Several heavy seconds pass and I swear I can hear the hand on his watch tick, before he asks, “Did you want to go home, Sara?”

His question takes me off guard and I have no idea how to answer. I am officially off-kilter. Had I? Well no. I’d been thoroughly pleasured and I’d all but passed out from pure female bliss. Would I have, had I woken up sooner? No. I wasn’t in any rush to leave Chris, but I’m afraid Mister ‘I’m Not The Guy You Take Home To Mom And Dad’ will overreact to such a confession. “I…don’t know.”

“I didn’t.” His voice is soft, and he scrubs his face and looks upset by this declaration, before contradicting his own reaction by looking me in the eyes and clearly stating, “I didn’t want you to go home, Sara.”

I am confused and happy by this news, but…wait. I shouldn’t be happy. Should I? This is a fling, an affair, and he will jet off to Paris and we will be history. I’m supposed to be living for the moment, enjoying what I can, keeping it light.

“You didn’t want me to go?” I ask, unable to stop myself from seeking confirmation, from craving more from this man — the question is ‘more’ what? Pleasure, I promise myself. This is about pleasure.

He studies me for such a long time; I fear I might ramble again, but thankfully, he saves us both my undoing. “I don’t bring women to my apartment, Sara,” he informs me, his tone hard, gravelly, almost angry. “I don’t have sex without condoms and I don’t ask about their pasts. And I sure as hell don’t talk about mine.”

Of all the things he’s just said, I hone in on the one of the least consequences considering I’m supposed to be trying to keep this about a sexy fling. Nevertheless, I do it anyway. My brows furrow. Is he really inferring he’s talked to me about his past? Because if he is, and he considers what he’s told me about, then I assume any real information I might garner would be downright criminal.

I study him and there is a fizzle of discomfort expanding and taking shape inside me. He seems really upset, as if…is he blaming me for making him do things he doesn’t want to do? He is. I can see it in his face. Oh good gosh. He’s blaming me. A hot spot in the center of my chest begins to burn.

I drop my feet and clutch the blanket. “I should go.”

“Please don’t.” His voice is soft, but it halts me with the raw vulnerability in its depths. There is true distress etched in his handsome face, as I imagine I must have on mine as well.

“You’re confusing me, Chris.”

“That makes two of us, baby,” he says, and pushes off the window. “Give me just a minute.” And just like that, he heads past me and up the sunken living room stairs, leaving me where I’m sitting.

What? Where is he going? I twist to watch him disappear down a hallway. Brows furrowed all over again, I face forward and search for my clothes without luck. His shirt isn’t anywhere nearby either. I’m captive. I can’t leave. Do I want to leave? I think maybe I should. Or maybe I shouldn’t. This man has me in in a whirlwind of…feelings? Emotions? Passion. That’s a safe word. Or is it?

Footsteps sound behind me and Chris hurries down the steps and is in front of me in a snap. He is squatting in front of me, close, and he smells woodsy and fresh and to my complete surprise he is sliding a navy cotton robe about three sizes too big around my shoulders. There is a protective quality to his actions and I am not sure I have ever felt more delicately female than in this moment. Never safer than with a man who is virtually a complete stranger, never with a man I’d almost called my husband. The rightness of this man and of walking away from my past, resonates through me. That decision brought me here.

I’m still clutching the blanket and Chris glances down and back up, wordlessly urging me to let it fall. A low burn is expanding in my belly, sliding through my limbs. I want him. I want him in a way I barely recognize as within the realm of my capacity.

Our eyes lock and hold and I see the shadows in the depths of his stare, and I think…I think he’s letting me. My chest tightens with this realization, this certainty. I let the blanket slide into his hands, and I am na**d, but I feel as if he is na**d, too. I never bring women to my apartment. There is something happening between us and I pray I was wrong last night. I pray it’s not the beginning of two damaged people tearing each other apart. Some part of me needs Chris. Maybe we need each other.

Eternal seconds pass, and we don’t move, don’t speak. His gaze drops, sliding slowly, hotly over my breasts. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, a husky tormented quality to his voice that says more than the compliment.

I am shaken by the rush of emotion his words send through me. Yes. Oh yes. There is definitely something happening between us, something rich with promise, and ripe with potential heartache, but I can’t seem to care. My hand goes to his hair, stroking it, urging him to come to me, to be with me.

“Put your arms in, baby,” he orders, and I sense his struggle, some internal battle that tells him not to touch me. I do as he commands and he pulls the robe shut and ties it.

He looks at me then, and he’s found a place to bank whatever he was feeling. His eyes are lighter, his mood seemingly cooler. “I make a mean omelet. Are you hungry?”

His shift in mood flits through me without much resistance on my part. I’ve seen this in Chris several times before, and I’m coming to expect it. Being able to make him smile holds growing appeal.

I smile. “You’re always feeding me.”

“And yet we never seem to finish a meal.” He rotates slightly to indicate the pizza boxes on the table behind him. “We didn’t do the pizza justice.”

“No and you were right. It was really good.”

His lips quirk. “In our defense we had other things on our minds.” He doesn’t give me time to blush and remarkably, considering what I’ve already done with this man, I would have. He pushes to his feet and pulls me with him, towering over me, and reminding me how big he is, and why the sleeves of his robe swallow my hands.

“I’ll cook if you make coffee,” he bargains.

“I’ll take that deal if I can find my hands.” I hold them up and they are lost in navy cotton cloth.

He laughs and starts rolling one of the sleeves up. “You’re melting away. Another reason to feed you. How’s your head this morning?”

“If you mean from the wine, apparently I’m fine.” I can’t resist teasing him. “And I guess you weren’t worried about taking advantage of me when I was intoxicated?”

He doesn’t laugh as I’d hoped. His hand freezes on my sleeve and his gaze lifts. “I’m no saint, Sara. I’ve told you that.”

“Yes,” I agree tartly. “You have. Repeatedly.”

“But you won’t listen.”

“I’ve heard every word you’ve said.”

“Maybe I haven’t said enough.”

Exactly, I think. “You haven’t said anything besides stay away and don’t go.”

His brows dip a moment before his lips curve into a smile. “You don’t mince words, do you?”

“Not with you it seems. Or…hmmm…when I’m drinking.” I cringe with the memory of the night before. “The wine got the best of me after you left last night. I marched up to Mark and told him that I didn’t want to be involved in whatever your…well…” I press my fingers to my forehead. “I can’t believe I said this.”

His brows lift. “Now you’ve got me curious.”

I drop my hand and dare to repeat the out-of-character words I’d spoken. “I told him I don’t want to get in between whatever the ‘cock-fight’ is you two have with each other.”

Chris barks out laugher. “I would have loved to have seen both of your faces when you blurted that one out.” He motions toward the kitchen. “Come. I need to feed you, woman.” He reaches for the pizza box, apparently without any plan to explain or deny the ‘cock-fight’. Why? What is it with these two?

“Bathroom,” I say, pointing the direction of the room I’d used the night before. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

He grabs me and pulls me close, his breath trickling warmth on mine, “Just so we’re clear, Sara. There is no in between.” The air crackles with electricity, and I am sure he will kiss me and I burn for a taste of him. My body quakes inside and out. Please. Now. Kiss me.

I am hanging on a thread when he turns me to the bathroom before smacking me on the ass. I yelp with the unexpected swat, and unbidden, with a rush of heat and memory of him doing the same thing the night before to my bare butt. His lips press near my ear. “Go now. It’s never a good idea to keep a starving man waiting, Sara. You’d be good to remember that.”

I suck in a breath and have no idea why, but I launch myself into action, as if I must follow his command, stopping only to grab my purse when I spot it on the ground. He is still behind me, watching me, tracking my every move. Every inch of me is tingling and warm with awareness, responding to his hot gaze, responding to his words, to his touch. Why is his hand on my backside so damn erotic? How can Chris redefine everything I know of myself in a matter of days? And what the heck did he mean ‘there is no in between’?

Chapter Nineteen

Shutting myself inside the bathroom, I lean against the door and let out a breath, replaying Chris’s whispered warning. It’s never a good idea to keep a starving man waiting, Sara. Another one of his warnings lurks in the depths of the sensual promise of some kind of erotic punishment if I don’t hurry up and…well, I don’t know what, but I’m pretty sure I want to keep him waiting and find out. My lips tilt up. He really is doing a poor job of scaring me away. Mark’s big on punishment. Unbidden, and with a sharp twist in my gut, Amanda’s words come to my mind. For the first time since the wine had fed my boldness with my new boss, a cold blast of proverbial ice water douses the sizzling heat Chris has coursing through my veins. While Mark had agreed money was king and I was secure, I’m worried. Will I be punished? Have I ruined my chance at Riptide? My chance at a future when this fling with Chris ends?

Confusion twists inside me. Chris has ensured I have a nest egg I can use to create a future in the field I love, but he’s also potentially jeopardized the opportunity already before me. How do I thank him — and I need to - while I also ensure he doesn’t cross the same line again? I’m clueless, truly clueless, and it seems an impossible balancing act, while I’m in Chris’s apartment, in his robe, and wishing we were both na**d again. I have only one real option. Enjoy having breakfast cooked for me by this sexy brilliant painter, and look for the right opportunity to bring this all up. I have to find one because I have to thank him for the commission he’s ensured I will receive.

I inhale and let it out, facing the truth deep inside me that I suppress all too frequently. While I’ve accepted life with limited resources, the chance to have some money, to chase my dream, is exciting. I’m almost afraid to believe it’s true until I have the money. And Chris…Chris did this for me. I owe him more than a verbal thank you, and I can think of all kinds of ways I’d like to say thank you. If he’ll let me. For someone who comes off so friendly and warm, the true Chris is cautious and guarded.

Suddenly, I am eager to find my way back to my complicated artist - well, mine if only for a while — and I shove off of the door and look at myself in the mirror. Oh good gosh, I look like a creature from ‘Fright Night’. My hair is a wild mess, and my makeup is non-existent except for mascara smudged under my eyes. Great. I’m with the hottest man I’ve ever known and raccoons have crawled through my hair and settled under my eyes. And I’ve spent so much time thinking, Chris is going to come looking for me.

Digging through my purse, I search for my brush, and freeze at the sight of one of Rebecca’s journals. I swallow hard as I remember the exact entry inside that I’d awakened dreaming about this morning. No. More like reliving. I swallow hard at how vividly I’d conjured another woman’s words into fantasy while Chris stood nearby, perhaps overhearing my sighs, moans, and who knew what else.

With a deep breath, I snatch the journal and set it on the counter, staring at it, barely containing the urge to read the entry in question. Every time I re-read a page, the content becomes more meaningful, and pieces of the Rebecca puzzle fall into place. I ignore the idea, snatching my brush.

Quickly, I run it through my hair, and consider applying makeup before settling for rinsing my face and applying some moisturizer. Make up would look like I’m trying too hard. I think of the kiss I’d craved from Chris and been denied and the urge to brush my teeth is intense. Out of desperation, I decide to use my finger and water on my teeth. Surprise, surprise. It’s a wasted effort. I have no toothpaste. I grab some tissue and scrub my teeth before rinsing again.

Without much more ado, I give up, and exit the bathroom. Stopping by the coffee table, I drop my purse and grab the plates and the drink cups we’d left there. Loaded up, I head toward the kitchen that thus far is producing no promising scent of cooking food.

I pass the archway between the living room and the kitchen and don’t see Chris, but there is a massive rectangular island counter of grey and black marble with gorgeous grey wooden shelves above and below it. I follow the sound of movement toward a corner to the right, which appears to be a part of an ‘L’ shaped room, but not without being distracted by the hollowed oval eating nook surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and more of the breathtaking view of the city. I love this kitchen. I love this entire apartment so far.