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His words broke my heart.
I bit down on his shoulder and wrapped my legs around him. Clung to him like he was a life raft and I was lost at sea in a hurricane.
My shudders of grief and ecstasy blended into a turbulent, incomprehensible mess. He never let go. He never lost pace, his cock shuttling in and out of me in a timeless rhythm that was slowly ripping my soul apart.
A towering surge of pleasure swept over me. It stole my breath and my reason. And with a crash, I plunged into a devastating orgasm. He caught my mouth, swallowing my cries as he too crested the last wave and came deep inside me. Filling me in every way.
Breathing hard, he rolled us, pulling me onto his chest, his arms like a steel band holding me in place.
“Will you talk about it yet?” He stroked my hair like I was made of spun sugar.
“Hold me. Just hold me.”
“All you have to do is ask.” He pressed a kiss to the top of my head.
I was a coward. Not brave enough to tell him we were finished. Pathetic enough to soak his chest with my tears. It would all be clear to him tomorrow.
I relaxed in his arms; crying had hollowed me out. I counted his breaths. One hundred. Two hundred. Then a small snore. And another.
It was time. I’d promised to keep him safe from my world. And I kept my promises, even when it was hard.
I had to leave.
Pure willpower and stubbornness forced me from his bed. I crept quietly about the room, finding my clothes, goosebumps on my naked skin. In the living room, my jaw clenched so hard I thought my teeth might break as I dressed and gathered my things.
Onyx awoke as soon as I stepped into the kitchen. I found a scrap of paper and a pen. With numb fingers, I scrawled a note.
“Boy Scout, thank you. Goodbye. Lee.”
The shards of my broken wineglass glittered in the sink, and I left the note next to the mess. He was better off without me.
Chapter 28
Lee
I felt like shit. My eyes were red-rimmed and my throat was scratchy. When I walked into Oleander on Monday, Sara asked if I was coming down with something.
I hadn’t slept after leaving Derek’s house on Friday night. Didn’t even try. Instead, I sat outside by the pool until dawn streaked the sky, the muggy Florida night doing its best to chase away my bone-deep chill. I’d pored over the Moment in Time auction catalog, trying to formulate a plan to resurrect my life. I hadn’t come up with anything.
The rest of the weekend had crawled by. I tried going grocery shopping and taking Onyx to the dog beach, but my normal routine chafed. My stomach was an uncomfortable knot, and nothing eased the ache in my chest. Sleep remained elusive, and by Monday, I was sure I looked like someone getting the flu.
Once in my office, I opened the manila file that Tony had forced on me Friday. I’d put this off longer than was prudent. Inside the folder was a copy of the auction catalog, a small envelope with a generic key, and a business card.
The card was impressive. Thick cream stock paper. Gold embossed printing. Charles De Wispelaere, purveyor of fine art and antiques, written in a flamboyant script across the center of the card. His contact numbers and an address in the Design District were below in a more restrained font.
I unlocked my second desk drawer and took out one of the burner cell phones I kept for occasions like this. I hesitated, not wanting to call this guy’s store. I flipped over the card, looking for a handwritten number. Nothing.
I felt like I had jet lag with the way my head was pounding. I considered taking some pain meds, but I hadn’t eaten a proper meal since before Tony’s visit. Before my tragic dinner at Derek’s. My stomach had gone from an uncomfortable knot to a seething pit of acid.
I glanced at the bagel and cream cheese on the corner of my desk where Sara had left it. She’d urged me to eat. I’d had another coffee instead and wallowed in my misery.
Stress was killing me. Damn, I needed to man the fuck up. Grab my lady balls and handle my shit like the hard-ass I was. I knocked back two Advil from a bottle in the top drawer and chased them with the dregs of my cold coffee. A few months with Derek and I’d lost my killer instincts. This was not me.
Uncle Jimmy’s threats were a lot more dangerous than my bruised and broken heart. I picked up the burner cell and dialed Charles’s store.
“The Charles De Wispelaere Gallery, this is Charles.” His voice was honey and butter, an overly theatrical southern accent. No one talked like that. It had to be fake.
“Hello, Charles. We have a mutual acquaintance, Tony Delgatto. He said you have some consignment merchandise you’d like to get off your hands. That it’s not to your client’s taste.” I left my name out. Anonymity was my only remaining protection.
