Intrusion

by Charlotte Stein

  “That wouldn’t be quite how I would put it.”

  “It’s not exactly bigamy, Noah,” I say, and that’s when I know I have him. That’s when everything shifts. He tries one last time, but his gaze says it won’t be good enough.

  “My name isn’t really Noah. The FBI helped me change it, when he wouldn’t stop sending me letters and gifts and other. . .things. Though even after I became Noah I still couldn’t work or do anything even remotely public. He was so good at finding me. Almost supernaturally good.”

  He intends to shock me, I think, with the idea that I don’t even know his real name.

  But nothing could ever shock me now.

  “The point still stands. You changed your identity to protect yourself and anyone around you from things like this. Not to be a cruel asshole who secretly wants your girlfriend to get her head blown off.”

  “And yet you did almost get your head blown off. Maybe because I omitted—” he starts, but he doesn’t get very far. Mostly because I take his hand, I think. He really starts to crumble when I take his hand. I feel him squeeze it so tight I can make out my heart beating there beneath his grip.

  Not that I mind.

  I squeeze him just as hard in return.

  And then I slowly, oh so slowly, pull him back to me. He’s so far out and on the verge of drowning, but I can do it. I have all the time in the world to try, at least.

  “You told me everything I needed to know. You told me more than was comfortable for you. Nothing you did put me in danger—Floyd Humphries put me in danger. Though let’s for one second say that you did. Let’s say that this is your fault and you were right to try to keep me from harm. . .shouldn’t all of that be my choice? Don’t you think I should get to choose how much risk to take?”

  “You wouldn’t have made an informed choice.”

  “But I’m making one now. And I want you to let me. I think you will let me.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I haven’t told you everything, either.”

  I pause then, partly because I need to gather my strength.

  Partly because my strength is like a hurricane, a tidal wave, a storm in the middle of the sea, and I want it to come out softly, so softly. I wait for him to sit, and then I speak. I say what I only ever told the police. I say what even I can hardly believe.

  “I never told you how I got away from Ted. Why I came away from that almost unscathed—physically at least. I think if he’d had time he would have done terrible things to me, but I never gave him that. I never gave him a chance to harm me any further than he did with the kidnapping. It’s funny you know, I always thought I was afraid of pain. I imagined that I was a fearful person. But when the choice came to stay free of any agony or get out of a pair of handcuffs, I chose agony. I chose to dislocate my own thumb to get out of them.”

  I hear the snap and crackle when I say it. I feel the fire of it, terrible and glorious all at the same time. He has to know that sometimes, burning is better than not.

  “There was a door, between me and freedom. A wooden door three inches thick, with a bolt on the outside. The only way to escape it was to punch through, and so I made a fist, and I struck it and struck it and struck it until my knuckles were a bloody pulp. I broke a bone in my hand and split three nails down to the root, but I kept going. Do you know why?”

  “I think I do, but God, I want to hear it all the same.”

  “Because I wanted to live, Noah. More than anything, I wanted to live. And when I got free, I thought that was what I was doing. I bought my home, and I got a little dog, and I did all the things that made me alive and normal. Yet somehow, I still didn’t fully realize what living actually is until I started living it with you. And now I want to fight for that, too,” I say, and he closes his eyes at the sound of it. Not like someone hearing something bad, though. Like someone hearing the rising end of a piece of music, more stirring to the person’s soul than anything in the world. His hand is shaking around mine.

  His brow is furrowed, waiting for the crescendo.

  And it comes, it comes. It bursts out of me, with all the force of everything I feel.

  “I want to come down the basement stairs, in the pitch-black with no backup. My gun in my shaking hands. And when you try to scream my name and nothing comes out but silence I hear it all the same. I call to you, you’re safe now, Noah. I’m going to get you out of there. Just sit tight, everything is okay,” I say, my voice trembling on the very edge of going over, but never quite breaking. I will never break now—and this is the reason why.

  “Because I’m not the girl in the well who you need to save from the horror you think is you. I’m Clarice Starling, here to help you out of the dark,” I tell him.

  And then he takes me in his arms. He holds me to him so tight, so tight I know he will never now let me go. “I love you, my Beth,” he says, but he doesn’t have to. I hear it in his hand clutching at my back and his face against the side of mine and in the salt-sweet relief of his tears, finally shed for himself after all this time.

  I feel it when I pull away and look into those eyes, more beautiful than the evening sky and so full of everything that is good about the world. He is what is good about the world, my Noah. He makes me believe that the world can be good.

  “More than anything,” I say, “I love you, too.”

  Epilogue

  HIS BODY IS starting to soften now. Not in a big way—I don’t think he’ll ever stop metaphorically climbing mountains altogether. But the change is noticeable, when the lines and curves used to be so hard. It used to be that I could feel his hipbones, like swollen knuckles beneath the thinnest layer of sinew and muscle. It used to be that he would twist beneath me in bed, and I would see everything flex and stretch almost painfully.

  But after we move to this place on the beach, things shift. Slowly at first, oh so slowly, but there all the same. He eats with less precision and more gusto, and never runs until his body is wrung out. When I see him coming across the sand toward me it is at a leisurely pace, as though he knows nothing is after him.

  And everything is before him.

  Long mornings spent writing papers again—made much in demand by the experiences he finds he can share. Afternoons in the sun or the sea, fooling around as though we’re normal people. Most days it even feels like we are. And when we don’t, when he doesn’t, we talk about it until dawn in fevered bursts. We spill our secrets and share our fears and find comfort in how it always ends.

  In the kind of lovemaking I never thought I’d have.

  And that he certainly didn’t believe in.

  One night after an intense conversation about blame and doubt and fear—no boundaries, no calls for quiet, no hurt that the hurt should still be there—he tells me in a shaking voice to come to him. And then he adds in a tone that takes me apart:

  “But take your clothes off first.”

  So I do. I peel everything off as slowly as if he were the sort of man to enjoy a striptease and I was the sort of girl to feel comfortable giving one, so deep in the pretense that it stops being one at all. It becomes real. This is how we really are now. I can stand naked in front of him, and he can look his fill.

  He can reach out and touch me without having to ask.

  He never has to ask anymore. He knows enough; he sees me clearly; he just does. He strokes the back of his hand down over my hip and thigh, and never falters in the shadow of my silence. If anything, my quiet spurs him on. It makes him bolder now, as he strives toward something so much sweeter:

  The idea of winning my words, rather than needing them.

  He kisses my cunt just to make me cry out, pushing on until I crack enough to let one tiny word escape. “Yes,” I tell him, “yes,” and he follows that single syllable down into deeper pleasures. He spreads me out on my back on the bed—the one we bought together in a greedy grasp at all the things couples do—and puts a hand between my legs, stroking me so firmly I can’t help letting
out a little more.

  I say his name, his real name, the name he hides so he can feel safe. In the daylight he’s always Noah. But at night in our bed with his hand between my legs, he can be Harrison. Lighter and darker at the same time, lying heavy over me without caring about it, uttering guttural commands without wondering what their implications are. “Spread your legs,” he tells me, and I do. “Guide me into you,” he tells me.

  And I do that, too.

  I let him fuck me the way he really wants to fuck, hard and fast and full of all that pent-up enthusiasm for sex he thought he had lost. And he lets me fuck him back, hips rocking up to meet his eager thrusts, one hand tight on his ass and the other in his hair. Filthy words always on the tip of my tongue.

  “Use my cunt,” I tell him, and instead of freezing up at the sound of something so brutal, he forges on. He turns me over and takes me from behind, one hand on my hip and the other over my breast, working and working at me until we’re both glossy with sweat and flushed from head to toe and trembling, God, just trembling on the point of orgasm.

  Only now we hold off because it feels good to. We drag each moment out because we’re unwilling to have it all end, not because I’m afraid or he can’t or something else is needed. No other thing is needed but this bliss, this glorious bliss. Him panting in my ear that he loves me and me calling it out into the silence of our lovely home.

  The home that finally feels safe, for both of us.

  Can’t wait for more from Charlotte Stein?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek from

  FORBIDDEN

  Coming soon from Avon Red Impulse.

  And be on the lookout for

  TAKEN

  Coming from Avon Red Impulse in spring 2015.

  An Excerpt from

  FORBIDDEN

  Killian is on the verge of making his final vows to the priesthood when he saves Dorothy from a puritanical and oppressive home. The attraction between them is swift and undeniable, but every touch, every glance, every moment of connection between them is completely forbidden. . .

  WE GET OUT of the car at this swanky-looking place called Marriott, with a big promise next to the door about constant breakfasts and Internet and other stuff I’ve never had in my whole life, all these nice cars in the parking lot gleaming in the dimming light and a dozen windows lit up like some Christmas card and then oh then it just happens. My excitement suddenly bursts out of my chest, and before I can haul it back it runs right down the length of my arm and all the way to my hand.

  Which grabs hold of his, so tight it could never be mistaken for anything else.

  ’Course I want it to be mistaken for anything else, as soon as he looks at me. His eyes snap to my face like I poked him in the ribs with a rattler snake, and just in case I’m in any doubt, he glances down at the thing I’m doing. He sees me touching him as though he’s not a nearly priest and I’m not under his care, and instead we’re just two people having some kind of happy honeymoon.

  In a second we’re going inside to have all the sex.

  That’s what it seems like—like a sex thing.

  I can’t even explain it away as just being friendly, because somehow it doesn’t feel friendly at all. My palm has been laced with electricity, and it just shot ten thousand volts into him. His whole body has gone tense and so my body goes tense, but the worst part about it is:

  For some ungodly reason he doesn’t take his hand away.

  Maybe he thinks if he does it will look bad, like an admission of a guilty thing that neither of us has done. Or at least that he hasn’t done. He didn’t ask to have his hand grabbed. His hand is totally innocent in all of this. My hand is the evil one. It keeps right on grasping him even after I told it to stop. I don’t even care if it makes me look worse—just let go I think at it.

  But the hand refuses.

  It still has him in its evil clutches when we go inside the hotel. My fingers are starting to sweat and the guy behind the counter is noticing, yet I can’t seem to do a single thing about it. Could be we have to spend the rest of our lives like this, out of sheer terror of drawing any attention to the thing I have done.

  Unless he’s just carrying on because he thinks I’m scared of this place. Maybe he thinks I need comfort, in which case all of this might be okay. I am just a girl with her friendly good-looking priest, getting a hotel room in a real honest and platonic way so I can wash my lank hair and secretly watch television about spaceships.

  Nothing is going to happen—a fact that I then communicate to the counter guy with my eyes. I don’t know why I’m doing it, however. He doesn’t know Killian is a nearly priest. He has no clue that I’m some beat-up kid who needs help and protection rather than sordid hand-holding. He probably thinks we’re married just like I thought before, and the only thing that makes that idea kind of weird is how I look in comparison.

  I could pass for a stripe of beige paint next to him. In here his black hair is like someone took a slice out of the night sky. His cheekbones are so big and manly I could bludgeon the counter guy with them, and I’m liable to do it. He keeps staring, even after Killian says, “Two rooms, please.” He’s still staring as we go down this all-carpeted hallway, to the point where I have to ask.

  “Why was he looking like that?” I whisper as Killian fits a key that is not really a key but a gosh darn credit card into a room door. So of course I’m looking at that when he answers me, and not at his face.

  But I wish I had been. I wish I’d seen his expression when he speaks, because when he speaks he says the single most startling thing I’ve ever heard in my whole life.

  “He was looking because you’re lovely.”

  About the Author

  CHARLOTTE STEIN is the acclaimed author of over thirty short stories, novellas, and novels, including the recently DABWAHA-nominated Run to You. When not writing deeply emotional and intensely sexy books, she can be found eating jelly turtles, watching terrible sitcoms, and occasionally lusting after hunks. For more on Charlotte, visit www.charlottestein.net.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  Give in to your impulses . . .

  Read on for a sneak peek at five brand-new

  e-book original tales of romance from Avon Impulse.

  Available now wherever e-books are sold.

  VARIOUS STATES OF UNDRESS: VIRGINIA

  By Laura Simcox

  THE GOVERNESS CLUB: LOUISA

  By Ellie Macdonald

  GOOD GUYS WEAR BLACK

  By Lizbeth Selvig

  SINFUL REWARDS 1

  A BILLIONAIRES AND BIKERS NOVELLA

  By Cynthia Sax

  COVERING KENDALL

  A LOVE AND FOOTBALL NOVEL

  By Julie Brannagh

  An Excerpt from

  VARIOUS STATES OF UNDRESS: VIRGINIA

  by Laura Simcox

  If she had it her way, Virginia Fulton—daughter of the President of the United States—would spend more time dancing in Manhattan’s nightclubs than working in its skyscrapers. But when she finds herself in the arms of sexy, persuasive Dexter Cameron, who presents her with the opportunity of a lifetime, Virginia sees it as a sign . . . but can she take it without losing her heart?

  Virginia threw her hands in the air and walked over to face him. “Come on, Dex! Be realistic. You need a team to fix this store. An army.”

  “So hire one.” He leaned toward her. “I need you. And you need me.”

  “I don’t need you.” She narrowed her eyes. There was no way she was going to tell him about dumping Owlton. Not right now, anyway.

  Dex slid off the desk and covered the few feet between them, frowning. “Yes, you do,” he said.

  She stared at his mouth, her legs suddenly feeling wobbly. “No, I don’t.” She raised her hands to his shoulders to steady herself.

  “You can choose to keep telling yourself that, or you can make a move.”

  “What do you mean by that?”


  “Move forward.”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can.” The words came out raspy, and the look of irritation in Dex’s eyes changed into something much more focused. He hesitated for a moment and then leaned closer. “Make a leap of faith, trust your instincts, and take the job. You’ll have my full support.”

  As she gazed up into his steady eyes, she was all too aware of her fear. Because of cowardice, she never acted as if she expected anyone to take her seriously—and so they didn’t. It pissed her off. She didn’t like being pissed, especially not at herself. Dex took her seriously, didn’t he? She closed her eyes. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

  When she opened them, he smiled. “Great. Now . . . about moving forward?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Literally moving forward would be fantastic. I never got to kiss you back, you know.”

  “I . . . didn’t expect you to,” she said.

  “That might be, but the more I thought about your kiss last night, the more necessary kissing you back became to me. And now? I can’t think about much else.”

  She gripped his shoulders and gazed into his eyes. “To be honest, neither can I.”

  “Please tell me we can try again. Kiss me and see what happens.” His voice was low and thick.

  Virginia’s legs almost gave out from under her, and a shuddering breath left her body. She should be taking a step back, not contemplating kissing him again. Her body swayed forward, and she tightened her grip on his shoulders to steady herself. Just as she closed her eyes to think, his mouth descended, hot and sweet, angling over hers and stopping a hairsbreadth from her lips.

  “Mmm,” he uttered, the sound coming from deep in his throat, and it was all she needed.

  She pushed up onto her toes, her fingers laced behind his neck, and she kissed him. He tasted earthy—wild, almost—and that surprising discovery sent a shock wave through her brain. She kissed him again. “More,” she murmured, even though she knew she shouldn’t. His tongue invaded her mouth; he turned and, in one motion, lifted her onto the desk. Electricity sang through her body, and, as she twined her tongue with his, the idea of shouldn’t started to become hazy. Her hands threaded through his cropped hair and she leaned back—arching her breasts toward him—wanting Dex to press her down with his body. Please, she whispered in her mind, Please, Dex.