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That's terrifying.
"We should practice." I have to control myself. After a week of seeing her naked, in increasingly erotic images, I have to control myself.
"We should." She finishes her last sip. Stands. Offers me her hand.
I take it. Pull her closer.
She hooks her arms around my neck.
I place my hands on the small of her back.
She rises to her tiptoes and presses her lips to mine.
Sugar and lemon and Danielle.
She tastes so fucking good.
Her lips part.
My tongue slides between them.
Her fingers curl into my skin.
She arches her back, rocking her hips against mine, groaning against my lips.
"Adam." She whispers my name as she pulls back.
Every molecule of my body begs me to claim her. To pin her to the wall, push her panties to her ankles, dive between her legs.
This is too complicated.
That makes sense.
It's the only thing that makes sense.
This is it.
I leave or I fuck her.
Those are the only two options.
Her fingers brush my neck. My chin. My cheek.
Fuck. I can't.
I'm a monster now.
I can't let her see that.
"Perfect." I step backward. "Good night."
Her expression deflates. "Good night, Adam."
All night I toss and turn. I taste Danielle's lips. I see the need in her dark eyes turn to disappointment.
I imagine her here, in my bed, in those sleek silk pajamas.
Undoing the buttons.
Slipping her bottoms off her hips.
Climbing into my lap.
Touching me tenderly, the way she did when we kissed.
Her hand on my chest, neck, chin.
It's too much. Even in my head.
I can't handle her touching my scars.
And the jagged lines on my cheek are nothing compared to the markings on my body.
I've never been driven by sex. I had needs. I filled them. Sometimes, those needs involved a rough touch, a stern order, a rope around a woman's wrists.
I enjoyed being in control.
It sated something in me.
Now, the only thing I need is Danielle.
Her long, soft body bent over the bed. Her face wracked with bliss. Her wine lips parting with a groan.
Adam.
I wake sweaty, tense, frustrated.
My morning workout fails to help. A cold shower does nothing. After breakfast, I make an excuse about an early meeting. Leave instructions with Trish and Louis and head into the city alone.
It's a long drive.
I've only made it a few times since the accident. Only when it was strictly necessary.
It's strange, being behind the driver's wheel. Familiar and foreign at once.
I keep my attention on the road. Drive straight to my apartment building, head upstairs, to the penthouse apartment I've been avoiding since Bash died.
The place I called home for most of the last decade.
It's still clean and modern, with big windows and sleek furniture. The perfect place for Danielle.
To curl up on the couch.
Or study the morning light.
Or bend over the dining table and beg for my cock.
Fuck.
Take a chill pill, Adam. She wants to fuck you. You want to fuck her. Stop making it complicated.
She's obviously into your scars.
Yeah, you're a freak show now. But let's face it, you've always been a weirdo.
Why not use it to bang a hottie?
I celebrated Bash's last birthday here. Toasted to him finally dating the same woman for more than three months.
And he joked about fucking her on the table when I was away.
Or have you beat me to it, Adam? Someone has to christen this thing. Wood on wood. It's poetic.
Of course, I didn't know the details.
I didn't know he was fucking a married woman with a vengeful husband. Only that he was over the moon.
This place is beautiful, but I don't see the perfect view of the modern appliances.
Only the lack of Bash.
It's in every room, corner, piece of furniture.
He's gone.
And I don't know how to survive without him.
Chapter Sixteen
Adam
"Hey kid, nice of you to finally make it." Liam meets me at the elevator with a smile. He pats me on the shoulder. "Where's your girlfriend?"
"Why would I bring her to a meeting?"
He shakes his head don't be ridiculous. "She's a hottie. You can see that."
"I can."
"You need coffee or something? You're not getting this. I get to look at her. She gets to look at me." He motions to his face. "And find entertainment for hours."
"She is an artist," I say.
He nods exactly.
"Someone as hideous as you must be fascinating to her."
He chuckles. "Good one." He pats me on the shoulder again. "You don't shoot often, but when you do." He makes a finger gun and points it in the direction of the windows on the other side of the building. Slowly, he narrows in on the tip of the Empire State Building, shoots, blows invisible smoke. "You ready?"
"Are you going to be an idiot?"
"There's no helping that."
A laugh escapes my lips. It's impossibly light. So light it floats.
"You know what they say. Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly—"
"Idiots have to idiot."
"Liam Pierce has to light up the room with his vibrant personality."
