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“Don’t walk away from this,” he says against my mouth.
I nibble at his bottom lip, savoring the taste of him. “I won’t. Under one condition…”
I feel him smile, certain he’s already won. “What’s that?”
“Tell me what happened to you. Why is sex all you can offer?”
He pulls away from me, physically recoiling from my question. “Does it matter?”
“Yes,” I say. “It does. We agreed to open honesty, didn’t we? Can you be honest with me?”
His Adam’s apple bobs visibly as he swallows. As if I’ve just asked him to walk through a pit of poisonous cobras for me. As if I’ve asked him to face his darkest fear. But if he wants this badly enough, then he’ll have to comply, because I’ve already determined that I can’t back down. It’s too late for that.
He steps away from me and moves deeper into the room, leaving me. A hand comes up to rub the back of his neck. “There are things in my past…. It’s not easy to talk about.”
I fold my arms against my chest and lean against the table, as if to remind him that I can’t back down and won’t let him off the hook. “We all have skeletons in our closet,” I say quietly, thinking of my own heartbreak in the past, that same heartbreak that has prevented me from seeking out a relationship all the years since. And maybe even tempted me into this contractual deal. Maybe he has a story like mine? Maybe we can find a way to console each other in that?
He doesn’t turn to see if I’ve bolted out the door yet. His hands slip into his pockets again—a posture I’m now associating with his being uncomfortable. Clearing his throat, he begins in a quiet voice. “My father was not a good man. And there are days when I fear that I am just like him, despite the fact that I loathed every breath that he took.”
I blink, suddenly confused. I was expecting a tale of heartbreak. Of his one true love cheating on him or something. But he’s talking about his father? I’m completely lost and confused at his direction. But I dare not say anything, dare not even ask lest he back off and let me go. Because with each passing minute that I am here, my desire to leave fades.
He turns and glances at me and then starts to pace the entire length of the long room. My eyes follow him as he begins to talk. The story comes out of him quickly, as if a dam has broken inside of him and letting out the words in a rush. “I never discuss this. With anyone. It’s not easy.”
He takes a breath and then lets it go as if to underline the painfulness of it. I shift where I’m leaning but don’t say a word. “He abused her. I can never remember a day when he didn’t lay a hand on her—or threaten to do it.”
My breath catches. He must be talking about his mother. “I begged her to leave him. I was only ten years old, but even then I knew we could have a better life without him. He was wealthy and powerful, but I knew, I knew if I could just convince her…” He shakes his head.
I lick my lips, silently urging him to continue without threatening to break the spell.
“She wouldn’t listen to me. Said we needed him. We. I never needed that bastard.” He shakes his head again. “She didn’t have the courage. Didn’t have the faith, and I had to watch her wither away and die—all because of what he was doing to her. She wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t take care of herself—” He sucks in a breath.
I push off the wall and intercept the path he is pacing. He halts a foot away from me, blue eyes burning with remembered hurt, relived pain.
“You can’t believe that you are just like him,” I say quietly.
“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Madeline.”
“Bullshit.”
He takes a breath and stares at me, his eyes bearing that same intensity. “I have never and will never lay a hand on a woman in anger. But there is more than one way to destroy a person.”
I take a tentative step toward him and then another. “You’re wrong,” I say.
Something passes through his eyes, something that reveals he clearly does not believe me. I stop when I’m standing so close to him that I can feel his body warmth. I place my hands on his cheeks.
“Evan, look at me.” And he does. “You’re not like him. You’re nothing like him.”
He doesn’t move. Even when I stand on my tiptoes, bring my mouth up to touch his. This time he lets me control the kiss as I pull his head down to meet mine. I’m the one applying pressure, pressing him for more. I close my eyes and let loose a small sigh, and suddenly his arms are hooking around my waist, pulling me fast to him.
I can feel his erection straining against his zipper, pressing into my stomach. I realize with a sudden rush, that I would never have walked away. Not really. I might tell myself I would have, but the truth is, I’m just as addicted to him as he is to me.
I rub against him shamelessly, moaning as he grips the globes of my ass, then lifts me onto the table, his lips never leaving mine.
He pulls something out of his pocket—four metallic balls, the size of large marbles, connected by a string.
I lick my lips. “What’s that?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, his hand slides upward, under my skirt, until his fingers find the edges of my black lace panties. Pulling them down my thighs, slides them off and tucks them into his pocket. “I’ve been craving this sweet pussy for days.”
