I press my hands against his chest, feeling firm muscle against my fingernails.
And I block—him—out…
Fuck.
The orgasm hits me, and nothing else exists or matters. I squeeze my legs tightly around his hand, trapping him there. He leans down and kisses my cheek softly. I shudder and tremble all over, breaking for him, then pull away.
Because he still won’t leave my head. And without a white-hot orgasm to focus on, the memories are harder to avoid. It’s so unfair. The two are nothing alike, a million miles apart.
Rhett moves down the bed, eyes fixed on me. Then he stands slowly and walks to the window.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, still shaking.
His shoulders tense, thick fingers curling into fists. Then he forces himself to relax. “You don’t need to apologize,” he snarls. “I know it must be… Well, it can be difficult.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, drawing my knees to my chest.
“I just need a minute.” He laughs darkly. “You’re like a… hell, Elle.”
“What?” I whisper.
“A fucking spell,” he groans.
Something like victory grips me, and I resist the real urge to do a little dance. I wish emotions were simple. I wish I could bejusttrapped in the past orjustinsanely proud that I make him lose control like that. Not confusingly both.
“It wasn’t you,” I tell him.
“You don’t have to explain.” He turns and sits on the edge of the bed.
“Will you hold me?” I ask softly. Maybe that would be okay, be enough for now. But also, maybe he’s a guy with hot blood andneeds,and he’s going to try something.
“I’ll hold you all night long,” he says huskily. “Just ignore the shaking. That’s me hanging on for dear life.” His tone is ironic,but the words land as if they’re real, as if he means them. “Come here, Sunshine.”
He lies on the bed. I shuffle closer to him, wincing as images of Lucian punch into my mind. I lay my head against Rhett’s chest and listen to his heartbeat as it thuds against my ear.
I should tell him. But I don’t want to talk about that, not now, not ever.
His fingers swirl through my hair, sending a tingling sensation through my body. “Elle,” he says, his tone heavy.
“Yeah?” My voice comes out sleepy. I didn’t expect to feel so relaxed so fast, but his warm arms are like thick blankets, and his bulk is like a fortress.
He clears his throat. “I know.”
“You know what?”
“I… I know,” he says, letting his words hang there.
It takes me a moment, but then it finally hits me. So hard I almost pull away from him.
Heknows. About Lucian. About my tragedy.
Did he look me up? Or did someone recognize me and say something to him? Maybe he saw the newspaper article somehow.
“You know,” I repeat.
He squeezes me tightly against him. “I can explain.”
I do something strange, or maybe it’s not strange. It’s probably what Mira, and I did after what happened to Mom and Dad. Ibuild a box in record time, label it Pandora’s, then shove all my messy crap in there.
