Shelter Me: A Shelter Novel

by Stephanie Tyler

  "You deserve every minute of this success. Fuck anyone who says differently."

  I slid the phone back into my bag, shaking my head at the turn of events.

  "Is he coming to rescue you?" Lucas asked, a laugh in his voice as he came back into the room.

  "He offered."

  "I'm sure he did." As he passed by the couch, he downed his drink but didn't pour another. Instead, he went back to his spot by the window, like he was purposely staying just far enough away from me.

  I wanted to move closer.

  He was a challenge and danger rolled into one, an explosive combination with the potential to break all my self-imposed rules, tear my heart to pieces and leave me wrung out but satiated.

  Really, was there any other way when it came to matters of the heart? Because if I didn't feel that initial, heart-pounding passion, it wasn't worth it. If I didn't think that it would be a chase, I'd walk away, because I'd learned the hard way that the chase was better than the catch. Jared (my ex) had taught me that painful lesson and I blamed my naiveté on my age, my lost memories, being nostalgic after him being my first.

  Technically, he might not have been, but based on my memories, he'd been the one.

  Since then, I tended to look for men with serious swagger to match the swagger I'd been told I had, because it became a battle of wills…and I was always able to walk away first. Always.

  Lucas Caine would be no different. Couldn't be. There was no way to build a future without the knowledge of my past—no way I wouldn't bring danger along with me.

  No way I wanted my heart broken. My art did that often enough for me. But I did want to sleep with him and I would, to prove that I could do so and walk away. Ever since the man who'd broken my trust more than my heart (to be honest though, at the time, I'd been devastated on both counts, being young, foolish and naive), I'd been able to prove that I could do this. Now, even though every fiber of my being screamed that Lucas Caine was different, a hurricane I couldn't escape, a danger that would embrace me like a warm blanket…still, I insisted I was up for the challenge.

  "I shouldn't really stay," I told him as I moved from the couch to stand directly in front of him.

  "You definitely should, Ryn." He slid a finger along my jawline. "I'm in way more fucking trouble than you."

  Trouble, again. "You bought paintings." A stab in the dark but…

  "Yes."

  "Because…?"

  "Because your work speaks to me. I don't have to pay people to fuck me."

  That was definitely the truth, although there were a lot of men who preferred the ease of paying for it. "This is ridiculous."

  He frowned. "Which part?"

  "Coming here with you. What I did with you in the back room. All of it." I put my fists to my temples and then I did the unthinkable…something I hadn't done in days.

  I laughed. It was a crazy belly laugh, the kind that fed on itself and I didn't stop until I could barely catch my breath.

  When I did, Lucas was staring at me intently, a small smile playing on his lips.

  I wiped my eyes, imagining that the perfect smoky eye that had been so carefully applied was now rolling down my cheeks. "Sorry. It's all just so absurd. I mean, I'm worried about what people will think of me and my art, so I sabotage myself by sleeping with you and getting into a fistfight during my first show."

  "What we did in that back room had nothing to do with sabotage, babe," he said huskily. "You enjoyed it too much."

  I had, and the fight too. "I guess I'm all in," I admitted, more to myself than to him. It was the culmination of everything—overcoming the panic and fear, being here with my work, actually feeling a strong attraction that was about so much more than fulfilling my own needs.

  I finally felt free. I saw no reason not to celebrate. I was much more a tell me I can't do something, then stand back and watch me do it person. And Meghan had delivered a challenge and it just so happened to be one I wanted to conquer. I hadn't let my past overwhelm me and keep me from doing this show. It wouldn't stop me from my end goal of sleeping with Lucas Caine.

  One night, and he'd be out of my system.

  One night to forget everything else existed.

  One night to simply be me. Because no matter how bad my amnesia was, I'd always believed that my personality had always been this way.

  "I can take you home, but I don't want to," Lucas said calmly.

  "Do you always get what you want?"

  His gaze fixed on me. "Don't you?"

  I smiled a little and then I leaned in and let my kiss be my answer.

  Nothing about tonight had been easy. Easy had never had a place in my life, and right now, I definitely didn't want it, not with his mouth insistently on mine, his body heat burning me as his hands traveled down to cup my ass in order to draw me against him more tightly.

  I moaned into his mouth as the ache in my belly intensified. "I wanted to see the tattoos. All of them." I began to tug at his shirt which was already halfway undocked. His smile was pure bad boy, wicked intentions, and with a quick flick of his wrist the straps of my dress were off my shoulders and the fabric slid to a puddle at my feet.

  I flushed at he stared with approval and lust in his expression. "Perfect."

  "Not even close," I told him fiercely.

  "Perfect for my intentions," he corrected and ran a hand across my lower back, pulling me against him. It felt strange to be naked against his mostly clothed body but it was also a turn-on. His cock pressed me through his pants. My body surged against his, my sex wet and hot and so ready for him.

  His mouth on my nipple sent a series of shockwaves through me. He sucked hard, then bit lightly as his fingers slid between my legs and inside of me, setting me on edge, ready to detonate…explode.

  I had zero control around Lucas. That fact alone overwhelmed me. Intense pleasure sliced through me as his mouth slid up my neck.

  He reached between my legs, stroking me, smiling at the heat he found, because he knew it was for him. All of it.

  One night, one night, one night, I sang inside my head. He would shatter me, and all I could do was urge him to do it faster, harder. The urgency that slammed us the moment we'd met had built to a nearly unbearable level—our time in the back room had barely taken the edge off, or maybe it amped us up more, furthering our anticipation to painfully frustrating levels.

  My body laughed and shuddered as he thumbed my clit and the tight bundle of nerves vibrated through my entire body.

  One night. Several orgasms, I amended as I sagged against him. But even in my post-orgasmic haze, I knew I still hadn't gotten my fill of seeing him. At the very least, I needed to satisfy my curiosity. Immediately.

  "Please," I told him, tugging at his shirt.

  "Now you think you're in charge?" he murmured with a small shake of his head. "Oh baby, it doesn't work that way. Not tonight, at least."

  In response, I raked my nails along his sides. He shuddered, so I did it again.

  "You want to see me that badly?"

  "Yes, I have to."

  He pulled the shirt off and for a long second, I just stared. The tattoos snaked their way around his biceps, ribbons of black and white and gray that complemented his muscles and the designs equally. I trailed a finger along one strand of tribal design that wrapped up around his shoulder and followed it around to his back.

  Even in the soft shadows of his apartment, I knew his backpiece was magnificent. It spanned his shoulders and the entire width of his back, and as I followed it with my eyes, he dropped his pants so I could see where the ink ended.

  "You done?" he asked, without turning around.

  Never. But my body needed more than a view, even though my sex spasmed at the sight of his naked self. "Beautiful," I murmured as I walked around him. I caught a glimpse of a small, one-sided smile from him and I went back to intently tracing his pecs, his ribcage and finally, I circled his nipples.

  He hissed through his teeth, so I did it again.<
br />
  And got the same effect.

  There were also several scars that I didn't bother to stop and catalogue. There would be time later—I'd make sure of it.

  "That's enough for now," he growled as he picked me up against him and carried me through the living room and into his bedroom. The window overlooked the city, and I watched him as he lay me out on his big bed. "Perfect. Perfect trouble," he added as he parted my legs with his body, palmed my thighs open and bent his head.

  I didn't expect it when his tongue laved between my legs and I jolted and grabbed the sheets, the headboard, his hair, anywhere that might ground me when I was so obviously not. He was opening me, licking, exploring. Bringing me right to the precipice (again) in no time flat.

  When I came, my legs stiffened, toes curling, cries escaping my throat. Sounds I didn't bother to hide. I couldn't have. I wasn't in control of my own body and I loved it.

  He didn't push inside of me as much as he invaded me, his weight pressing me to the mattress, his thickness filling me, leaving me still for several moments while my body adjusted to the pure pleasure of just having him.

  I rocked my hips up to match his motions, taking him in farther, enjoying the pinch of pain before the pleasure. Watching him take me, giving over that control, unable to stop the freight train of an orgasm that rushed through me.

  In the middle of the night, I woke in a daze, unsure of where I was…until Lucas's body rustled next to mine. He kissed his way up my bare back and he took me in the moonlight that draped across the sheets, dappling our bare bodies as we knelt, my back to his chest.

  It was perfect. Too much so. Painfully so, because I knew perfect wasn't built to last. It would blow away like the puffs of cotton from the wishing flowers I'd pick from the meadows upstate.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, I woke to find Lucas staring out the window, his bare back to me, jeans pulled on. When he turned, they weren't completely done up. His hair was tousled, the ink running over him, fascinating.

  My heart beat uncomfortably fast. I wasn't done, could never be…but I needed to be. All the togetherness and warmth of last night was gone, replaced by the harsh light of reality. I was too close, too fast. There was danger all around, all around me and Lucas.

  I was out of bed like a shot, gathering up my dress as I went.

  "I've got some clothes for you in there," he called before I shut the door. And he'd in fact gotten me some brand-new fashion exercise-type clothes. And sneakers. All in the right sizes.

  I yanked it all on, rather than do the walk of shame in my dress, then used his toothbrush. Hands through my hair for a quick, messy braid, a splash of water and soap to get rid of any traces of leftover makeup from last night and I was out of there.

  When I headed directly toward Lucas's front door, he was standing near it, like he knew my plan…and he was holding my phone. "I programmed my number in your cell."

  I grabbed it from him. "Presumptuous."

  "Definitely. Use it."

  I wouldn't. But I also didn't delete it. I told myself some bullshit about how it made me a stronger person by letting it sit there and tempt me…and I promised myself I'd erase it tomorrow. "Gotta go," I said in what I hoped was a breezy tone (although really, I was laughably far from the breezy type). "Thanks for the clothes."

  His expression was of the good luck to you tongue-in-cheek variety, something I didn't relish at this moment. "Let me take you home. Or at least get you a cab. You're not prepared for what's out there."

  Whatever it was had to be safer than him, so I didn't turn back, pushed past him. "I'm fine, really."

  With my dress, bag and shoes all balled up, I went out and down the stairs…and found myself in the face of two cameras with flashbulbs that burst into a thousand shattered pieces in front of my eyes and made me blink furiously. They sounded more like muffled bullets murdering my fledgling career than cameras whirring at the speed of light to invade my life and get this story. Whether Meghan tipped them off or they followed us here somehow—and really, when had I gotten that important?—it didn't matter. The damage was done—I was "out there."

  There's no putting Ryn back in the box now.

  I put my head down and walked until I could hail a cab. The photographers followed me the whole way, even running after the cab for a few minutes.

  The cab driver barely glanced back at me, like this was a constant occurrence for him. "Where to?"

  I gave my building's address. It was time to go home and face the music.

  As I walked from the elevator to my door, I texted Brayden to let him know I was home safe—and that I was going to work. That wasn't all avoidance, because I was itching to draw and I barely got through the door and punched the alarm code before I was grabbing for my supplies. I curled up on the couch before anything else could distract me, knowing I had to let it all out.

  My emotions were all still wrapped up in Lucas and would be until I could release them, purge them, and forget them.

  As if, a small, cynical part of me chided, which I ignored in favor of sweeping marks across the page with my eyes practically closed, remembering every inch of him. I let my confusion and leftover lust pour into the sketch, defining his biceps and lats and tattoos from memory, working feverishly, as though everything depended on it.

  I sketched him in charcoal, his arms, his chest, bare back, what I could remember of the individual tattoos I tried to memorize while he slept. There were so many of them, intricately connected but obviously each a masterpiece unto itself. His biceps held more of the single pieces that were still connected by scrollwork, each tattoo a standout but yet managing to fade into a pattern.

  I drew faster.

  Skull.

  Wings.

  Dice.

  Ace of spades.

  I slowed when I got to his backpiece, an intricate work in grayscale, masculine yet delicately exquisite. It reminded me of something, but like my memories, the harder I tried to grab it the slipperier it got.

  When I was done, I was exhausted but nowhere near satiated. Far from exorcizing my desire for Lucas, it had only served to make it worse. Annoyed, I left the sketchbook on the kitchen table, put on a pot of coffee and then headed for the shower, so I could stop pretending the smell of Lucas wasn't driving me crazy.

  When I came out, I dressed quickly in a T-shirt and leggings, but a strange sense washed over me, as if the energy in the apartment had been disturbed. The alarm was still armed, and after a quick check to make sure I was most definitely alone, I focused on the flowers. I'd registered them briefly when I'd first come in, a variety of vases gathered in the living room along the windowsill, and I'd assumed they'd been delivered to the gallery for me and brought here by Brayden.

  Upon closer inspection, I noticed, among the other, more arranged bouquets, a small vase of daffodils that looked as if they'd come freshly picked, not from a flower shop. Even so, there was a small, white card with a typed message that simply read: Great show.

  Unlike the others, this card was plain white with no flower shop insignia. Maybe someone brought it to the gallery last night and Brayden dropped it by here. But could it be a coincidence that I'd found daffodils in here last night?

  I jumped at the sudden, harsh sound of the buzzer, as someone pushed it intensely and several times in a row to get my attention. I quickly shoved the daffodils back so they were semi-buried behind the other flowers and went to the intercom.

  Was it wrong that more than a small part of me was hoping it was Lucas? Ridiculous. I'd survived approximately twenty-four years without relying on a relationship and now, in just over twenty-four hours after meeting Lucas, I was unable to shake him from my brain.

  An image flashed of him pinning me against the wall, followed quickly by one of me entangled in his sheets. Heat coursed through my body. I shook it off and pressed the intercom button.

  "Ryn Taylor? This is Private Detective Dan Turner. I'm an investigator with the insurance company
Brayden Hamilton hired to protect your art in his gallery."

  I vaguely recalled Brayden mentioning Turner, back when my painting had first been stolen, but that was years ago. Why was he here now? And why for me? "Is there a problem?"

  "It's an ongoing investigation, but I need to speak with you directly."

  I hesitated but then buzzed him in. He wasn't technically law enforcement, but he also wasn't paparazzi and still I was a little—okay, a lot—unsettled about something I couldn't explain beyond a sudden random, bizarre fear of daffodils.

  I waited for the knock on the door, more nervously than I would've liked to be. I tried to wipe that all away and wasn't sure I'd succeeded by the time I met Dan Turner, who in turn gave me the once-over before an almost sheepish smile emerged and he disarmed me with an apology.

  "Sorry—your pictures don't do you justice."

  "Neither do the articles," I informed him with a smile of my own.

  Turner laughed appreciatively. I poured a cup of coffee and held it out to him. "That's great—thanks."

  He didn't look anything like a man I'd associate with insurance agenting. He was tall and bulky, but not enough to look beefy. He reminded me of a boxer. He was good-looking in a rough sort of way, his brown eyes bordering on hazel in the sunlight splashing across my kitchen table where I'd motioned for him to sit.

  "I didn't realize my stolen painting was still such a big deal," I admitted. "Not enough that they'd send someone out personally."

  He nodded, as if he'd heard that before and explained, "Art and antiquities is a big business. Insurance companies take a lot of precautions so they don't take huge losses from theft or fire and especially from fraud, which is what happens in the majority of cases."

  He wasn't telling me anything I didn't know—people did pretend that their priceless paintings had been stolen in order to collect millions…or they tried to, anyway. But that wasn't the case with my painting, so this still didn't make a lot of sense to me. "Was there a problem with any of the other paintings? Because Brayden didn't indicate anything…"