Page 102

He followed her gaze. Never had a woman lay upon his bed, beneath him, straddling him, curled around him. And the only one he ever wanted was minutes away from nuzzling into his private nest, against his very aroused body.

She slumped in his arms, reminding him how long they’d been awake.

He sighed. “Now, you sleep.”

She untangled from his embrace and shuffled toward the bed, tugging at her boots laces through hopping strides. Toed them off. Stripped her shirt. Her bra. Thrust her pants down her hips. Crawled over the mattress with her red-laced ass in the air.

Heat ignited in his belly and swept between his legs. He set his molars together to bottle his groan. “I’m just going to…I’m going to grab a shower.” And rub one off. Or two…or ten. He ducked into the bathroom without meeting her eyes, knowing they would lure him to his fantasy and his fantasy was very, very real.

51

A shower, a shave, and two self-induced orgasms later, Jay tied a towel around his hips and padded into his bedroom. As expected, Charlee’s steady breathing marked her restful sleep.

He dropped the towel, paced to the bed, and stopped. He slept nude, but should he now? He wanted to crawl in there naked with her, but would she think him too eager? Well, he was. Shit. He didn’t want her to think that was the only thing he thought about.

He spun back toward the closet. Did he own a pair of boxers? He dug in the back of one of the shelf drawers. Aha! Boxer briefs. He dragged the scratchy cotton over his hips and snapped the elastic band. Then he hurried back to her and eased between the sheets.

She lay on her stomach facing him, her arms cradling the pillow to her head. Her hair, full and wild, fell around the flawless lines of her back. Her auburn lashes fringed glowing cheekbones and the seam of her lips bowed up despite the relaxed muscles in her face.

He traced the hem of the sheet along the rise of her ass, shifting it lower with a careful nudge of his finger until the strip of red lace peeked out.

Blood surged to his groin. Why the hell was he torturing himself?

Soon. Very fucking soon, he would know her in every way. Even as he promised himself that, he knew he couldn’t get married to it. Not with their army of demons standing in the way.

Neither of them would ever know normal, together or apart. And while he loathed labeling her, doing so rooted him in the reality of the situation. She was a masochist, whether by nature or nurture, and he was…a lot of things, but a pain-bearer wasn’t one of them.

He’d tied up countless women, humiliated them, and took what he wanted. But Charlee wasn’t some self-seeking fan trying to attach herself to him because he was in a rock band. Her intent seemed to be shoving, scolding, and seducing him toward happiness, no matter how fucked up he was. A token of her effort was permanently outlined on his back.

He stretched his finger beneath the scratchy lace, reveling in the velvet feel of her bottom. His obsessive impulse to take care of her muddled things. Guard her or hurt her? Maybe guard her while hurting her? What a perverse notion.

Part of him understood why she needed pain, but the other part—the part that was feeling particularly sensitive and protective, considering he’d been mourning her death only hours earlier—wanted to demand she learn a more acceptable way to be with him.

He fluttered fingertips over her back, drinking in the silky feel of her. One of her arms flopped toward his face and lay on his pillow, delicate, inviting. He twined their fingers and brought her hand to his lips. Her breath hitched and fell even again.

Could he bruise her perfect body with the force of his grip and his thrusts? Could he welt her with some cruel leather implement? Could he pleasure her for hours on the edge of orgasm, torturing her without allowing her release?

His body quaked with the need to pull her against him, to drive into her and possess her. Rolling to his back, he captured her hand against his chest and squeezed the base of his erection. His dick seemed to think he could do all those things. It also knew she lay inches from him, wearing only a tiny scrap of lace.

Beating off in the shower had done nothing to assuage this insane need. Her body, their bed, his freedom was her. If he gave her pain, would her freedom be him?

What if he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her? Did that mean he loved her too much? Or maybe love meant hurting her despite his abhorrence to it.

It was the same murky feelings he often circled around when writing music. Sometimes, he would stop mid-composition and tell himself, “No. I can’t do this. The rhythm is too chaotic for mainstream. The lyrics would be misunderstood.” That was when heknewhe should do it.

Was that what was happening? Did his refusal to give her pain-derived pleasure stem from some prevailing social opinion? The act of love couldn’t be governed by tradition or conformity. It was an individual choice, sometimes one that was questioned and judged, perhaps abandoned in frustration, but always returned to. Just like writing music, love was a unique, hard-earned and giving experience.

Holy shit, he loved her. The revelation budded and strengthened with each thud of his heart. For three years, he’d been in love with the idea of her. It had been the sort of devotion that breathed through his songs and embraced him in his lowest hours. It was too soon to fully appreciate the woman she was, but during the course of a single day, a sweeping, chaotic sensation had taken up residence inside him. It cowered at the prospect of losing her again, but also galvanized with a sense of duty. Love wasn’t a feeling. It was a mission. A driving purpose to fulfill her every desire, to give her a life worth sharing.

He tapped the switch on his bedside table and washed the room in darkness. Shifting to face her, he inhaled the sweetness of her exhales and cherished each breathy trace of her existence. She was his greatest possibility. His reason. His why. He would give whatever she needed to be whole and happy, because loving her was as essential as drawing air.

52

A faraway gasp pulled at Charlee’s sleepy fog. She blinked through the dark, her eyes adjusting to the blanketing shroud. The wrinkled bedding, gray in the absence of light, was tossed back. The dip in the mattress beside her, empty.

Another distant inhale. Without moving, she squinted in the direction of the sound.

A silhouette blotted the far wall. She focused on the long, lean outline and the movement of the lower half. She needed neither light nor nearness to recognize Jay’s incredible body.