He caresses my coat off my shoulders, and this replay of the past sends an erotic thrill down my spine. As his hands fall away from me my lashes lower, my breath hitching as I anticipate his touch, waiting, wanting, until finally his hands settle possessively on my waist. He leans into me, and the feel of the thick ridge of his erection against my backside is impossibly arousing. A delicate, enticing brush of his fingers sweeping hair from my neck follows and rolls over me like a warm sun expanding through a newly open blind.
“Put your hands on the glass above you,” he orders softly.
The command thrills me, and the temptation to do as he bids, to relive our first night together, is a powerful one. Yet I have the unnerving sensation of also reliving the uncertainty I’d thought we were beyond. I don’t understand this feeling, and I don’t like it.
Desperate to drive it away, I turn to face him, momentarily overwhelmed by how tall and broad, how perfectly male he is. And as I blink instead of speak, he claims control again. He presses me against the window, his powerful thighs frame my legs, his hands brand my hips.
His head tilts, the stubble of his jaw rasping deliciously on my skin, as he announces, “I’m going to fuck you against the window again.”
Please. Yes. Don’t make me beg, I think, and the rest of the world begins to slide away. There is only this man, the blistering heat he creates in me, and the foggy certainty that I’d had something important to say. He nips my earlobe, erotically licking away the pinch he’s created, his hands traveling upward, over my rib cage, his fingers brushing the curves of my breasts.
My nipples tighten and the low thrum he’s created in my sex, over hours of verbal teasing, blossoms and intensifies. “Chris,” I whisper, a plea for more in my voice. For him. I want him, all of him.
“Hands over your head,” he orders again.
I want to obey. Being at this man’s mercy is the biggest adrenaline rush of my life, but that feeling is clawing at me again, the sense that all is not right. Leaning into him, I ball my fingers around his shirt, and search his handsome, unreadable face. “Are we okay?”
Surprise flashes in his eyes, followed by that indefinable emotion again that I want to call vulnerability but isn’t. I don’t know what it is. He cups my face. “I need you too damn much for there to be any other answer.”
“Then why do you feel just out of reach to me?”
“I’m not. I’m right here, and I’m bleeding for you every which way.”
I don’t understand the deep cut in his words, even less than I understand whatever emotion he’s battling. “What does that mean?”
He drops his head back between his shoulder blades, tension rolling off of him. Seconds tick by like hours and he finally lowers his tormented gaze to mine. “I’m still thinking about last night. I’m still living it.”
“What does that mean?” I say again.
“I don’t know what it means,” he confesses. “That’s the problem. That’s my fear.”
“Chris, you’re confusing me. Make me understand.”
“When you came to the club after Dylan died, I was out of my own skin, damn near out of my head. Had I stayed, I don’t know what I would have done to you—or with you.”
“So that’s it.” I remember him telling me he used to be like Amber, that he still is, in many ways. “Amber’s meltdown made you worry that you might melt down again.”
“I will. I’m a ticking time bomb. Eventually it’s going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I always knew, but I denied it. But no more. We’re going to have to eventually deal with it.”
That “we” relaxes my spine. My hands settle on his arms, my eyes seek his. “I’m not afraid.”
But he still is, and that’s the real problem. We still have that damn whip trying to split us apart.
The intercom buzzer sounds and Chris straightens, running a rough hand through his hair. Curious and concerned about the reason for the interruption, I listen anxiously as Chris punches the intercom button and growls, “This better be important.”
“Detective Grant is here,” Jacob replies. “He’s insisting I let him come up.”
Adrenaline surges through me and I rush up the stairs to stand by Chris. “Why is he here? We aren’t supposed to be at the police station until tomorrow afternoon for questioning.”
Chris holds up a hand to me and replies to Jacob, “Tell him we’ll see him tomorrow. And call Blake to make sure there isn’t anything new I need to know about.”
“Consider him handled,” Jacob confirms.
Chris releases the intercom and turns to me, his hands sliding down my arms. “Deep breaths, baby. It’s okay. Most likely he was trying to corner us to get more details without David present.”
“Why would he want to avoid our attorney? And don’t we look suspicious if we don’t talk to him?”
“That’s what he hopes we’ll think, but we don’t have anything to hide, so why would we care what he thinks? He expects smart people with good attorneys to decline to talk to him.”
“And that’s my point. We did nothing wrong. I’m the one Ava attacked and tried to kill. Why would he try to corner us?”
“Probably pretty normal with any high profile suspect, but I’m calling David to be sure.”