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He lifted his head, the blue of his eyes like a January storm.
I took a deep breath. “I’m not that fragile. And I’m tired of other people sheltering me from things. I liked what happened the nights we were together. I know I don’t really know anything about your . . . lifestyle. But I do know that you taking control in bed made me feel comfortable, took away any worries of doing something wrong. Chased off the shame.”
“Did it now?” he asked, a shade of surprise coloring his voice.
“Honestly, I haven’t thought about much else since.” I looked down at my paint-splattered feet. “In fact, I think it’s all your fault I fell off the ladder—you having the nerve to walk around all naked in your room.”
He laughed then, a bark of a thing that seemed to surprise him. “How dare I change clothes in my own room.”
“Sadistic bastard.”
He sniffed and cupped my shoulders. “You have no idea.”
“So show me,” I said, my voice calmer than I felt inside. “Teach me how this works. I’m a no-risk investment, Mr. Businessman. I’m leaving soon, so you don’t even have to worry about me getting all where-is-this-all-going, relationship obsessed on you.”
His hands coasted up and down my arms, a war raging in his eyes, then he leaned down and put his mouth to mine. I gasped at the contact, the simple softness reaching down inside me and bending everything out of alignment. His lips moved over mine, his tongue easing inside, caressing and invading my senses like a drug. He tasted of cinnamon gum and want—the need pouring out of him and making me desperate to press my body against his.
But his hands stilled on my shoulders and kept me in place, fastening me to the edge of the counter at my back. I wanted to touch him, to deepen the kiss, to strip down and have him take me right there in my little kitchen. But before I knew it, he was lifting his mouth away from me, sadness etched into his face.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, breathless.
He cupped my chin and laid one last brief touch to my lips. “I don’t want you to be my fling, angel.”
The words slashed right through me, opening up a gaping hurt. I bit the inside of my cheek, fighting off the stupid burn of tears that climbed up my throat. “You don’t think I can handle it.”
He took a step back and shook his head. “Whether you can or can’t is not the point. I can’t, Cela. I’m tired of one-night stands and living my life like I’m some frat boy. Being with you the other night, feeling that connection, that pure moment, it made me realize what I want and need. And what I need is something real. Not a week or two getting a taste of what could be, then letting it go. I don’t want a woman to play submissive to me every now and then. I want to find the woman meant to be mine, want to own her submission . . .”
My jaw went slack, my mind snagging on part of that last sentence. “You want to own a woman?”
He gave a ghost of a smile as he reached out and swiped a thumb over my lips. “The kind of relationship I desire is intense and unpalatable to most. I’m not an easy man to be with. And even if there could be something between us, you’re not ready to make that kind of decision—not without some experience behind you. Go be young and live your life. Figure out what you like and don’t. I’m not on a path you need to follow right now.”
“Foster,” I whispered, so many emotions whirling through me, I couldn’t pin one down.
“Thank you for letting me be your first, angel. I didn’t deserve that privilege. But I’ll never be sorry for it.”
I closed my eyes, wanting to protest, to say a hundred things back to him, but words were sticking like hot marshmallows in my throat, expanding and blocking my air.
This wasn’t supposed to feel this way. A fun night with the neighbor wasn’t supposed to tear at me like this when it was done, was it?
“Good-bye, Cela,” he said softly. Then his touch was gone, and his footsteps were hitting the tile. The door closed before I had the energy to open my eyes.
PART IV
NOT UNTIL YOU TRUST
SIXTEEN
My penmanship was appalling as I scrawled down information on the paper in front of me. Since Foster had walked out of my apartment last weekend, I couldn’t seem to do anything without a flourish of frustration. I dotted an i with pointed vigor and slashed through a t.
“Well, aren’t you all sweetness and roses today,” Bailey said, turning from her computer to eyeball me. “What did that intake form do to you?”
“It required me to fill it out. All those tiny little boxes.”
She lifted a brow. “Who are you and what have you done with my Cela, the paperwork Nazi?”
I sighed and set down my pen. “Sorry, long week.”
Bailey frowned. “You should go home and open that tequila I bought you.”
