Theodore was many things, but the idea of him actively participating in the abuse of women doesn’t fit. He probably wouldn’t care if he knew about Marshall’s activities. However, I have to believe that he wouldn’t protect him if he saw Marshallas a liability to Townsen Industries. My father is the kind of man who would cut you loose in the middle of an ocean with no life vest if you were dragging him down. He’s ruthless, and for once, I’m counting on it.
Around midnight, I close my laptop and slip on a cotton T-shirt and flannel bottoms. I crawl under my heated blanket, seeking comfort from the day, and set the timer for an hour so I don’t overheat. At some point, I drift off, only to stir awake a short time later by a soft knock on my bedroom door. I know it’s Chaz. He’s the only one with a key. And on some level, I’ve been expecting him.
Sliding out of bed, I pad across the room, my pulse picking up as I reach for the knob. When I open the door, he’s standing there—softly illuminated by the streetlight glow slipping through the curtains. He looks worn, drained, with his shoulders slumped. The usual spark in his eyes is dimmed, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.
“I woke you,” he says, voice rough with exhaustion.
“It’s okay.” I step back, silently inviting him in.
He hesitates, dragging a hand down his face. “I tried knocking on the front door, but you didn’t answer. I should have left, but I couldn’t,” he says like he’s still half in his own head, debating if he should be here.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Is Sophia?—”
“She’s okay. Sleeping.”
“And you couldn’t?”
His exhale is heavy. “I tried. I tried shutting it all off, but I’m so fucked up.” His gaze moves over me in the semi-darkness. “And the craziest thing is that all I could think about—all I wanted—was you.”
Everything in me splinters. I reach for him. “I’m here.”
The next breath, he’s in my arms. Solid, warm, pressing against me as I hold him tight. He smells like soap and Chaz. Myfingers clutch at the fabric of his T-shirt, trembling as I stroke his back.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, my whole being aching for him. I kiss his jaw, the column of his throat, every place my lips can reach, squeezing him tight. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“Shh.” His breath is hot against my ear. “I just need you,” he rasps.
And then we’re on the bed. His hands explore my sides from rib to waist, restless and urgent. “Christ, I missed you.” His mouth crashes down on mine. The kiss is deep and ravenous—a pulsating collision of passion and need. His hands go to the back of my thighs, gripping, spreading my legs wider. He rocks against me, the hard ridge of his erection pressing into the seam of my pajama bottoms, feeding me his desperate breaths and groans.
I swallow them all as his hips flex, exploiting the friction and driving me wild. Each skillful grind spikes the ever-simmering lust I have for him. He doesn’t even need to be inside me to push my body into a frenzy, but I want it. God, I want him to make love to me. I yearn for that ultimate connection. But our first time shouldn’t have any emotional barriers between us. It should be a merger of not just our bodies but our hearts in a celebration of love, commitment, and truth.
Then he’s moving down my torso and lower, dragging my bottoms off. His greedy tongue, quick and hot between my legs, licking and taking me higher and higher until I fly over the edge.
No words are spoken; it all happens hurried and desperate. I’m pulling him out, hard and thick, taking him deep in my mouth, hearing his groans, feeling his tight grip on my hair. He maneuvers us somehow, getting his mouth back on me, his fingers in me. We’re thrusting and sucking and groaning. It’s wet and messy. Our noises fill the room. He’s driving his tongue in and out of me, circling my clit with his fingers, and then I’mcoming, moaning in ecstatic pleasure as he shudders and curses and fills my mouth with his release.
We’re still pulsing against each other when my head clears. I didn’t intend for any of that to happen, but the minute I touched her, smelled her skin, felt her soft hands on me—it was like there was a streak of gasoline between us. One strike of the match was all it took to catch fire and spread out of control.
Fuck!
I slip wetly from her mouth. And she lifts off my face, leaving her taste on my lips.
Fuck!
I stare up at the ceiling as she shifts around to snuggle into my side, her arm sliding across my chest. She kisses my neck, sighing against my skin, her body melting into mine.
Fuck!
I wish everything outside of this could disappear. But reality is relentless. No matter how perfect she feels, no matter how much I want to freeze time, the betrayal pushes in, filling the stretch of silence. I ease away, though there’s no delicate way to do it. Then, I head to the bathroom, cursing myself for letting this happen. I feel like a dick for taking pleasure in her body when I’m still hurt and angry. It solved nothing—only left me feeling even more conflicted.
Turning on the tap, I wipe myself and pull my sweats back up. How the fuck do I even face her?I pause with my hand on the door, bracing myself, then open it.
The side table lamp is on. She’s put on a hoodie and her glasses, standing at the window overlooking the harbor, her legs bare, her hair sexily mussed.
“Was that to punish me?” she asks. Her voice is tinged with sadness, but her gaze simmers as it searches mine. “Did you pull me back in just to push me away?”
Christ. “That’s not what I was doing.”
“What then?” she presses.
