Page 34 of Edge of Secrets (The Edge Trilogy #2)

Chapter Twenty

Nell

T he note in his voice released the floodgates.

I talked so much, I embarrassed myself. I told him things I hadn’t let myself think about in years, things I’d pretended to forget.

The boarding schools. The bad foster homes.

That solitary afternoon in the funeral home, alone with my mother’s coffin. That bleak memory still haunted me.

I had no idea there was so much to say about my childhood, but it tumbled out. I told him about Lucia finding me. About Nancy and Vivi, and discovering that I could have a family after all. I talked about stories, poetry. My magical refuge.

Duncan listened intently. His rapt attention was flattering, but the car clock said it was after three a.m., and I looked up at the street numbers and realized that he’d been driving in big, aimless circles around his neighborhood for the better part of an hour.

“Why aren’t you parking the car?” I asked.

“I wanted to hear you talk.”

“We could talk at your apartment,” I pointed out.

“What I want when we get home doesn’t involve much talking.”

I crossed my legs with a shiver at the sensual promise in his voice. “Well. Be that as it may. I’m about talked out for now.”

He turned at the next block and started back toward his condo. “This morning you told me that you’ve got plans for your life,” he said. “Ambitions. Do those include a man? Or any room for one?”

I hesitated. There was a peculiar tone in his voice when he asked the loaded question. Something that made me vaguely nervous.

“You know, Duncan, I’ve babbled for over an hour, but you haven’t volunteered one single thing about your own life,” I said.

“You’re evading my question.”

“Why, what a coincidence. You’re evading mine, too.”

“I asked first,” he said stubbornly. “And? So?”

I twisted my hands together. “Well, my plan is to finish my thesis, get my doctorate, and find a teaching job. At which point, I guess I’ll attempt to have a normal life—Snake Eyes permitting and all that.”

“Let me rephrase,” he said. “By normal life, do you mean marriage? Kids?”

I stared at him. My heart had started to thud quickly, and my palms felt damp. He simply waited. I looked at the streetlights swooping by.

“Of course I dream about love,” I said. “After all those novels and all that poetry, how could I not? But I don’t take anything for granted.

There are no guarantees. I’ll do the best I can, try to get over my emotional baggage.

Hope I get lucky.” With you was the real ending of that phrase, but my lips and throat shook too much to say it.

He was quiet as he pulled into his parking garage and drove down two ramps to his own slot. He parked, killed the engine, and stared at the concrete wall in front of us.

“You’re special, Nell,” he said. “You should ask for more.”

Warmth softened my chest. I touched his face with the palm of my hand and stroked his cheek gently. “So should you, Duncan,” I whispered. “So should you.”

This was the moment. It could make or break us. He looked like he was poised to say it. He covered my hand with his own. I was poised to hear it. I couldn’t move or breathe. Seconds ticked by, stretched to a minute. Then longer.

But he didn’t say it. I turned my gaze away, blushing hard, feeling like an idiot. Here I went again, projecting my silly romantic fantasies onto an unsuspecting man. And him—bumbling along. No freaking clue. It was too soon for this nonsense anyway.

I tried to cover my embarrassment. “So? I answered your questions, Duncan. Now it’s your turn to bare your soul. Let’s hear some childhood reminiscing from you.”

He looked alarmed. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“You just saw me do it,” I said. “Watch and learn.”

“That’s different,” he said, his voice defensive. “You’re … you’re you .”

“Right, and you’re Duncan—and that’s what I’m interested in. Why don’t you start with your parents? They’re usually at the bottom of things.”

He let out an impatient sigh, as if humoring a child.

“My mom’s a piece of work, but tough, and fabulous.

She taught elementary school for thirty-five years before she retired.

She raised us on her own. She’s a real general.

Tries hard to run our lives, and mostly fails.

She’s a pretty good sport about it. Usually. ”

“How did she feel about you going to Afghanistan? And being a spy?”

He grunted. “She hated it. She nagged and schemed and lectured and admonished. She never let up. But I couldn’t hear her from the other side of the world, so it was okay. I know how to block and fake. I suit myself.”

“I’ve noticed,” I murmured. “And your father?”

His face changed, like a door slamming shut in my face. “I have nothing to say about him.”

I took a deep breath, and tried again. “So tell me what there isn’t, instead of what there is,” I suggested.

He looked baffled. “What the hell?”

“Silence is as revealing as words,” I said softly. “But you already know that. I see it in your photos.”

“Don’t go all poetic on me, Nell,” he warned. “I swear to God, I’ll devolve on you. I’ll start to grunt and snort and scratch my tufts.”

“Stop being ridiculous, and just tell me what happened,” I said. “It can’t be worse than my father. At least you know the guy’s name.”

He looked hunted, scowling down at the steering column.

Finally, he started to speak, but his voice was flat.

“He fell in love with some woman who worked for him,” he said.

“His accounts manager. Sylvia was her name. She was younger than him and my mother. I was thirteen. Bruce was nine, and Ellie was a newborn. Ellie was Mom’s last-ditch effort to tie Dad to her.

It was a bad idea.” He shook the memory away.

“I’m sorry, Duncan,” I said softly.

“He tried to explain it to me before he left. How love was this great force he couldn’t resist. It was his dick that he couldn’t resist, but his family paid the price.”

I put my hand on his leg, stroked him.

“He divorced Sylvia seven years later,” he said. “Traded her in for a younger model. He’s done it a couple more times since then. There’s the power of love for you.” The bitterness in his voice chilled me.

“That’s not love,” I said. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s not love.”

He made a low, harsh sound of negation. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It depresses me. Let’s go upstairs.” He got out of the car.

I flung the door open before he could come around and do it for me, and followed him into his building, miserably aware of having maneuvered him out of that closeness I had felt before.

I’d managed to make him tense and defensive.

Well, hell. There were ways and ways to sweeten his mood. I was not without my resources.

Duncan stood aside to let me in first and flipped on a small row of track lights near the entry space, leaving the rest of the apartment in shadow but for the glittering cityscape outside.

The delicious imminence of sex trapped my air in my lungs.

I drifted over to the couches. They were big, oversized.

Gray, velvety, plush. An odd choice for him.

I would’ve expected gleaming black leather, stainless steel, and glass.

I sank into one with a sigh and stared at his perfectly proportioned black silhouette standing there.

A hot sexual energy pulsed off him—all the more potent for his silence, for how fiercely it was controlled. It made me hot, shaky. Unstable inside. I could hardly wait.

“All evening, I’ve been thinking about your bare ass under that skirt,” he said.

I grabbed handfuls of the knit fabric and screwed up my courage. “Do you, um … want to see it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Show me.”

I took my time pulling my skirt up. I drew it out, gathering up folds of fabric inch by inch, until I had an armful of jersey pressed against my belly, and the tops of my stockings showed. A strip of pale thigh above them. The curls of my pubic hair.

But my legs were still clamped together. Duncan sank to his knees in front of me. His hands settled on my knees, pushing them wide. I closed my eyes, my face hot.

“I love the stockings,” he muttered. “You are so fucking beautiful, Nell.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled it down, arranging my fingers so that my clit was gently clasped in the V between my index and middle finger. “Touch yourself,” he said, his voice a husky rasp. “I want to watch you do it. You know … watch and learn.”

I laughed as I parted my slick folds for him. I was so aroused by his intense attention. The feeling of exposure was transforming into something pleasurable. I slowly relaxed into it, like a cat sprawled in a patch of sunlight.

“That’s one area where you don’t need any lessons.”

“Thank God I’ve got at least one piece of the puzzle.”

I ignored his sarcasm and stroked the jut of his cheekbone with my finger. His skin was so hot and supple.

“I’ve been fantasizing about you ever since the first day you started eating lunch at the Grill,” I confessed.

He pressed a hot, lingering kiss to the top of my thigh. “Really? And what did I do to you in those fantasies?”

“Lovely things,” I admitted. “Many varied things.”

He grinned and caressed the crease of my groin. “Such as?”

He waited, but I couldn’t speak. My lips were trembling. “My mouth is watering,” he said, parting my labia tenderly, and slowly penetrating me. “Did I lick you in those fantasies?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Was it good? Did I treat you right?”

“It was amazing,” I said.

He bent lower and lapped the length of my labia with his tongue, slow and voluptuous. “And how do I measure up to my dream fantasy self?”

“You surpass your dream fantasy self,” I admitted. “There’s more of you in real life. More of everything—more feelings, more orgasms. More problems, too.”

“Oh, yeah.” He chuckled silently, the laughter vibrating against my mound, his lips tenderly holding my clit, his tongue fluttering expertly—swirl, flutter, swirl.

“Never mind all the problems,” he suggested. “Let’s just stop at the orgasms. And linger there.”

“Okay,” I agreed.

“Forever,” he whispered.

That word just set me off. Forever. It made my pleasure crest and then break in great, pulsing ripples of milky foam through the endless ocean of sensation.

After that, we both went wild. A frenzied, feverish blur, clutching each other, dragging, pulling demanding. No control, no need for it. His clothes came off, my blouse was ripped open, my bra unhooked.

He settled between my legs and slowly entered me, pressing me down onto the couch with his solid weight.

Folding my legs high. It was hard, deep, driving.

Demanding and wonderful. We struggled, twining and writhing and pumping.

Struggling toward the release we both needed . .. and exploding together.

His vital energy poured into me. I clung to him and took in the wonderful heat. I felt transformed.

A single, piercing thought formed in my mind. He lifted his face, and it just flew out of my mouth. “I love you,” I said.

His eyelids went tight. His face went blank. Fear stabbed through me.

Oh God. I’d ruined it. Now he’d take back all that intense, passionate attention—never mind that it wasn’t love—and I’d proceed to shrivel up and die.

Then came anger. How humiliating, to be terrified just because I told a man I loved him. I had nothing to be ashamed of. He should be grateful. I shouldn’t have to beg for any man’s love.

“Nell,” he said, sounding pained.

“No. Forget I said it.” I tried to wrench myself free, but his full weight was pinning me down into cushions. He rolled off onto the floor.

“Nell, I’m sorry if I?—”

“Shut up, Duncan. The worst thing you could do would be to apologize. It’s the one thing I could never forgive you for.”

“So what can I say?”

“Nothing,” I whispered. A burning tightness filled my chest. It felt like my heart was imploding. I collected my clothes and marched into the bedroom.

He followed on bare, silent feet. “Nell, don’t,” he said, his voice rough. “Don’t do this to me.”

I fought the tears. “Please, Duncan. Just give me some space. I’m too embarrassed to talk to you right now.”

“Don’t be. Please.” He slipped his arms around me from behind and squeezed. “Thank you for saying it. Thank you for giving yourself to me like you do. You’re beautiful and special, and you make me feel awake and alive like nothing else. Please. Don’t be embarrassed.”

I covered my face. “You drive me crazy when you talk like that,” I whispered. “Don’t confuse me. Don’t jerk me around.”

“I’m just telling you how I feel. I’m just being honest. Isn’t that what women say they want from men?”

“What I want and what women in general want are two separate things,” I said haughtily. “Do not generalize me.”

“Never,” he said smoothly, fervently kissing my neck.

I sighed. “It’s strange. All those things you say about how you feel about me? That’s exactly how I feel about you. I just interpret those feelings to mean that I love you.”

Duncan’s arms tightened. He buried his face in my hair.

“But we define those feelings in such different terms,” I finished softly. “And that shouldn’t be so important. But it is.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears overflowed, and I let them slide down my cheeks. He jerked as a tear splashed his forearm. I stroked his arm, brushing the moisture away. “It’s okay. I appreciate the truth. Honesty is better than lies, I guess.”

“I’m giving you everything I have to give.”

I turned in his arms until I faced him and rested my face against his chest. “You give a lot,” I admitted. “I just asked for the wrong thing at the wrong time, that’s all. I love our time together. Don’t worry. Let’s just let it pass and float downstream.”

Maybe I should just relax. Try not to put this experience in a box.

After all, the feelings he described for me were more than most lovers had to brag about.