Pressing my hand to his, I meld it to my breast, holding him there, never planning to let him go. Pleasure splinters through me with each thrust of his cock, each moment he’s buried deep inside me. Sensation after sensation begins in my sex and rushes through nerve endings. I am lost in how he feels, how I feel, and I arch into him, my muscles clench around him, and then I can’t breathe. My orgasm takes me by surprise, enveloping me, consuming me. I rise to the top of it far too quickly and come down far too hard and fast, but just in time to feel Chris shudder, his body tensing with his release. He stills, burying his face in my neck, and his body slowly relaxes. For several moments he holds me there, and I’m not sure either of us breathes, let alone speaks or moves. I’m not sure what to say or do next.

Abruptly, he pulls out of me, and I don’t know why, but an unusual sense of complete, utter emptiness washes over me.

The “why” is answered when I start to turn to ind him already headed out of the elevator. I stare after him, knots balling in my stomach. Maybe I pushed the wrong buttons. Maybe I pushed him to far or too hard. Maybe I made a mistake.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

I’m sitting on a plane, heading back to San Francisco, and I’m nervous and excited. I’m not completely sure why I’m nervous and I’m going to spend some time on the light thinking about that. It’s not logical. Especially since I know why I’m so excited.

And it’s not just about going back to “him,” either.

It’s home. Traveling isn’t what I crave. Maybe one day I will.

Maybe one day I will want to see the world beyond the eyes of the many famous artists I admire. Right now, though, I need stability. I need what I can count on. I need a sense of who I am. I hope he is a part of who I am, but I think our time apart was good. As much as I missed him while I was away, as eager as I am to return to San Francisco, this trip helped me inish the process of inding myself again. Of knowing what it means to be Rebecca Mason, not just “his.”

I hope he and I truly will ind each other again. If he means what he promised, that things will be diferent, then maybe they will. If we don’t, though, I believe in myself enough again to be willing to leave him behind. This brings me back to the nerves. I guess I know what they’re about after all. If he and I are going to be together, we have to deine what that means. I’m not sure he can be himself when I’m truly me, but I have to know. And, I think, so does he.

Eleven

Staring after Chris, it takes me all of sixty seconds to decide that being half na**d is not the best way to pursue him and demand a conversation. I need a bathroom to pull myself together irst.

I stuf my pants and boots in a shopping bag, gather the rest of my haul along with my purse, and go into the hallway. Rushing toward the bedroom, all too aware of my na**d backside I worry Chris will be there waiting for me and I’ll be at a disad-vantage. Pulse racing, I enter an empty room. The relief I expect to feel is no more in sight than Chris. What if he left the house through the front door? Where would he go? When would he return? And why am I worrying, when he might simply be somewhere else in the house?

By the time I’m dressed, I’m at the top of a curve on a roller-coaster ride of emotions that started the day I met Chris and has yet to end. The room is empty without him, and my mind is already going wild with the possibility of inding him gone. I tell myself it will mean nothing; he’ll be back. We’ll be okay. He thinks I betrayed him by going to the Script, which hurts, but I think he’s hurting, too. The idea of hurting him when he’s lived a lifetime of pain is too much to bear.

I dart for the hallway and all but run up the stairs leading to the upper level of the house—the location of Chris’s studio, which he’d planned to show me tonight. If he’s still home, my instincts tell me, he’ll be there. At the top of the landing I discover two halls leading left and right, but the towering, castle-like silver arched doorways are what hold me spellbound—but not just for the unique artistic statement they make. For the unique artist I just know is beyond them. A sharp twist tightens my belly. This is his castle and, like my new home, I’d wanted to explore it in a positive moment, not in the midst of emotional havoc.

Creaking open the door, I ind towering ceilings and darkness pierced only by the warm glow of natural moonlight radiating from a window or skylight. Awareness ills me instantly and I feel Chris before I see him, his presence pouring through me like warm sunshine on a cold, lonely day.

As I step fully into the shadows, my attention is riveted to where Chris is leaning with one hand on the wall, his back to me, looking out of a ceiling-to-loor archway window resembling the doors behind me. He doesn’t turn or speak, but the subtle shift in the air tells me he’s aware that I’m here.

My hesitation is a brief moment before I dart forward. I simply don’t have it in me to ride this emotional roller coaster for a few more turns, and I’m not sure Chris does, either. My impatience to end the tension between us is so extreme that I don’t stop when I’m right behind him. I place myself in the small space between him and the wall and blink up at him.

He stares down at me, his lashes a veil shielding his eyes, and he says nothing, does nothing. I know this man as I have never known another human being, and he’s waiting for me to say or do the right or wrong thing. And the only right thing I know is to be honest.

I close the small space between us and settle my hands on his waist, relieved when he lets me. Unsurprised when he doesn’t touch me. “You asked me to hear you out last night.

Now I’m asking you to do the same of me. I didn’t intend to go to the Script.”

“And yet you did.”

His tone is lat, hard, but at least he’s talking. “I went to Starbucks, not Amber’s place.”

“And the temptation to go next door was too much.”

“I won’t lie and say I wasn’t tempted to discover what was inside.” My hand moves to his arm, splaying over his dragon.

“This is part of you, and I don’t know why, but it feels almost a part of us. Yet she created it. So yes. I’m curious about her and it, and I don’t even know if it was done at the Script.”

“It wasn’t. And if you want to know about my past, you ask me.”

My hand lexes on his arm, and I have to warn myself to ight one battle at a time. He says ask him, but he gives me pieces, not complete stories. “I didn’t ask her about you. Not one single question.”

“We both know you don’t have to. She’s more than eager to share her version of who I am.”

“I, of all people, understand where you’re coming from. I remember how much I needed to tell you my past in my way.

Michael stole that from me by showing up at the charity event.

I won’t do that to you.”

His hand goes to my wrist at his waist and I’m certain he’s thinking about removing it. “Apparently that memory didn’t dissuade you, considering you went inside anyway. And you knew she’d open up doors I wasn’t ready to open.”

My ingers curl around his shirt, clinging to the material and with it, him. “That’s not true. Or it is, but that’s not what I was thinking at the time. She came outside as I was walking away. I felt trapped. She tried to intimidate me, Chris. If she’s going to be around, and clearly she is, I felt I couldn’t show her any sign of weakness.”

“So you disregarded how much I don’t want you there.” It’s not a question.

“You never said you didn’t want me there.”

His eyes turn as steely as his voice. “I didn’t have to. You knew, Sara.”

He’s right. I knew. “I was weak.” I feel my bottom lip tremble and my chest feels like it’s going to cave in. “I should have walked away.”

“Yes.” He reaches down and drags my hands from where they rest to settle them between us. “You should have.”

“I tried. I just . . . I had one of those ‘who has the bigger, ah, sword’ encounters you and Mark have but deny.” This half joke gets me nothing. He just keeps staring at me with hard eyes.

I drop my head to his chest, knowing what I haven’t said and have to admit. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this out loud.” I draw a breath and force my chin up. “Right or wrong, I needed her to know I could and would protect what is mine.”

Seconds tick by before he softly asks, “Which is what, Sara?”

The husky quality to his voice gives me courage. “You,” I whisper. “I needed her to know you belong to me now.”

He studies me for what feels like an eternity, not denying or conirming my claim. His expression is still so damn unreadable. I am going insane waiting on his reply until inally he asks, “That’s why you went inside?”

“Yes, it is. I just . . . couldn’t help myself.”

Slowly, the corners of his mouth lift and his body relaxes.

A moment later, his strong arms wrap around me and he buries his face in my neck, the earthy, wonderful scent of him tickling my nose. “I love you, woman.” He strokes my hair from my face and leans back to stare down at me. “And you can claim me as yours any day of the week. I plan to claim you.”

“You’re not upset anymore?”

“If it had been Mark, I’d have done the same damn thing.”

I scowl. “If? You did do the same damn thing on numerous occasions.”

He laughs. “Okay. Maybe I did.” His hands settle possessively on my hips. “Remember. I do own you, baby.”

“In bed,” I amend. “The rest of the time, I own me.” I smile.

“And you.”

He grins. “I suggest we debate both points after dinner.” He pauses for efect. “In bed.”

Thirty minutes later Chris and I are sitting side by side, our legs molded intimately together, in a surprisingly spacious Mexican restaurant at a table for four, rather than a saucer-sized table for two. Apparently seating two people at a larger table is some kind of cardinal sin in Paris—unless the price is right. Chris tipped the waiter what I assume was a healthy chunk of change and we scored our happy seat.

Finishing of a chip, I am rather impressed with the food.

“If the meal’s as good as the salsa, I’m going to be a happy girl.”

“It is,” Chris assures me. “I told you. I know all the American hot spots.”

I lean against the wall, angling my body in his direction and he faces me as well, setting a hand on my knee. “Does inding the American hot spots keep you from missing the States?” I ask.

“Spending a lot of time in the States keeps me from missing the States.”

My curiosity over his desire to be in Paris continues. “How much time do you spend here versus in San Francisco?”

“It depends on my charity commitments.”

An unpleasant thought hits me. “If I get a job here and you have commitments in the States, I’ll have to stay here without you.”

He sets his beer down and settles both his hands on my knees. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you, Sara, which is why I suggested you start your own art business. Call me selish, but I’d like you to travel with me. I also don’t want to pressure you to do anything but what you want to do. If you want a job in the art industry here, or anywhere for that matter, I have no doubt your love and knowledge of art, along with your charm, will allow you to get whatever job you want.”

Hearing Chris Merit say this about me is an amazing feeling. Yes, he’s the man in my life, but he is also a brilliant, respected artist who doesn’t give away meaningless compliments.

“Thank you, Chris.”

“Thank you?” His brow furrows and he takes my hand.

“For what?”

I brush a wispy strand of blond hair from the healing cut on his forehead and repeat what I’d told him at the airport. “For believing in me, but most of all for being you.”

There is a lash of some unreadable emotion in his eyes; then his deliciously sexy mouth, which I can think of any number of ways to put to use, curves into a smile. “I like it when you say that.”

“I like that you want me with you. And I’m excited about the idea of starting my own business and, despite lying, traveling with you.”

His smile is brilliant, free of any conlicting emotions.

“You’ll get used to lying, and I have no doubt you’ll make your business a huge success.”

He’s happy. Happy that we’ll have more time together, and happy for me to have a career of my own. I wasn’t wrong to come here with him. I was more right than I’ve ever been about anything in my life.

“I ran the business idea by the attorney today,” he continues.

“You just need to call him and do the basic setup.”

Attorney. I stifen, remembering Ava’s accusations against me.

I have no idea why I need a reminder, how anyone puts this kind of thing aside for any amount of time. But I have and I did.

It’s like my mind turns certain things on and of at certain times, to keep me from going into overload. I swallow hard. “The same attorney who’s talking to the police for me?”

“No. Two diferent people, but I talked to both today.”

My heart begins to race. “Why didn’t you tell me? Did he talk to the police yet? Do I have to go back to the States? Please tell me you aren’t trying to protect me from some epic melt-down, because—”

He kisses me, his warm lips lingering on mine for several seconds, and miraculously my heartbeat begins to slow. “Easy, baby,” he murmurs. “Everything is ine. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. Stephen and the detective played phone tag all day. He called me just before I went to pick you up at the Script, and they have a phone conference in about an hour. Stephen’s going to contact us afterward.”