Page 34 of Chicago Sin

I welcome the touch. It’s still a connection—something I’ve lacked for ages. And she didn’t try to punch me this time. I catch her hand and hold it there. “Talk to me.” I’m practically begging. The words are rusty in my mouth, but I keep pushing them out. “I’m so outta touch with this shit, Hannah.”

I watch a tear track down her smooth, flawless brown skin. “I’m trying to stay on this ride with you and not freak out, but....” She takes a shuddering breath and holds it then releases it slowly. “You can’t touch me when you’re angry like that.”

White horror blankets through me. Cristo, did I hurt her? I reach out to tip her chin back, examining her neck for bruising, but I see nothing—no fingerprints, no marks. I swear I didn’t hurt her—I wouldn’t. Not even out of my mind as I was. It’s just not in me to hurt a woman. “I didn’t hurt you—did I, Hannah?”

She shakes her head.

“I scared you,” I guess. Of course, I fucking scared her. I held her by the throat and broke the wall beside her head.

“No.” She pushes my hand off her neck and looks away. “It’s not that.” Her voice is tight. Frustrated.

I am so fucking lost here.

“I don’t know if I can explain. Just don’t do that again.”

My heart beats faster like my body knows this conversation is gonna be important if I can just figure out what the hell we’re talking about. “Try me. Try to explain.”

She turns her gold-flecked brown eyes back on me, considering. “I’m one of those people who…” Her eyelids flutter down like she’s embarrassed. “I don’t know—it’s like I sense everybody else’s emotions. In my body.” She gestures with her hand up and down the center of her trunk.

I cock my head. “An empath.” Like from Star Trek. Is it a real thing?

Apparently.

The flicker of hope that sparks in her expression tells me I finally said something right. “Yeah, I guess. If someone in the room cries, I cry. If someone’s upset, I get upset. So just… don’t touch me when you’re mad. It’s too much for me.”

Shit.

I finally get it. I channeled the shame and anger I felt straight into her body. Or she experienced it that way.

“Fuck.” I reach for her, and she doesn’t flinch away. I pull her closer to me and lift her onto my lap, adjusting the sheet to keep her covered. “Okay, Flowers. I won’t touch you when I’m mad. Swear to Christ.”

She tucks her face against my neck. After a moment, her lips move, kissing me softly.

I can’t explain what happens in my body. It’s like all my organs sort of lift a half-inch. Like I’ve been in a pressure cooker, and it pushed everything down. And now my insides regained form.

I resist the urge to tighten my arms around her. The need to stand up and shake off all these foreign emotions is too strong. “Let’s eat,” I say gruffly, lifting her from my lap to her feet and squeezing her ass.

Chapter Fifteen

Hannah

I pull on a camisole and pajama shorts. Dang it. I hate when I cry in front of people. It’s so damn embarrassing. Me and my overblown emotions. This is how I scared off every guy I’ve ever dated.

Armando seems to move past it quickly, though, which is a relief. He unwraps the calzones and drops them onto plates then pours red wine into my juice glasses.

“Sorry, I don’t have wine glasses.” I slide into the wicker chair I found at a flea market and painted a cheery yellow.

Armando’s gaze drops from my face to my braless chest and lingers there as he settles into a chair that matches mine in paint color only.

My nipples bead up at his attention. I swear it’s like I’ve just been mega-dosed with breeding hormones because no matter how many times we do it, I seem to want more.

“It doesn’t look like you have a lot of things,” he says. “What were you going to eat for dinner if I wasn’t here? Your refrigerator doesn’t have any food.”

I shrug. “I’d figure something out.”

Armando scowls. “You should be taking better care of yourself.”

I roll my eyes. His protectiveness is sweet, but I’m a grown woman, and I’m not sure I like the idea of being lectured.