. “I have to get back to the hotel.”

  She needed to call her mother. Spencer, too. Her ex would demand answers to her whereabouts. Answers she wasn’t willing to give, but would need to respond to.

  Keenan relaxed onto his side and levered his free hand under his head. “Why?” His eyes narrowed, announcing he knew exactly why she was worried.

  “I should make sure the wedding finished without a hitch.”

  His brow rose, creeping higher like a bullshit meter. She prepared to fight the muted accusation only to be saved by his cell, the screen alighting with a new call from Penny.

  “Did you tell her you weren’t going to lunch?”

  He gave the tiniest incline of his head.

  “So, you’ve been in contact with her this morning?”

  His chin raised, as if in defiance, as if he were warding off a jealous accusation. But it wasn’t jealousy. It was something far more important.

  “Does she know I’m here?” She crossed every metaphorical body part as the question whispered from her lips.

  The slightest wince was
her answer.

  “Jesus Christ, Keenan.”

  She slid from the mattress and snatched her cell from the bedside table, unable to remain stationary. He followed, his footsteps louder as he inserted his authority into her personal space.

  “My staff are finally becoming comfortable with the changeover,” she grated. “I can’t lose the civil communication between Grandiosity and Rydel now. If she starts creating drama, I’ll…” She threw her hands in the air and huffed. “I’ll… I’ll claw those baby blues out that you seem to love so much.”

  He stepped into her, his solid build demanding calm she couldn’t muster.

  “She’s in love with you.”

  He didn’t offer a response.

  “Tell me I’m wrong.” She needed to hear it was professional loyalty making her cousin protective. Not affection. Not lingering feelings from the past.

  He stepped back, signaling a surrender that didn’t match the frustrated scowl etched across his forehead. “Don’t,” he mouthed.

  “Don’t what? Don’t freak out because being here with you is a repeat of the stupidest and most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done? Or don’t worry that you’ve told Penny I’m the reason you can’t be with her for Thanksgiving?”

  His eyes narrowed, his rage piqued. He strode for her, making her backtrack into his bedroom wall from the sudden spike in her arousal. She stood frozen, her chest rising and falling with apprehensive breaths, her mind churning over how she would handle another dose of callous emails from her cousin.

  The stress of the wedding was over, the welcome meeting with Grandiosity had cemented a positive attitude in her staff, and she’d anticipated a lack of drama moving forward. Was being here worth losing the price of stability, not only for her, but for the whole Rydel team?

  “I need to get back to the hotel.”

  He stepped closer, his feet inching between hers. He jabbed a finger at his chest, thumped a fist over his heart, and then pointed at her.

  She balked at the gesture as her mind replayed the movements in a continuous loop. Jab, thump, point. Jab, thump, point. Jab, thump, point.

  He loved her?