Every muscle in Vaughn’s body is taut, his teeth clench tight. “It’s not you? In those pictures? It’s really not you?”
“No, Montgomery, you fucking moron. It isn’t,” I say in a huff.
Without warning, Vaughn lunges forward, arms up, reaching behind me. His hands slam over the surface of the bureau so hard the mirrored wall attached to it cracks and splinters. Everything on the cabinet gets swiped away violently, until his hands get a hold of the bag of rice I placed there when I first came in to change.
He’s trying to get my phone.
The bag explodes with a pop. White rice rains down everywhere.
I suck back an audible gasp and try to jerk the bag away. “Are you crazy?” I scream.
Vaughn pulls one way on the bag; I pull the other.
Rice spatters across my face. It fills my mouth and flies into my eyes, but I keep my grip on that damn plastic rice bag with all my strength.
“Let go,” he growls, wrenching the bag into his chest.
“Fine!” I grunt, letting go. He stumbles back into the wardrobe and I laugh at his stunned expression. I’ve checked the phone three times since he buried it in the rice, it hasn’t turned on once. I highly doubt that archaic device will ever be usable again. He can have it. It’ll make a great paperweight.
He twists away, and turns his back on me, taking the phone from my view.
I’m going to laugh in his face when it doesn’t go on. Like a madwoman. I’m going to bust out a little jig and point and whoop and howl.
Vaughn’s head is still tilted down toward his hands.
Why is this taking so long? He should be just staring at a broken phone that won’t go on. That shouldn’t take all this time!
Then his body slowly spins back around facing me. He looks down at the phone, up to my eyes, back down to the phone. This happens over and over,because of course my phone would work for him.
A heaviness settles at the bottom of my belly as I watch and wait.
His head snaps up, his steel gaze piercing right through me.
My heart starts beating too fast. My breathing becomes a ragged, shaky mess.
A dark expression flashes across his face that sends an explosion of heat rattling through my chest.
The next second he’s on me, hands grabbing and yanking at the hem of my shirt.
“Vaughn!” I scream, shoving at his shoulders and arms. “Get away from me.”
With one hand, he fists my shirt tight against my stomach, then gazes down into my eyes. “Stop fighting me.”
He reaches his other hand out, slow and gentle. He’s not trying to hurt or scare me. I can tell by the heat in his eyes, he’s pleading with me, looking for the truth. That’s all I can guess, I’m just not sure how he thinks he’ll find any answer.
His fingers reach the button of my jeans and he pauses, his breath catching.
“Vaughn,” I warn.
The hand balled in my top pulls me tight against his body. He’s got me so trapped in the material I have no choice but to lean into him. His muscles are tense, his heart thrumming wildly.
“I can remember every inch of your body, Claire. Your smell. Your taste.” His voice is a straggled whisper.
“Good for you. Now, get your hands off me before I bite you until I taste blood,” I threaten.
“You had a birthmark,” he continues without missing a beat.
“I still do,” I say, suddenly understanding what he’s after. I’m divided between wanting to show him and letting him wonder for rest of his life.
