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“I paid in advance, Whitney,” he retorted. She shook her head with a slight scowl, then leaned up to kiss him good-bye, purposely avoiding his mouth and heading for his hard jaw instead.
Andrew was quicker. He swerved his head to catch the kiss with his lips, and almost would have managed it if Whitney hadn’t jerked back.
Anger flared in his eyes. “Let’s do that properly now.”
Seizing a fistful of loose auburn hair, he pinned her head in place and swept down to crush her lips with his. She didn’t even know what happened, but she hadn’t planned to open her mouth—and yet it opened somehow because suddenly his heat spilled into her. She shuddered. And suddenly his tongue was plundering her. Pillaging her. She mewed softly and he responded with a groan that seemed to reverberate inside his body, and that raw sound of need almost thrust her over the edge. His mouth moved more firmly than ever, not hesitating to allow his teeth to also play. He was more dominating, and his merciless kiss shot her arousal through the roof.
He used to be so careful with her, but now she could taste his hard resolve in his kiss. Resolve to have her, tame her, and she pushed back just as hard, resisting his domination, letting him know she wasn’t a wallflower anymore, she wasn’t going to be taking shit from anyone anymore.
He left her quaking, her lips raw, her knees weak, but she fought like crazy not to let him notice.
When he eased back to look at his handiwork—Whitney could feel her eyes were heavy, her lips swollen—his voice was deep and dusty, his eyes hot. “Have a nice day, darling.” He stroked his thumb along her jaw.
Shaking with lingering desire, she scowled at the endearment and his insistent use of it, then she went to grab her clutch purse and wallet. “Good-bye, John, thanks for the orgasm.” She slipped back into her heels, and left, his laughter trailing behind.
Oh, but she wasn’t even a good bluffer.
He knew his effect.
What he did to her.
He’d looked so damn satisfied after the kiss.
Whitney just couldn’t believe that twenty-four hours ago, she’d awoken with an ache in her chest, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and who he was with. This ache burrowed deeply within her; it remained when she laughed, when she cried, when she breathed, and when she ate. It had become a permanent part of her, like a limb. And Andrew Fairchild had put it there.
But now, this morning, she’d woken up lying naked in his apartment, in his bed, with her body sore from his loving and his beautiful physical form standing only a few feet away—damp and draped in a towel and looking as delicious as ever.
How easy it would be, to slip back into the role she had made for herself next to him. To get rid of this godforsaken ache.
She wanted him to be the man she’d always believed him to be. Her savior, her hero, the man who completed her.
But where had he been all this time?
The question hammered at her—mocked her as she showered and changed in her apartment, then headed to her office, dressed in a sharp
navy-blue Carolina Herrera business suit. Absently, she gazed down at her right wrist and stroked the dark ink: ANDREW.
She’d felt like his bride the day they had this ink put on their skins.
She’d moved in with him nearly two years before, and she had never, ever, imagined that she could be so happy. Joy had overflowed her being, and thanks to this man’s love, the broken little girl Whitney had been had once again found herself singing in the shower, going out with friends, smiling like a dope to herself whenever she thought of him—which was practically all day.
She should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
One night, Andrew took her out to dinner, acting so mysterious Whitney almost wondered if he was going to propose. Instead, he told her he needed to leave for a while, and though her insides knotted and her throat closed and her eyes stung, she wanted to be the kind of woman who deserved him. Strong, like he was. So she’d nodded in understanding and kept her fears of being alone to herself.
But as the day of his departure came closer, her nightmares worsened, and Andrew seemed quiet and withdrawn. Whitney caught him watching her during the day with such pained intensity, she throbbed with pain, too.
“Will you come back soon?” she kept asking him, dreading his absence.
“As soon as I can,” he always promised, but he never told her how long it would be, only that it would be longer than he wanted. “Will you wait for me, Whitney?” he asked, and for a man who commanded the world, the uncertainty in his eyes every time he asked made her inner turmoil magnify.
“Andrew, I’d wait for you forever,” she told him every single time.
“Would you promise that to me?”
“I do. Yes. I will.”
But he had a better idea, and the next day, a week before he left, they were at the tattoo parlor and both emerged with brand new tattoos.
