Page 18 of The Survivor (Silhoutte Romantic Suspense)

H er answer surprised even her, but the second she said it Sam knew she meant it.

She wanted her life back, and in order to do that she needed to stop letting fear rule her.

She didn’t know why Blake had gotten under her skin like this, but he had, and either she could hide from her desire or she could face it head-on.

She glimpsed the brief flash of lust in Blake’s eyes, but to her disappointment his expression quickly sobered. “It doesn’t bother you that you don’t know a thing about the man you want to go to bed with?” he said coolly.

“I know I trust you. I know you’ll do anything you can to protect me.”

He gave a sarcastic laugh. “The last woman I promised to protect wound up dead, Samantha.”

She swallowed. Startling as his admission was, at least they were getting somewhere here. “What was her name?”

His features twisted with pain. “Kate.” He cleared his throat. “Her name was Kate.”

“Tell me what happened to her.” She knew from the bare details Mel provided that Kate had been shot, but she found herself needing to hear it from Blake. Needing to understand the pain that had driven him to decide he didn’t “do” relationships anymore.

His handsome face donned a faraway expression. “That’s another story for another day.”

A frown tugged her mouth down. “Fine. But what about today, what about right now? What about this—whatever this is between us? You can’t run away from it, Blake.”

He rubbed his temples, a gesture she now associated with frustration. “What I don’t get is why you’re not running away, Sam. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’d be the first man you were with since the attack.”

“Yes.”

“So why push it? Why do you want me?” He let out a heavy breath. “Is this one of those extreme circumstance syndromes? I’ve seen it happen before, you know. People caught up in dangerous, stressful situations, needing to get physical in order to feel alive.”

She stared at him, incredulous. How wonderful. Here she was practically propositioning this man, and he was accusing her of having a syndrome.

“Trust me,” she said in a dry voice. “It’s not that. Remind me to tell you about the time I was shooting a bikini layout in the dead of winter in Alaska. That was pretty stressful and I don’t recall jumping the photographer to make myself feel alive.”

Amusement flickered in his eyes, but it was short-lived. “Why do you want me, Sam?”

“Because…” Her voice drifted.

A wave of restlessness washed over her, driving her toward the window. Outside the blizzard grew stronger, piling the street with mounds of blinding-white snow. The wind rattled the house, howling like the crack of a whip against the thick window of Blake’s living room.

It was the kind of storm that brought lovers together, sent them rushing to a big warm bed to lose themselves in each other’s arms. Not her and Blake, though. No, they had to dig up old wounds and revisit raw memories.

She turned to face him, leaning against the cool glass, shutting out the powerful display of winter behind her.

“I’m going to tell you exactly why I want you, Blake.

I’m going to pour my heart out to you. And then, then you can decide if you want to go forward.

” She faltered. “Or if you still want to push me away.”

She moved back to the center of the room, this time sitting at the edge of the large glass coffee table in front of the couch. She heard his intake of breath at her nearness but he said nothing. Just looked at her with unreadable eyes.

“I know you saw the crime-scene photos from my house,” she began, trying to ignore the fingers of bitterness clawing up her throat. “But those were just pictures, words compiled to form a tidy little report for your profilers to analyze.”

As if he sensed where she was going, he said, “Sam, you don’t have to—”

“He tied me up, facedown, to my own bed. He tore off my dress and I lay there naked, convinced he would not only rape me, but slit my throat.” She paused. “You never found the knife, did you? Not in any of your pictures because he took it with him. But I saw it, Blake.”

She stopped again, willing every morsel of strength she possessed to keep the pain at bay, far enough away so that she didn’t break down.

“It was steel, big and sharp and it shone in the little bit of light coming through the window. He held it to my throat, dragged it over my body instead of using his fingers. I told myself that if I ever survived I would never let another man touch me. But I let you.”

“Sam, please—”

“Then he dug the blade into my skin. I was crying, the pain was so excruciating. I passed out from it, but woke up just as he made the first cut in my left wrist.”

“Goddammit, Samantha—”

“He sliced my other one. I couldn’t see him, but I could feel him standing there and watching me.

Watching me bleed.” She never took her eyes off Blake’s.

“I told myself that if I survived I’d never let another man look at me that way.

I’d never be vulnerable again, never give anyone the opportunity to make me vulnerable. But you did, Blake.”

She rose slowly, reaching for the hem of her sweater before pulling it over her head. She wore a pink lace bra underneath and Blake’s dark eyes darted unmistakably to her chest and rested on her covered breasts.

“I want you because you make me feel alive. Because I trust myself to be vulnerable when I’m with you. And because I trust that you can look at this and not be disgusted.”

She fought for air, closing her mouth before the sob in her throat could slip out. And then she turned around and gave him a candid eyeful of the eight-inch scar on her back.

Sam could feel his gaze burning into her skin and was grateful that she couldn’t see his expression.

The scar had healed nicely. No longer the angry red slashes that formed together to create a rose.

Just faded pink lines that would one day become white, or disappear entirely if she chose to undergo the surgery the doctors had suggested. None of that mattered, though.

To her it would always be a sickening reminder that a madman had branded her. An ugly symbol of the night that had changed her life.

“It’s not pretty, is it?” she whispered.

She heard his pants rustle as he stood up. Her first thought was that he would walk away in horror, and that caused a chill to sweep up her body and tighten like a vise around her heart.

“It’s beautiful.”

Those two soft words broke through her fears. “What?”

She felt him come up behind her, and then his big warm hands were touching her exposed skin.

He traced each line of raised tissue with his fingers, replacing the chill with a pulsing heat that spread over all he touched.

His caress was gentle, erotic, and in response her knees trembled, buckled beneath her.

Strong hands gripped her waist, keeping her steady.

She nearly keeled over again when something hot pressed against her shoulder.

His mouth. A cross between a moan and a whimper slid out of her throat.

Her skin quivered under his lips. He kissed the sensitive spot between her shoulder blades, then kneeled down and dragged his mouth lower.

Ran his tongue languidly over the rose carved into her.

“You’ve got a war wound, Samantha,” he said huskily, slowing moving up her body and wrapping his arms around her from behind. He pressed his lips to one side of her neck. “You could have given up and died that night, but you didn’t. You fought like hell to stay alive, didn’t you?”

Her eyelids fell closed as he took her earlobe in his mouth and suckled it. “Yes.”

“That’s what that rose represents to me,” he said hoarsely. “It’s a symbol of your strength, Sam.”

He didn’t let her answer, simply whirled her around and crushed her in his embrace. Their mouths found each other with little difficulty, their tongues danced together as if they’d done this hundreds of times before.

He rested his hands on her bare back, sending heat pulsating down to her most intimate place. Her knees buckled again and this time he cupped her bottom and lifted her up against him, never tearing his mouth from hers.

Somehow they found their way upstairs to Blake’s bedroom, though everything became a blur to her. His lips were too intoxicating, his hands too skilled. Her entire body was on fire, hot with pleasure and heavy with need. She didn’t object when Blake gently placed her on the bed.

He reached for the button of her slacks, then paused and met her gaze. “Do you want to stop?” he murmured.

“Do you?”

“I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to.”

It wasn’t the answer she’d wanted, an answer she could even be satisfied with, but it was enough for now.

A shiver sprung up her spine as he pulled down her slacks and exposed the pink cotton panties underneath.

She suddenly wished she’d worn sexier lingerie.

She wanted to feel beautiful, wanted to look beautiful for Blake, but her insecurities diminished when his dark eyes widened at the sight of her barely clad body.

“You’re gorgeous,” he muttered, running a finger over her lower thigh.

He removed his shirt, revealing a wall of solid, tanned muscle, a chest so spectacular her breath jammed in her throat.

She found herself reaching out to touch him, skimmed the light feathering of dark hair that tunneled down and disappeared into the waistband of his pants.

She stroked him for a moment, then awkwardly moved her hand, suddenly uncertain.

“It’s okay to touch me.” He chuckled quietly.

“I…” She bit her lip as trepidation bubbled inside her. “I’m scared, Blake.”

The way his features softened with empathy frustrated her.

Dammit. Why was this happening? She’d been so sure just moments before, so certain she wanted to do this.

Now as she lay in front of him, exposed and vulnerable, her fears rushed back and the only thing she could think of was the night she’d discovered a killer in her bedroom.