Page 39 of Exposed

He really must be telepathic, because he wraps a long arm around my shoulders and pulls me against him. At first, I only allow myself to lean against him. But I cannot sustain the façadefor long, and I slump. Slide lower and lower, until I’m lying on his lap. There is nothing sexual about this. His hands sweep my hair aside, and then his fingers dig into my shoulder muscles and knead them with a firm but gentle touch. I moan involuntarily, melting under the massage.

“Just let go, Isabel. Relax. Let it all go.”

“Caleb, he—”

“Hush, babe. Not now. There’s plenty of time to tell me everything. For right now, you just need to relax.”

“I don’t know how,” I admit.

“Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just focus on the feel of my hands.”

I try it. I push aside the whirlwind of thoughts and shove down the maelstrom of emotions, and focus on Logan’s hands on my shoulders, between my shoulder blades, down my spine, thumbs pressing into my lower lumbar, working back up. It isn’t until he begins massaging me that I am even aware how tensed I am, that my muscles are all knotted up into painful boulders of stress. Moment by moment, however, I feel myself relaxing.

I smell him, faint cologne, deodorant, cinnamon and cigarettes. I feel his breathing, his chest expanding and retracting.

My breathing matches his.

I fade.

I feel a sense of spatial distortion as my eyes close, as if I’m tipping forward, as if my consciousness is leaving my body. I am heavy, limp. I spin, twist, tilt.

Logan’s fingertip trails over my cheekbone, slides around my ear. I feel it distantly.

I am moments from succumbing to sleep when I hear him speak.

“You’re safe now, Isabel,” he murmurs, “I won’t let you go. Not again.”

I believe him.

He shifts, and my cheek touches leather warm from his body. Moments later, something warm and weighty is draped over me.

I have never been more comfortable in my life.

I let go.

I wake sobbing.

Nightmares of sirens and flashing lights and a pair of cold cruel dark eyes staring haughty and inscrutable down at me as I am used like a receptacle. Nightmares of a perfect body pinning me to an elevator door. Sorcery, stealing my will, manipulating my desires, cool silk of a tie wiping my face. Rain cold and wet and windblown, shifting shadows and blood and pain.

My dream is pervaded by a voice: “Isabel, you’re okay. It was just a dream.”

Who is Isabel?

The voice is in my ear, soft and tender and warm. “I’m here, Isabel.”

Oh, it’s me. I’m Isabel.

I am Isabel; I have to remind myself that it is true.

I am lifted, cradled. I hear a heartbeat under my ear, feel soft cotton under my cheek. I am lying on top of him, as if he is my bed. His hands smooth in caressing circles on my back.

I cannot stop sobbing.

My eyes burn with hot tears, and I try to stop them, but I can’t. “L-Logan—”

“Ssshhh. It’s okay. I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I can’t—can’t stop—”