My eyes go to the rose tattoo I saw last night, on the top of the hand with LOST on the knuckles. “Is that about me?”
He looks down at it. “Yeah. I get one”—he takes a deep breath—“every year we’re apart.”
I don’t believe him. My face feels hot.
He exhales. “The first year, I got a rose on my back. The hand was next.” He pushes up the sleeve on his navy sweater and shows me the inside of his arm, where my name is written in tiny script along his bicep. “I got this on year three.”
I take deep breaths, processing his words.
He stands there, fidgeting.
“And this year? What did you get?”
“Nothing. I’m waiting . . .”
“For what?” I say, my voice shaky, and I want to yank it back. I don’t want him to see how his words are affecting me, how his vulnerability is tugging at me.
He bites his lip and looks at me long and hard. “For you. This is the year I get you back.”
I gasp and take a step back. “You have no right to assume that—no right.”
“I know.”
“I have a life without you—a perfect one.”
“I know.” He sticks his hands in his skinny jeans.
“I’m with Trenton—”
“Trust me, I know.”
“And you can’t expect to just waltz in here and pick back up—
“I don’t.”
“You hurt me!” I yell at him, tired of his calm. I need him to be just as angry as I am. “You slept with someone else immediately after almost sleeping with me! You left me in Dallas after you promised you’d take me to LA. You’re a liar, a horrible, horrible liar, and I hate you for it.” My words are bitter and harsh, and it feels good to get them out, to say all the things that have built up inside me since he left.
He swallows, his face working with emotion, looking conflicted. “It’s just . . . I knew what kind of girl you were, tough and strong. I knew if you really wanted me, you’d find a way, and I couldn’t let that happen. That’s why I hurt you, Rose.” His voice sounds as if it’s been dragged over gravel. “I . . . I promised Father I’d leave you alone.”
“But why?”
He faces me head on, his face like stone. “He gave me a half a million dollars to leave Dallas and start my career. The condition was I had to leave you behind.”
I close my eyes. “And look at you now . . . you’re famous.”
He shakes his head. “No, Rose, look at you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You graduated NYU summa cum laude. You’re in graduate school. You’re living the life you wanted.”
Tears prick my eyes at the idea that he knows things about me that I’ve never told him, as if he’s kept up with me . . . but I hurriedly blink them away. I can’t be soft around him. It hurts too much. “You have no right to assume I wouldn’t have had those things with you in LA. You made the decision to take that money for you because you realized I wasn’t worth the trouble. I would have just gotten in the way of the things you really wanted to do—fucking anything that moved, coke up your nose, whatever.”
His face pales. “I deserve that. I left you with no explanation, and that wasn’t right. I’m sorry for Dallas. I wasn’t the man you needed.”
“You think you are now?” Disbelief is evident in my tone as I glare at him.
Who does he think he is?
Does he think he can just stroll right back into my life as if the past four years didn’t even happen?
He studies me carefully, his gaze brushing over my face and lingering on my lips. “You’re mine, Rose, always will be.”
And then he’s gone before I can even form a response.
Rose
IT’S WEDNESDAY NIGHT WHEN I snap awake at the sound of thunder rolling across the tall buildings in Manhattan.
Perfect, just what I need—and on a night when Oscar is staying over with Axe.
I check my phone and see that it’s one in the morning and actually Thursday. Ugh. I clamber out of bed in the darkness and make my way to the bathroom. It’s been a weird week and has everything to do with Spider and his you’re mine, Rose comment on Sunday.
I stare at myself in the mirror, seeing the dark circles from the lack of sleep this week.
Just then a bolt of lightning flashes across the sky and the strike reverberates through the concrete walls in my apartment. A scream escapes me as the power goes out, plunging me into total darkness. I hate storms since the night Mama was killed.
Stumbling around in the dark, I make my way back to my bedroom, where I promptly stub my toe and yelp. Dammit! Hopping on one foot and cursing, I manage to find the nightstand drawer where I keep my little flashlight in case of the zombie apocalypse . . . or a blackout.
But, it’s not there. Oscar. He went on a camping trip last month with Axe and asked to borrow it. I yell at him in my head.
Fumbling around on my pillows, I find my phone and use the flashlight on it, but I know it won’t last long since my battery is low. Walking to the balcony door, I gather the nerve to peek out, trying to ignore the harsh boom from another strike of lightning. Blackness for a city block meets my gaze. No red lights, no storefront lights, no streetlights, nothing. The lightning must have hit a transformer somewhere.
It’s eerie in the city, and I shiver again.
Candles. I need candles.
I’m in the kitchen, rummaging through drawers in search of Oscar’s supply of scented candles from Bath & Body Works and matches. I’m not having any luck and when I bump my head on an open cabinet door, I curse a blue streak.
To make matters worse, all I find are candles and no matches. Aggravated and fighting a freak-out, I decide to just forget it and go huddle under the blankets on my bed while praying for the storm to pass soon.
A knock sounds at the door, and I yelp.
“Rose? Are you okay?”
I hobble to the door and crack it open, leaving the latch on. I blare my phone light at him, making him squint.
Wearing nothing but a pair of Union Jack boxers is Spider. His muscled abs are on display, and it’s clear he’s bulked up since I last saw him. His chest is broad and sculpted, his biceps look like I could bounce a quarter off them, and the deep V at his waist is making me salivate. All hail, England.
I move the light down to check out his legs. Yep, they’re sexy too. Dammit.
I tear my eyes off his body and focus on his face.
At least his hair is sticking straight up. Serves him right.
He holds his hand up to block the light in his eyes. “Can you please turn that thing off? You’re blinding me.”
He looks past me and into the foyer area. “I heard you scream and got worried. I remembered that storms scare you.”
“How did you know that?” I ask, not recalling ever telling him.
“When we met on the plane, you told me.”
“Oh.” I bit my lip, surprised he remembered. I recall another tidbit from the plane. “Are you still scared of Dolly Parton hiding in your shower?”
A grin curls his lips. “Fucking terrified.”
Lightning strikes again, and I flinch.
“Are you okay? Do you need anything?”
I stand there and mean to tell him I’m fine, but something in me softens.
“Oscar stole my flashlight and I don’t have any matches,” I say with a smirk.
He grins and holds up a small flashlight. “Want some company?”
A small battle rages inside me. I’m uncomfortable with the tension between us, but I also hate being alone during storms.
I exhale, remove the latch, and take a step aside so he can enter.
My insides quake at our close proximity, especially since I can see all his rippling muscles and tousled hair.
I eye his boxers. “Aren’t you cold?”
His lips quirk. “Want me to put some pants on?”
Thunder rolls again and a bolt of lightning strikes, a bri
ght flash coming in from the windows at the back of the apartment. It illuminates the foyer and den area for a few seconds. My hands clench. “No,” I say hurriedly. “Don’t leave me. Not until the storm is over. This lightning . . . it drives me nuts.”
His brow furrows, his gaze taking in how I’m leaning against the entry table. “Hey, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” He shines his light around the apartment, checking out the big windows at the back.
“Do you have windows in your bedroom?”
I nod. “Floor-to-ceiling on one side. I’ve thought about asking Robert for some kind of window treatment, but he’s done so much . . .” My voice trails off. “The only rooms that don’t have windows are the bathrooms and the kitchen area.”
He thinks for a moment and says. “Come on, I have an idea.”
I follow him as he marches into the den and considers my furniture. Seeming to come to a decision, he begins to move them around. My brow wrinkles as I watch him push a chair over to the sectional. He grabs a floor lamp and moves it close to the chair. What is he doing?
He leans over to get a better look at an end table and I sigh. His tight ass . . . I close my eyes, my body warming. I’m getting hot, and it isn’t from the humidity of the storm.
“Where’s Oscar?” he asks as he shifts the coffee table.
I bite my lip. “He’s staying at Axe’s tonight.”
“Ah.”
I can’t wait any longer, baffled by his actions. “What are you doing? Some kind of feng shui?”
He tosses me a grin, and for the first time since seeing him, it feels like it used to with us . . . like home.
“You’ll see, love.”
I follow him as he makes his way unerringly into my bedroom, removes the pillows and sheets, and then carries them back into the den, still using the flashlight to light the way.
“I need some more quilts. Do you have any?”
I nod and show him the linen closet. He grabs an armful and goes back into the den.
He arranges the quilts and pillows on the carpet then drapes several sheets over the furniture he’s moved in closer to the center of the room. The floor lamp is the highest point and creates a tent effect. He pats the floor, indicating a small opening he’s made for me to crawl through.
“You made a fort,” I say. “For me to hide in?”
He nods, doing one of those effortless shrugs. “Just want you to feel safe. At least the lightning won’t be as noticeable. I mean, I know you can still see through the sheets—”
“It’s perfect,” I say, chewing on my lip. “Are you coming in?”
“If you want me to?” There’s a hesitant sound in his voice.
“I do.”
I lean over and crawl through and glance over my shoulder to see him watching me, probably taking in the yellow lace underwear I’m wearing under my roomy t-shirt.
Once I get settled, he tosses me the flashlight. “Now close your eyes and count to a hundred—out loud, so I can hear you. I’ll be right back.”
My eyes flare as he stands up. “You’re leaving?”
“Just for a second. Hang on—” and then he’s gone. I hear him opening my front door and then silence.
I sigh, close my eyes, and begin to count.
He arrives back at around the seventy mark. I hear him scuffling around my den, a loud grunt when he bumps into something, and then the flick of a lighter.
The opening of the fort door rustles as he comes inside, but I keep my eyes closed. His shoulder brushes against mine, and his voice is hushed. “Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
I open them and my focus is transfixed on the myriad of candles he set up around the room and lit. Several are on the mantel, and a few are on the foyer table next to the front door.
My chest expands, and I find that I can’t look at him. “It’s . . . a wonderland.”
He squeezes my shoulder, both of us sitting cross-legged on the quilts. “The next time you have a storm, do this instead. Maybe it will change your whole perspective.”
“Yes.” I don’t know what else to say.
I’m overwhelmed by him. By his thoughtfulness.
He turns my chin toward him, and . . . we’re so close. I see that he’s put on pajama pants after all; they’re a blue and green plaid and hang loosely from his hips.
“Are you still scared?”
“No,” I whisper. I’m something else entirely.
He pulls something out from behind him, a small package wrapped in thick, expensive paper and tied with a burlap bow.
“What’s this?” My voice is soft and a bit breathless.
“A gift. I . . . I’ve had it for a while.”
“Why didn’t you send it to me?”
A long sigh comes from him and he swallows. “Rose . . . I couldn’t see you or have any contact with you . . . not until I was clean. That’s why I didn’t come to the back door the night of the concert.”
I process his words, feeling them out. “You’ve been clean for a while, right? If it was so important to you . . . why haven’t you seen me?”
He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know . . . being clean has been hard and I’m figuring it out as I go. I see a therapist and I draw to keep the demons away. Father and I . . . we talk more and try to see each other often. Just having his support . . . it means a lot to me.”
I nod.
He chews on his bottom lip. “There hasn’t been one day that goes by that I haven’t wondered how you are and what you’re doing.” He stops and inhales a deep breath. “I got clean for you. For us.”
“There is no us,” I remind him.
“Yet.”
His words send a wave of pure need through me, but I squash it down.
He hurt you, Rose, I remind myself.
I take the package from him and open it gently. My eyes water when I see what it is—a first edition copy of Jane Eyre—and I look up at him. “This must have cost you . . . thousands.”
I flip the book jacket over, tracing my fingers over the carefully preserved title page.
He shrugs, his face soft.
I stare down at the brown cover, my hands clutching it like a lifeline. I never want to let it go. He kisses me gently on the cheek and suddenly I can’t breathe, my whole body warm and tingling.
He fingers a lock of my hair. “I finished it, you know, a long time ago.”
“What did you think?” I ask.
“At the core, it’s a story about destiny, Jane’s destiny, and how it’s intertwined with Rochester’s. Fate’s a wonderful thing, right?” A small laugh escapes him, and I wonder if he’s thinking what I am . . . that fate brought us together that day at the Quickie Mart and then later on the airplane.
He continues. “Jane’s a fucking boss, like you, even though people want to bring her down. She just wants . . . I don’t know, freedom to be her own person and make her own decisions.”
“Yes.”
He clears his throat, his lips closer to mine than before, the change in our position almost imperceptible. “She turns down Rochester’s offer of being his mistress because she wants to be true to herself.”
“What about Rivers?” I ask, inquiring about Jane’s other love interest. “What do you think of him?”
He laughs softly. “He’s a religious wanker.”
I’m so entirely fascinated by his words . . . the fact that he read it because of me.
“How do you know she doesn’t love the wanker?” I say, my eyes boring into his.
“Because she can’t forget Rochester. She’ll never be over him, and when she hears his voice calling for her, she goes . . .” His voice stops, his face flushing as he cups my cheek.
His mouth halts a few inches from mine, his chest rising and falling rapidly.
If I don’t touch him . . .
God, if I don’t touch him . . . I’m going to die right here.
“Rose, I really want to kiss you right now.”
“God, yes,” I say
breathlessly.
Spider
I KISS HER SOFTLY, AS if we’re on a first date, tasting her with reverence, my lips claiming hers so excruciatingly slow, as if saying, You can pull away at any time.
I don’t want to scare her.
My emotions are incredibly fierce at this moment, hot with need, and I have to hold myself back from crushing her in my arms.
I breathe her in, my hand encircling her neck and tugging her closer, until all I can think, smell, want is her.
“Spider,” she whispers between small kisses down my neck, her teeth scraping across my collarbone, making me hiss, my cock already hard as steel.
I groan, my hand slipping under her shirt and palming her breast, my fingers tweaking her nipple.
“We shouldn’t,” she says as I raise her shirt up to her shoulders.
I tilt her chin up and stare into her eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with the way I feel about you and how I think you feel about me, but this is your decision. I want you. I want you so much that I can’t breathe.”
She closes her eyes, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes open.
“Just tell me to stop and I will.” My thumb runs across her lower lip. “You say the word and I’ll never kiss these lips again. We can go on pretending and tiptoeing around each other when we both fucking know that this heat between us is something we can’t ignore forever. Fate has other plans. She wants this. Do you want it?”
A slow blush starts up her neck. “Yes.”
My hand winds in her hair and I tug her face back to mine. “Then let me show you how much I want you.”
I kiss her again, harder this time, my teeth and tongue owning hers.
She pants, one hand threading through my hair to grasp my skull, tugging on me while her other pulls at my pajama bottoms, slipping inside and underneath my silk boxers to grasp my cock.
I ease away from her with a small laugh and lay her back against the pillows, my eyes devouring her. “You’re gonna make me blow too soon, love.”
“That’s okay. We can always go again.” She shimmies out of her shirt and kicks her panties off, making me groan.
She’s in a hurry, and I suspect it’s because, like me, she’s in the moment and afraid of this thing between us disappearing.
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