“Okay, prove it,” I challenge him. “Tell me how you made your money.”
I’m tired of being on the outside. I’m tired of looking at him and seeing as many questions as I do possibilities.
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything.” He shakes his head and I get the distinct impression he’s lying to himself as much as he is to me.
I watched a marriage built on lies. I lived it. There’s no way I’m settling for less than all of him, even if it means getting none of him. “It has everything to do with it. Where have you been the last five years? Why did you come back? I’m tired of only knowing half of your life. How do I know things are real between us?”
Sterling’s perfect eyes wince in pain. If it hurts him to be misunderstood, why doesn’t he make himself clear? I see the little muscles in his jaw twitch as he takes a step toward me. I back up reflexively, bumping into the wall. There’s nowhere to go.
“Lucky,” he tries to say it evenly, but his tone is a complete betrayal of the storm on our horizon.
Isn’t that how it’s always been with us? We crave the breeze that blows in while we ignore the blue-black thunderclouds. For us, it’s easier to pretend it’s not coming. We tell this lie. We believe it. We turn our backs to the wind. It’s what makes the squall impossible to overcome. The storm grabs hold before we can break free, capsizes us, drags us below the surface. We drown in each other. I’m tired of it. I want to sail into the storm—standing on the bow, back straight, head unbowed. I want to face what we are and see if I’m strong enough to survive the truth of it. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
“You’re beyond wrong.” His intensity is breathtaking and now it’s in his eyes: the hurricane I’m determined to face. That’s when I realize that he is my storm. He is the danger. I can either sail through him or turn back. There’s no other way to survive him. So why do I melt against the wall? Why do my eyes close, my lips part?
His hand flashes towards me and unties the knot of my robe. It falls open before I’ve processed his intentions. One impossibly strong arm reaches under my right, around my back, and grabs my upper left arm. His body presses me against the wall, his knee pins my legs apart.
“Does this feel real?” he says. I can sense how hard he is fighting to keep control of himself. It should frighten me. Instead, I feel the fabric of my panties soak. He holds me fast against the wall, waiting for my response.
I nod.
His mouth finds mine, desperate and hungry. Frantic to claim me. He takes my bottom lip into his mouth and nips down hard. The sharp metallic tang of iron floats across my tongue.
“Is this real?” he growls between all-consuming kisses. There's no hesitation. He touches me like he owns me. And that's when I realize it. He does.
I can still pull away. I can still stop this. I can sail to safe harbor, but I haven’t made it this far to give up now. On myself. On him. On us.
I bite back.
Sterling betrays little of the pain. Instead, he simply grunts. He is primal. Animalistic. He takes as he gives. His possession liberates me until I can feel it. I can feel every raw, aching nerve in my body.
The fingernails of his free hand scratch me slightly as his hand makes its way to my waiting, bared breast. “And this?” My nipples stiffen painfully, and I moan in spite of myself. “Tell me this isn’t as real as it gets.”
Meeting his gaze as evenly as I can, I shake my head. I can’t tell him that.
“That’s right, Lucky,” he says through gritted teeth.
As if to underscore his point, he bends to take my right nipple between his teeth. He doesn’t bite down, but I feel the threat he will almost hysterically. His hand soothes my left breast, rubbing gently in counterpoint to his mouth, which begins to suck on my breast, hard. I can feel blood rushing in, engorging the nipple, making it more tender.
When at last he releases it from his mouth, the feeling is dangerous and exquisite. Relief at freedom gives way to a painful stab of absence, which itself gives way to a deep ecstasy, throbbing in time with my heart. It feels like he has connected me to the resonant frequency of the universe.
“I know what’s between us is real, Adair. It’s a feeling I have when I look at you. Would you like me to show you how it feels?”
My eyelids flutter, an approving moan slipping past my lips. A wicked grin lights his face, and I realize my head is bobbing furiously, though I don’t think I sent that instruction.
The arm pinning me in place disappears. My body reacts intuitively, attempting to close the distance between us, but Sterling pushes me back against the wall with a palm to my belly. He kneels before me, kisses my navel. His fingers pinch the black lace fabric of my panties, pull it away from me. He lets the fabric go, and the elastic threads snap back into place, giving me a jolt. He does it again and again, always kissing my belly.
Is this what he feels? That I’m a tease, or that he needs to tease me? Or is it just torment? Delicious torment? He doesn’t need to show me that. He always tormented me.
Suddenly I feel the rough skin of his knuckles brushing between my legs. Then, the lace of my panties bites into my hips, followed by the sound of ripping fabric. I feel the shredded lace dangling loosely around my
