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Or the way the touch sends shivers of desire down my spine.
Or the unconditional need to protect her.
“It’s okay.” Chils pulls her hand to her. “What spooked you?”
I roll my eyes. “I forgot about your hair.”
She bites her lip, failing to suppress her amusement. “I guess I got properly punished for it.” She shakes her hand, blowing at it.
A memory from last night flicks through my mind, and I cup the back of her neck. I lower my head but stop myself before our lips meet.
I’ve never suffered from a lack of rational thinking. Ever. That’s why I’m good at arguing a case. That’s why I’m the best fucking lawyer. Yet this woman strips me of all of that, and I seem to crave more.
We stare at each other, our chests heaving with the undercurrent of built-up tension. With her head shaved, Chils looks younger and more innocent. At odds with her personality. I was pissed yesterday because I loved wrapping her ponytail around my wrist.
Seeing her now, stripped of my selfish emotions, I see how the lack of hair only accentuates her beauty. She does indeed have an elegantly shaped skull.
Her new haircut highlights her delicate cheekbones and her eyes. With her usual scowl removed, I see how expressive those big eyes are, how they’re ringed by the longest lashes. Right now, they are filled with expectation and hurt. There is nothing sexual in her need. Or mine.
As much as we both wish to pretend otherwise, we’re desperate for each other. Yet running away from it.
I touch her lips with mine, gently. Chils raises on her tiptoes and seeks a deeper connection.
I give in and we kiss. Desperate, we channel our frustration, pain and fear into intimacy, leaving us breathless and yearning. Chils clings to me as if she fears I’m going to disappear.
But does she? Does she want this at all? Or is she going to hide behind her walls? Perhaps I got it all wrong. Maybe the physical connection with a firmly attached expiration date is all she’s ever wanted. Maybe she believes I’ve infiltrated her work only to stay close. Have I? Fuck if I know anymore.
I squeeze her neck tighter, probably leaving marks, and I plant my other hand on the small of her back, holding her close. I don’t let my hands roam, because I don’t want us to get sidetracked.
We continue kissing, because we know we communicate best without words. But it’s time we accepted that’s part of our problem. We fuck or we bark at each other. And then we go and do our own thing. Like me buying a building.
I stepped in here earlier, resolute to pack up and leave. Now I want nothing more than to fight for her. Even though that fight is mostlywithher. But she stayed here. She didn’t sneak out, and that gives me a jolt of that useless, stupid hope that seems to rule my judgment lately.
I pull away. Chils looks at me, startled, and I want to wipe her worries away, but she needs to get there herself.
“Talk to me, London.” I use her name on purpose. This is not playful chatter or bickering.
She swallows and slides her arms down mine slowly. She lowers her eyes and stares at the carpet. “I thought you might want to stay here. At the same time, I didn’t want you to stay here.”
“Chicago is only a short flight away. Nothing has to change.”Between us, but I don’t say that part out loud. It’s a miracle she’s willing to voice her fears—I can’t risk scaring her off.
I’m fully aware of how hard this is for her. She may let me boss her around in the bedroom, but she needs to be fully in control of her life. If her feelings are even remotely as irrational and consuming as mine, she must feel as lost as me.
For some outlandish reason, the vulnerability of the fear we clearly share makes me feel stronger.
“Everything is going to change. I’m staying here. I have to stay close to my family. To my father.” She looks up at me, seeking confirmation that I understand what she’s trying to say.
“Well, then I’ll be flying back and forth, and you can come for short periods of time to take care of necessary work.” Even as I utter the words, I know it’s not the logistics of our relationship we need to address, but it keeps her talking, so I hope we get there. That fucking hope again.
“It’s a reasonable solution for my work if I expand, but what about us? It would be difficult to have you in my life…” She lets out a long breath through pursed lips. “If you leave.”
She must be voicing only some of her thoughts, because she makes no sense. “What are you talking about, Chils? I’m not abandoning you.”
“You can’t promise that,” she snaps. “Nobody can promise that.”
“What? What have I done to make you believe I want to leave you? If anything, I’m taking all possible steps to keep us connected despite everything.”
“We don’t always have a choice.” Her eyes glisten and she steps back. And it hits me then. Kyle didn’t have a choice. Her mother had no choice. Madeleine and many other clients had no choice. Her father has no choice in what’s going to happen.
