“Again. I’m not Macom, but I have money. I won’t apologize for that any more than I will spending it on you.”
“It’s a six-figure bank note, Nick. It’s not a dress.”
“Whatever it is. I don’t spend money on women, Faith. They aren’t around long enough for me to even think about it. But you. You are different, and if there was a dress that cost six figures and you wanted it, I’d damn sure buy it for you. The money is nothing to me.”
“But it is to me, Nick. I need—”
“What you need,” I say, closing the space between us and before she can back away, my hands are on her waist, and I’m pulling her to me, “what we need, is to fuck, talk, and repeat.” I cup her face. “Abel told me not to bulldoze you. That my money and the death of your mother had stolen your control, and I need to let you have some control. But what he, and you, don’t seem to see, is that you have stolen my control.”
“No one steals your control, Nick Rogers.”
“You have Faith,” I say, my voice low, a hint of rasp. “Because I can’t think when I’m not touching you.” I kiss her, a deep lick of my tongue against her tongue before I ask, “I once told you that I wanted you naked and willingly exposed. I still do. And we aren’t there yet, which means you don’t trust me.”
Her fingers curl around my shirt. “I do trust you. I just want to trust in us. I want to trust that I know what is real. And I don’t want money to get in the way of that.”
“You want real, sweetheart. I’ll show you real.” I scoop her up into my arms and I start walking, heading into the bedroom. And as tempting as the idea is to strip her naked and show her my many different versions of real, I have another destination in mind. A place where I show her just how naked she’s made me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nick
I exit the bedroom with Faith in my arms, where I want her to stay in every sense of the meaning.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Somewhere that apparently speaks louder than I do,” I say, my stride long as I carry her down the hallway toward the room I designed for her, entering her new art studio. Her place to paint, to escape, to forget that damn winery she doesn’t even want to own and yet, she can’t walk away from without foolishly leaving behind a small fortune.
Entering the room, the glossy white flooring that I’d had installed for her painting process beneath my feet, I don’t stop until I’m setting Faith down in front of her current work in progress. “You want real,” I say. “This room is as real as it gets.” My hands settle on her waist. “I didn’t just invite you to stay with me, Faith. I invited you into my life. I want to be a part of yours. That’s real. We’re real. What I feel for you is real.”
“Which is what?”
Words fly through my head: Protective. Aroused. Hungry. Connect. Quite possibly love. “Everything, Faith,” I say. “Everything I can possibly feel. Stay with me this week.” My fingers flex at her waist. “Paint. Prepare for your show, and by the time we go back to Sonoma together the bills will be paid, we’ll know more about the bank, and we’ll set up a plan to keep Kasey motivated.”
“Kasey,” she says. “Right.” She inhales and exhales, and then abruptly twists away from me.
I go to touch her but she is just out of reach and before I can correct that wrong, she is standing in front of the canvas that is her current work in progress, where it sits on an easel. And that space, really like this one, is her space. A place I do not want her to feel I can invade, take, and control. Inhaling, I hold my ground, seconds ticking by and turning into a full minute as she studies the black and white Sonoma mountain-scape that has yet to find color, that one splash of red she always adds in completion.
“This room,” I say, “is supposed to be the red you add to your works: the new life, the possibilities even before I asked you to consider the possibilities. Talk to me, Faith.”
She turns to face me. “I’ve been asking myself that since I stood downstairs with you and Abel. I trust you and yet I was uneasy, and I really think it comes back to control. You have it. I don’t. You create the red splash, not me. Not us.”
“Because I want to help you with Kasey?”
“Because you’re taking over my life, Nick. You have the control. All of it. I have none.”
“Sweetheart, I told you. You have control. More than you obviously realize.”
“Really? Because I just walked downstairs and found out your friend that I had never met knew things about me I had only told you. You should have talked to me about him before he was here.”
Guilt slices through me with the realization that I never even considered talking to her and for one massive reason: He already knew. And he knew because he was involved with my quest to prove she was a killer. I don’t make excuses. There are none. “You’re right. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
“Yes. I am. Why does that surprise you?”
“Because you always surprise me, Nick. I feel like I shouldn’t be upset at all. Abel is helping me. And I know you are trying to protect me. But the truth here is that you blasted into my life out of nowhere, and refused to be ignored in every possible way. You singlehandedly inspired me to paint again when my agent and even my own desire couldn’t do it. Not even the certainty that Macom was mocking me for failing could do it. But you did. You supported my art when no one else has. Cared about why I felt things and what I was doing. Made me feel I could share my secrets with you.”
I narrow my eyes on her, reading where this is going. “But?” I prod. “Because there is obviously a but.”
“But you also shared some of my secrets with Abel without talking to me first. Told me how to spend the money I got from my art. Hired yourself as my attorney without really asking. You just told me. Paid my bills. Told me how to handle Kasey. All with good intent, I know that. But you have completely consumed me. You are like a drug that I am high on, but what happens when that drug is gone? I don’t know if I have it in me to get any higher, and then crash without you, Nick. I don’t know how I can get any more reliant on you, and survive that.”
“Obviously we are not on the same page, Faith. Because every decision I make is with the assumption that we’re going higher, getting closer, and that I’m protecting my woman. And that’s what you are to me.”
“I know that you’re protecting me.”
“And every reaction you have to me, and to us, is with the assumption that we’re crashing and burning. That we’re ending. That’s not good enough for me or for you. And that’s not me controlling you. That’s something, or someone else, controlling you because you let it. You want control? Take it, Faith. For now, and despite every fiber of my being wanting to undress you, strip you naked, and never let you leave again, I won’t. Because like I said, I still want you naked and willingly exposed. Willingly exposed, Faith. Like I am to you. I’ll call the pilot.” I turn and start for the door, the sum of my lies and her push to distance us, zipping through me like a razor.
“Nick, wait.”
I don’t wait.
Because besides the fact that “wait” isn’t the response I’m looking for from her, there is a storm brewing inside me that I need to contain or she’ll end up naked. And then I’ll fuck her until this feeling goes away, which might be never since I want to force her wall down, but my lies say that I don’t deserve to see it fall.
“Nick.”
She’s no sooner said my name again then she is in front of me, her hands on my chest, heat radiating through me, but I don’t touch her. I don’t want to drown truth in the fiction by way of fucking. “I need to say something to you,” she says, a seemingly nervous breath trembling from her lips. And I tell myself to think about those lips on my cock, that mouth sucking me deep and hard. I tell myself to strip her naked, fuck her, and send her on her way. I tell myself she’s every other damn woman in my life that meant nothing to me because that would be easier, but she’s not.
>
And it pisses me off.
“I’m done talking,” I say, my hands coming down on her shoulders, and I fully intended to set her aside.
But she fists my shirt and steps into me. “What part of ‘you are a drug’ do you not understand? A crazy, wicked drug that consumes me. I’m afraid of taking another hit, and another, and depending on that drug, and then it’s gone. I’ve never felt that about anything or anyone but my art. You and my art. I don’t know what to do with that. But I can’t—I won’t—let your money and power take control of me or us.”
Still I don’t touch her. “In or out, Faith?”
“What does that even mean?”
“You either decide that we are reaching for those possibilities, and working through the ups and downs, not caving to them. Or you get out. But there is no in between for me. That’s not how I’m wired. So. You have the control right now. Decide how this plays out.”
Her lips tighten. “I will push back when you push too hard. And I won’t back off.”
“In or out, Faith.”
“In,” she says fiercely. “You know I’m in.”
I’m not sold yet. I don’t want a reply delivered by a cornered woman. “Maybe you need to think about it, because you weren’t talking like you were in a few minutes ago.”
“Because like most addicts, we try to deny we’re addicted.”
“That’s not a good answer.” My hand is instantly under her hair and at the back of her neck, pulling her to me. “Is that what you want? To deny the addiction? Because I don’t deny mine, Faith. I am very much addicted to you. I’m obsessed. And nothing but all of you will be enough.”
“And if I want all of you, Nick?”
“You already have me, sweetheart. And you’re clearly trying to figure out what to do with me, but that’s okay. I’m here to offer suggestions.” My lips slant over hers, my tongue licking into her mouth, a deep stroke followed by another, and when she moans, only when she moans, do I pull back, and add, “Suggestion number one. You have on too many clothes.” I catch the hem of her shirt and pull it upward, over her head.
Before it’s even hit the ground, my hand is back under her hair, cupping the back of her neck and pulling her lips back to mine. “Suggestion number two: It’s okay to do drugs when I’m your drug.” I kiss her again and she does that thing she does, which I swear I want to experience again and again for the rest of my fucking life. She sighs into the kiss, as if she can finally breathe, as if I’m the reason she breathes. She’s damn sure the reason I breathe and most definitely the reason my cock is so damn hard it could break glass.
At the feel of her hands under my shirt, on my skin, a heady rush of lust and adrenaline pulses through me, while my mind conjures all the places her hands could be next. Namely, the same place I want her mouth—my cock, though just about any place on my body would do just fine. But as much as I want her to touch me, as much as I want to be naked with her right now, I can’t focus on fucking. And holy hell, I want to fuck. But right now we have to have a conversation about control. And control isn’t about having no limits. It’s about controlling the ones you have, about owning them. And that means I’m keeping my clothes on, at least for now, while she is not.
I reach for her hands and pull them from my shirt, holding them between us, walking her backwards as I do. “Let’s talk about the subject of the day. Control.”
“You want it. Sometimes I’ll let you have it.”
My lips curve and I press her hands behind her back, shackling them with one of my hands. “Is that right?” I ask unclasping the front of her black, lacy bra, my hand settling between her breasts.
“Yes,” she says. “That is right.”
My gaze lowers, raking over her high, full breasts, her pebbled nipples, my finger lightly teasing one stiff peak, her back arching into my touch. “Can I have it now, Faith?” I ask, my eyes rocketing to her face. “Or am I being too controlling?”
“Not even close,” she whispers, her voice low, raspy. Affected.
I respond to that bold sexual challenge in her that has been in the air between us from the moment we met and turned me on right out of the gate. I’m hot. I’m hard. My blood is pumping, but I am not blind to the fact that she ran from me minutes ago, vulnerability in that action, but now…There is none. Because being sexually daring is her emotional shield, something I suspect she learned at the club she and Macom frequented. Maybe that is even why the club worked for her. She didn’t have to be present with him there. She didn’t have to be present in life there. And that might have worked for her and him, but it no longer does for me or us.
I brush my lips over hers and release her hands, turning her to face the opposite direction, while I skim her bra away, my hand flattening on her belly, my teeth on her shoulder. “I’m going to keep asking for more, you know that, right?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes.”
I settle on one knee, my hands on her hips, my lips on her naked back, my tongue licking the delicate spot. And when she draws in a shaky breath, I stand up, my hands falling away from her. “Undress, but don’t turn around.”
I want her to turn and look for where my head is right now. To look into my eyes, and see the test I’m giving her. To be present with me, right now, in this moment, in all possible ways. But she does it. She walks forward and starts undressing, so emotionally removed that she takes my commands that I’m giving her almost coldly.
And it both challenges me and pisses me off, and not at her. At me. I want her to be present, but I haven’t given her a reason. I haven’t let her know that I see her, really see her. Hell. Maybe I didn’t until now. Until she almost walked out the door over a control issue we haven’t even come close to solving.
Now I see that she is guarded in all the ways that matter, the ways that make her think we will end and I will leave. And now I refuse to let her hide. I walk around her and sit on the stool beside her workstation, directly in front of her. Our eyes meet and still I see no trepidation. No vulnerability. She verbally said she was in, not out, but she has shut down on me.
She watches me watch her, stripping away her socks and jeans, gauging her control over me. Making sure her façade of submission still gives her control and on that Faith understands sexual play, while I suspect Macom did not. The reality here is that submission, when done right, is all about the sub’s control. But Faith is no submissive and I want more than her body.
Her gaze finds mine as she twists her fingers into the thin black lace of her panties at her hips, and drags them down the silky expanse of her legs. The way I plan to drag my tongue down them, in the very near future. The tiny triangle of blonde hair in the V of her body, sexy as hell, but then, everything about this woman is sexy as hell to me.
I stand up and move behind the stool. “Come to me, Faith.”
Her lips curve ever so slightly, oh so sexily, and she walks toward me, her hips and breasts swaying seductively, stopping in front of the stool. I could tell her to bend over the stool, and stick that pretty ass in the air for me, and I suspect that is what she wants. For me to spank her. I give myself just a moment to think of her creamy, curvy perfect ass waiting on my palm. The way her back would arch in anticipation when I warmed her cheeks. How wet her sex would be when I slide my fingers between her legs. How hot she would be when my cock followed my palm. But now is not a spanking that would give her that ultimate rush, and force her to forget everything. I don’t want her to forget. I want her to be right here, with me, willingly, emotionally exposed.
“Turn around and sit.”
Her teeth scrape her bottom lip, and she does as I say, sitting down. I move to stand in front of her, squatting down, my hands on my knees, when they want to be on hers. “Open your legs for me,” I say, the stool low enough to place her sex directly in front of me. My mouth exactly where we both want it.
/> Interestingly though, it’s in this moment that I see a flicker of vulnerability in her eyes, but it is there and gone in an instant, the way we will be if I don’t build our bond and build it now. To my surprise, she doesn’t open her legs. “Are you going to get undressed?”
“No,” I say. “I am not, but I am going to lick that sweet spot right between your legs, and slide my fingers in, and make you come. Open for me, Faith.”
Her lashes lower, but not before I see the flicker of vulnerability, the emotional kind I am after, in her eyes. My hands go to her ankles and I slowly caress upward. “Look at me, Faith.”
“No,” she whispers, emotion radiating off of her.
I kiss her knees, tiny little clusters of kisses and her fingers slide into my hair. I flick my tongue between her knees, and then inch her thighs apart. She tilts her head back, looking skyward. Looking anywhere but at me. I don’t force her to look at me. She’s exposed when she didn’t mean to be exposed. I stole the control she pretends to give to me. But this isn’t about taking her control. This is about making her present and that I did it as easily as I have pleases me. Makes me want to please her and give her that escape, that sanctuary that is sex for her.
My mouth travels up her thigh and I lick her clit. Just once. A quick flicker before my mouth is at her other knee, my tongue teasing the inner curve. Faith trembles and I look up at her at the same moment her gaze lowers, colliding with mine, the vulnerability I’d seen moments before still present, and she doesn’t seem to be able to hide it.
And for a moment I feel a stab of guilt. I’d come for her. I’d wanted to make her vulnerable to hurt her and for what? A bastard of a father I hated. But that bastard brought me to Faith. I caress a path up her legs, mouth on one and hand on the other, and I don’t tease her any longer. I give her clit a gentle lick and then another, before suckling, my fingers stroking the slick wet heat of her body. And apparently vulnerability is arousing to Faith, because I don’t even manage to slide my fingers inside her before she’s pulling at my hair and trembling into release.
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