by Naima Simone
“You,” she continued, “remind me of golf. Solitary. Intense. Reserved. It’s almost like you hide—your emotions, your likes, dislikes, your thoughts, your passions. Yourself. You hide yourself behind this armor I bet very few people are allowed to pierce. And even they probably have limited access. I’ve known Raphael almost as long as I’ve known you, have been in his presence half as many times, and yet I know more about him than I do you.” She flattened her palms on the island and leaned forward. “And I want to know you.”
Silence permeated the large room, filling every nook and corner. Not a muscle ticked in his face or body. His hooded gaze pinned her to the stool, and she stifled a shiver. Heat emanated from that stare. Anger, desire. A mixture of the two. Damn. Sweat prickled her palms. I might’ve pushed too hard, too fast this time.
“What do you want to know, Aslyn?” he murmured, the low, sexy rumble sliding over her skin like the stroke of knowledgeable fingers.
One side of her mouth quirked into a half smile, and she straightened, placing much-needed space between them. Needed by her. “Ooh, so not fair,” she drawled. When his eyebrow kicked up, she shook her head. “The first time you actually flirt with me, and it’s to deflect. Like I said, not fair. Especially since I’m so susceptible.” Talking with him resembled a sexy tango: gliding close, brushing and grazing against one another. But the time came when the partners danced away. Now was one of those times. “I—” A thought struck her, and she jerked. Her breath catching in her throat, she narrowed her eyes. “Are you involved with someone? Is a girlfriend waiting on you while you’re sitting here with me?”
“No.” He cocked his head to the side, and relief poured over her. “And you? Is there a man in Los Angeles pining away and counting the days until you return?”
“You mean besides my manager, Liam?” She smirked. “Nope. Been there, bought the T-shirt, and torched the damn thing on my front lawn.”
“That bad?”
She stared at him. “You obviously don’t read the tabloids.”
“Not really interested in a hundred-and-twenty-year-old grandma having quintuplets,” he said wryly.
“Oh my God!” She pressed her palm to her chest. “You cracked a joke.” She pretended to swoon, and he grunted, but she spied the smile ghosting across his mouth. Warmth and triumph filled her chest, and she barely managed to not pump a fist. “But yes, that bad. My last relationship before”—before my life plummeted to hell in a hand basket—“moving here was with opera singer Lorenzo Argiolas.”
“Lorenzo?” He snorted.
“Hey.” She poked a finger at him. “Don’t judge. Anyway, we dated for a couple of months before he was caught red-handed with another woman. Or should I say bare-assed since he and the girl—and I do mean girl, since she was barely eighteen—were busted having sex in a car at a park by none other than a reporter—and I use that term very loosely.”
Chay’s eyes widened a fraction, his only visible reaction. “By the press? You’re shittin’ me.” Well, the curse was another giveaway of his shock. “I don’t know how you stand living your life under the microscope. That’s a hell of a way to find out your boyfriend’s cheating.”
“Yeah, well, wish I was kidding.” She sounded flippant, but the humiliation and hurt lingered. Especially since, as Chay pointed out, it’d been so public. Lorenzo and the girl hadn’t been caught by some random person, but by a tabloid reporter and photographer. The media coverage and backlash had been immediate and explosive. For her. Another man cheating on his girlfriend hadn’t been as salacious a story as why he’d resorted to sneaking around on Aslyn Jericho after dating her for only two months. Was she as frigid as reported? Did this validate the rumors of her sexuality? Did she prefer women to sexy, male opera singers? For weeks, the avaricious press had circled her, hunted her down for a sound bite they could air or twist. Until then, she’d been a darling of the media, but with one selfish, betraying act of her boyfriend, she’d sunk to media fodder. So yeah, while she didn’t—had never—loved Lorenzo, the pain loitered like a persistent panhandler.
“I’m just glad I followed the ninety-day rule and didn’t give up the cookie before then.”
“Okay, slow down. I follow what ‘the cookie’ is,” he drawled. “But you lost me on the ninety-day rule.”
“You never heard of Steve Harvey’s ninety-day rule?” When he remained silent, she sighed. “No sex with a man you’ve been seeing for at least three months, because in that time he’ll begin to reveal more about himself, commit himself, and not dip his wick in anyone else’s cookie jar. Obviously, Lorenzo failed.”
“Name aside, he’s an asshole. Real men don’t have to screw everything that breathes to prove their manhood.” He stated that with such fierce conviction, she blinked. And wondered if he’d spoken from experience. “That he couldn’t keep his dick in his pants doesn’t reflect on you but his own inadequacies. And did I mention he’s an asshole?”
No crying. Nuh-uh. Not gonna do it. How was it possible he was the first person to assure her the whole fiasco with Lorenzo hadn’t been her fault? Oh, people had made the appropriate noises, called him names, yada yada yada. But not one had said the words “It’s not your fault.” Technically, Chay hadn’t either but… That’s what he’d meant.
She hopped down off the stool and returned to the coffee pot, refilling her cup. Once she’d batted back the stinging moisture in her eyes, she cleared her throat and retraced her steps to the island. Lifting her head, she didn’t flinch from Chay’s solemn, steady regard, and remained in her chair. Even as every fiber of her being screamed she fly around the huge table and bury her face in his strong, golden throat.
“All things considered,” she prattled. “I should be thankful to the Corn Husker Queen for saving me from becoming more intimately involved with a man I would’ve needed a full-body condom to fuck.”
“Corn Husker Queen?” He snickered.
She hiked a shoulder. “Apparently, the girl was a senior in some tiny high school and had been crowned Corn Husker Queen on her homecoming court.”
A loud crack of laughter caught her by surprise. To her astonishment, the sound originated from Chay. A wide grin curved his sensual mouth, and humor lit his eyes. Hell, his whole face. He was a beautiful man, no denying that. But in that moment—with his head thrown back and laugh lines creasing his cheeks—he was luminescent.
Oh man, he was dangerous.
Dangerous to her resolve. To her goals. To her…self-imposed celibacy.
“Why did you stay?” she whispered.
He studied her, and she withstood his scrutiny because she wanted—craved—to hear his answer.
“Because you wouldn’t ask me to.”
The air rushed out of her lungs, and her heart pounded against her rib cage, setting up a primal rhythm. While she’d struggled with her pride not to ask him to stay with her, to help her, he’d humbled himself—risked her rejection—to provide her with the comfort she’d so desperately needed.
“Chay,” she breathed, and leaning forward, she brushed her fingertips over his full bottom lip. The first intimate contact zinged up her arm and through her body like an electrical current. How a simple touch to his mouth could cause her nipples to tingle and harden, or the flesh between her thighs to moisten and pulse, amazed and confounded her. But she didn’t question it. She’d known him less then forty-eight hours, and he stirred her in ways no man ever had.
His eyes heated, darkened. The sensual curve flattened under her fingers, and preempting his rejection, she withdrew her hand.
Or tried to.
Chay grasped her wrist, his long fingers cuffing the slim bone. With a firm but gentle grip, he tugged her around the end of the island, not pausing until she stood between his thighs. Like a fever invaded her body, she shivered even as she burned. She inhaled him, his special scent that had no name, no identifying markers but reminded her of skin-against-skin, bodies-against-bodies, and sin. Not Adam-and-Eve sin, but sweet,
sultry, whispers-in-the-dark sin.
As if he were a magnet and she metal, she leaned into him, shifted until her hips were wedged between his inner thighs. Until her breasts pressed against his chest, and the ache in her hard nipples increased and eased at the same time. She stared at the shallow dip in the center of his collarbone, revealed by the opening of his shirt. What would happen if she laid her lips there? If she tasted him? Would he stiffen? Push her away? With Chay she couldn’t tell…
But damn she wanted to find out.
So she did.
She lowered her head, swept her mouth over his tight skin. Traced the small bowl with the tip of her tongue. And moaned.
Yes, he tensed. His hands clutched her waist but exerted no pressure, as if uncertain whether to push her away…or draw her closer. Palms flat on his thighs, she pressed into him, savoring the dichotomy of hard to soft. Of planes to curves. She opened her mouth, drew his skin between her teeth, and suckled. His groan rumbled up his chest and vibrated over her breasts, adding another electrifying caress.
“Aslyn,” he growled. His hold on her waist tightened seconds before one hand gripped her hair and twisted the long ponytail around his fist a couple of times. He tugged, drawing her head back. Tiny bites nipped her scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough to incite a hunger to straddle his hard thigh and soothe the hungry emptiness in her sex. “Do you want to be fucked?”
She froze, slapped by the frank rawness of the question as well as image upon erotic image of being naked under him, over him. He would be gorgeous. All golden skin and lean muscle thrusting into her, pleasuring her. Yes. Yes, she wanted it. The slick skin sliding over skin, the dark groans, stroking hands, and gut-wrenching ecstasy.
But the montage of pictures in her mind didn’t match up with the guttural tone he used. He made it sound fleeting, dirty…shameful. No. She didn’t want that.
“Do you, Aslyn?” he demanded again. “Because I could fuck you. I could pick you up, carry you down the hallway to your bedroom, and lay you out on that bed. Or better yet, push you against the wall, strip off your pants, put my mouth on you. Taste you. Suck you. Make you come down my throat before working my cock into your pussy. I’d take you against that wall, Aslyn, thrusting so deep, riding you so hard, you’d scream my name as you came again. I can do that, baby.” He nipped her lip, soothed the sting with his tongue. “But it’s all you would get from me. It’s all I have to give.”
“Chay,” she rasped, her will razed to the ground by the picture he’d drawn with his explicit description. Holy shit that was hot. Her chest rose and fell, her breath labored, heavy. Every nerve hummed, jumped, pulsated. She’d transformed into one giant ache. She circled the wrist of the hand that was still entwined around her hair.
“No, Aslyn,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “You are not a fuck-’em-and-leave-’em woman. And I’m not a relationship man. You wouldn’t sleep with your boyfriend—your boyfriend—before ninety days, and we haven’t known each other for ninety hours. I don’t deserve someone as pure, as good as you. I’ve done some foul and selfish things in my life. But I won’t add using you to the list.”
Gently, he released her and pushed her back several steps. He stood, and before she could stop him, he circled around her and headed for the kitchen entrance. She sorted past the surprise, the hurt of rejection, the heat of desire, and focused on his last words.
“I won’t add using you to the list.”
“Use me?” She whipped around, palming the edge of the island for support. “Use me for what?”
Chay didn’t turn to face her, and for a moment, she believed he’d keep walking without responding to her question. But he glanced at her over his shoulder, and the cold, aloof shield had returned, locking his thoughts in and her out.
“For forgetfulness. Oblivion.”
She didn’t try to stop him again for another explanation. Instead, she remained silent as he strode across her living room and exited her house.
Leaving her aroused. Rejected.
And wondering.
An hour later, Aslyn sat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys. Tension raced down her spine, drew her shoulders tight. Her stomach clenched. Wait. She sucked in a breath. What was that? A fluttering. Like a bird’s wing deep in her soul. Hazy, nebulous, but there. Sweat dampened her forehead, rolled down her back. She lowered her hands to the keyboard. And froze. Whatever had quickened in her chest—if there had been anything there in the first place—was gone. With quick, harsh breaths, she lowered the cover over the piano keys, concealing them from her sight. As if the action could also shut off the sense of loss and emptiness.
Damn. She jammed her fists against her thighs. With another soft curse, she shoved the stool back and stalked from the room, the grief sharper somehow. Because the music had been there just beyond her reach. But still unobtainable.
A half-hour later she exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her, tucking the ends between her breasts. Steam from her shower trailed after her into the bedroom. She shivered, the central air chilling her damp skin. But the air couldn’t account for the skittering across the nape of her neck. She shot a glance at the window.
The shade was drawn. Men hired to protect her were parked outside guarding her home. The alarm was set, the security cameras active. She gripped the knot in the towel, loosened it…
“Damn it,” she hissed, then stalked to the bed, snatched up her tank and pajama bottoms, and retreated to the bathroom. One of the photos had reflected her undressing in the bedroom. Tearing the towel off and pulling her nightclothes on, she couldn’t stifle the creepy sensation of being watched, even though every shade in the house was now drawn.
Minutes later, more material covered her body, but the feeling of exposure didn’t dissipate. Pulse tapping out an erratic rhythm, she flicked the wall switch, plunging the room into shadows except for the small pool of light from the bedside lamp. Hurriedly, she crossed the room and slid under the sheets, pulling the covers over her shoulders. When images of the photos hunkered at the edges of her conscious, ready to sneak in, she curled on her side and shoved the panic back. Instead, she conjured something guaranteed to distract her.
Chay.
His last words continued to haunt her.
Forgetfulness. Oblivion.
She understood seeking forgetfulness. Hell, there were nights she convinced herself she felt herself coming down with a cold so she could down some Nyquil. Nightmares couldn’t reach her in medicated sleep. But oblivion. He sought a total void of thought, of consciousness. From what? What haunted him so much—what hunted him—that the only way of escape was nothingness?
Her chest ached with the pressure pushing against its wall. If he’d assumed his raw, blunt description of sex and the warning of using her would disgust her, alienate her, he was sorely misguided. And wrong.
So wrong.
Yeah, reason presented a strong argument in favor of maintaining distance.
But instinct, intuition, emotion—whatever—skipped the logic bullshit and gunned for how he made her feel. Safe. Protected. Special.
Alive.
Ninety days be damned. If he’d find oblivion in her arms and body, then she’d give both to him.
Because she yearned for the same from him.
Her cell vibrated on the bedside table seconds before a generic ring tone pealed, cutting through the silence of the room. She rolled over and stared at the phone. Liam was the only person who called her on the cell she’d purchased just before leaving L.A., and she’d assigned him a special tone.
Moisture fled from her mouth. She sat up, the sheets pooling around her hips. Her pulse echoed in her head, almost drowning out the jazzy tune emanating from the phone. Finally, the noise stopped.
She exhaled.
The cell buzzed and rang again.
Palm dotted with sweat, she grasped the phone. Swiped the answer key. Pressed the cell to her ear.
Silence echoed over the line.
/> Then, “Hello, Aslyn.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, clapped her hand over her mouth to physically trap the whimper in her throat behind her lips. The voice… Oh Jesus. The voice was electronic as if the person on the end used one of those gadgets designed to purposefully distort and conceal. And male. Unmistakably male.
“Aslyn, I know you’re there,” he cooed. “Did you get my pictures today? I wanted you to see how beautiful I find you, but I kept the originals for myself. I love looking at you.” His tone deepened, the device unable to hide the lust thickening the voice. “I love your hair. Your skin. Your body.”
“Who are you?” Aslyn whispered. “Who is this?”
Harsh, rough breathing rasped in her ear.
“I’m coming for you, Aslyn,” he promised. “You’re mine, and I’m coming for you. Very soon.”
She jabbed the “end call” key and hurled the phone on the bed.
Shaking, she drew her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rocked.
She wouldn’t sleep tonight.
Chapter Nine
Fury poured through Chay’s veins in a molten flood. He stared at his office and at Aslyn through a crimson film. She sat in front of his desk, fingers clenched, trying—and failing—not to betray her fear. The charade only notched the mercury level on his temperature higher.
The stalker had contacted her last night.
With the voyeurism, photos, and phone call, Chay could no longer entertain the possibility of this being a bored teenage kid or run-of-the-mill Peeping Tom. No, as Aslyn had relayed the caller’s conversation, especially the ominous promise at the end, Chay acknowledged lightning had indeed struck twice. Another sick bastard had made her the target for his obsessed, twisted desires.
And Chay had left her.
He’d run away from her—from the voracious hunger she stirred in him—and left her vulnerable. And scared. Vulnerable, scared, and alone.
Leaning back in his office chair, he inhaled and drew his cold but familiar shield around him. It was fractured, but it held. For now.