The house breathed around me, hugging me with its white painted walls. So many memories already existed in this place: the trials of convincing Arthur I was the girl from his past. The fear of being sold. The blankness of amnesia.
The echoes of everything that’d passed hovered in the air, twisting and twining, waiting for new memories to play with.
And tonight I plan on making new memories.
I planned on doing something for Arthur that had never been done before.
The bedroom door suddenly swung wide.
Arthur appeared.
His boots were off, his feet bare as he moved silently over the carpet. His eyes feasted on my nakedness and I deliberately wriggled, letting the front of my jacket gape, hinting at nipples and flesh. “I missed you.”
His lips quirked as his eyes blackened. “I can see that.”
Unashamedly, I spread my legs a little. “I missed you a lot, in fact.” The color of my tattooed leg looked almost garish against the white of his bedspread. I was a splash of color on a simple cloud.
He didn’t reply, only stared. Taking his time, he drank in my scars and ink—once again making me feel as if I was the most unique woman in the world.
“You were gone awhile.” My skin warmed beneath his gaze. “Are you okay?” I flinched as the question crashed between us. I didn’t want to keep hounding him, but I couldn’t stop my worry.
I’d long since given up trying to forecast the future—guessing what would occur tomorrow, next week, or next year. Life had taught me that things could go disastrously wrong within moments. But I also wasn’t prepared for chaos to win. There had to be structure and Arthur’s head injury was ruining that structure.
He’ll beat it.
We just had to be strong enough to weather all triumphs or tragedies that rested on our timeline.
Arthur ran a hand through his dark hair, pulling it back from his face. “I’m … better.” He smiled gently. “I made back the money I lost this morning. So yeah … I’m okay.” His voice was achingly soft. If I didn’t know him, I would believe his words. But I did know him, and his tone said he was still afraid.
Sitting upright, I scooted onto my knees. “Is there anything I can do?”
His eyes blazed with love. “You’re doing it. Just by being you.” His hands went to his belt. “I couldn’t ask for more.” His gaze latched on to my inner thighs as his fingers pulled the buckle aside, then unhooked the button of his fly.
I stopped breathing.
An electric storm brewed around us, tingling my scalp.
Drifting from my knees to all fours, I prowled to the bottom of the bed and stopped before him. Beckoning him closer with my finger, Arthur obeyed, coming to stand within touching distance.
We didn’t speak as I reached out and stilled his hand.
His skin scorched mine.
He sucked in a breath, turning to stone. “Cleo …”
Shaking my head, I pushed aside his grip.
His large chest rose as his arms dropped woodenly by his sides.
Silence wrapped around us like a blanket as I sat higher on my knees and ran my hands over the planes of his chest. The warm cotton of his T-shirt guided me under his cut, muscles bunching beneath my fingertips.
We match.
My heart skipped.
We wore the same emblem. A perfect mirror image. I was marked forever with his protection and commitment.
Never looking away from him, I bit my lip and pushed the heavy leather off his shoulders. The dense material slipped down his arms, catching on his large hands.
His lips parted as I tugged his hand forward, carefully freeing him so the cut fell to the floor.
We flinched at the soft slap of leather on carpet—the noise seeming to reach out and stroke us with hungry greed. Our breathing ratcheted as I followed the contours of his chest. Hills, valleys, indents, and ridges. Every inch of him impenetrable.
My mouth watered, intoxicated on his perfection. His five o’clock shadow, the long length of his hair, the way his eyes glimmered with acuity.
I never wanted anyone else. For as long as I lived.
Working my way downward, I sketched his stomach, loving the way he gasped and shivered.
He held his breath as my fingertips found his zipper. Ever so slowly, I tugged it south, never looking away from his eyes.
His trousers flared open—a welcome invitation. Sliding my hands around his narrow hips, I pushed the heavy denim down his legs.
His hands fisted by his side.
The urgency and need in his eyes crackled the air, but he didn’t reach for me. Didn’t try to touch me. Somehow, we wordlessly agreed that I was in charge. That I was in control of our tempo.
I wanted to take from him.
I wanted to give him something he’d never had before.
A secretive smile tugged my lips as I captured the hard length of his erection through his boxer briefs.
My breasts swelled, my nipples pebbling even harder. My knees wobbled as I ran my thumb over his crown, drawing a low groan from his chest. The sharp Vs of his stomach tightened as he gave himself into my power.
“God, Cleo …” His eyes snapped closed as I continued to press against the highly sensitive tip. Growing bold, I squeezed his girth. I wasn’t gentle. I was demanding.
My heart liquefied at the gift of touching him. “I want you, Art. So much.”
“You have me.” His voice was gravel.
“Don’t move.”
His eyes connected with mine, a slight question forming in their depths. But then … he nodded.