"Sutton," he says after a moment. "And you are?"
I hesitate. If I give him my real name and Raymond comes looking...
"Cecily," I say anyway, because lying feels pointless somehow. As if this man—Sutton—would see through any falsehood.
He nods once, as if confirming something to himself. "Cecily," he repeats, my name sounding different in his mouth, weighted with something I don't understand. "Stay here."
He disappears down a hallway, leaving me standing awkwardly in his living room. I should move, should look for a phone, should do something other than stand here shivering, but my body refuses to cooperate. The warmth of the room is seeping into me slowly, making me aware of just how cold I am, just how exhausted.
Sutton returns carrying a large, fluffy towel and what looks like a bundle of clothes. He approaches me slowly, as if I'm a wild animal he doesn't want to startle.
"Here," he says, holding out the towel. "Dry yourself."
I reach for it, and our fingers brush—a brief, electric contact that sends a shiver through me that has nothing to do with the cold. I clutch the towel to my chest like a shield.
"Thank you," I manage.
He doesn't move away. Instead, he reaches out and takes the corner of the towel from my grip, then slowly, deliberately, lifts it to my hair. I freeze as he begins to gently dry the soaking strands, his movements surprisingly tender.
"Why are you helping me?" I ask, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
His hands pause for the briefest moment before continuing their gentle ministrations. "Because you were standing in the rain looking lost, and I don't like seeing beautiful things ruined."
The words send a confusing tangle of emotions through me—flattery, wariness, a strange flutter in my stomach. He thinks I'm beautiful? Even like this, bedraggled and desperate?
"I can't pay you back," I say, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "I don't have any money."
His hands still completely this time, and when I risk a glance up at his face, there's something dark and hungry in his expression that makes my breath catch.
"I'm not interested in your money, Cecily."
The way he says it—low, almost a growl—makes it clear that he's interested in something else entirely, and that realization should frighten me. Instead, it sends a hot pulse of something forbidden through my veins.
He steps back suddenly, as if needing to put distance between us. "The bathroom is down the hall, first door on the right. These should fit well enough." He holds out the clothes—what looks like a soft sweater and drawstring pants. "There's a robe on the hook. Take a hot shower, change, then come back out here."
I take the clothes, careful not to let our fingers touch again. "And then what?"
"And then we talk."
I nod, clutching the bundle to my chest, and make my way down the hall he indicated. The bathroom is as luxurious as the rest of the penthouse—all marble and glass, with a shower big enough for four people and deep soaking tub positioned to take advantage of the city view. I lock the door behind me, though I doubt a lock would stop a man like Sutton if he decided to come in.
The hot water is the closest thing to heaven I've felt in years. I stand under the spray until my skin pinks and the cold finally leaves my bones. I use his shampoo, his soap, surrounding myself in his scent—something expensive and masculine that makes my head swim a little. When I finally step out, I feel human again, though the gravity of my situation hasn't lessened.
I'm alone in a strange man's penthouse. A man who looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.
And yet, I don't feel the fear I should. Despite everything—despite running from one controlling man only to end up with another—there's something about Sutton that makes me feel...safe. Protected. It makes no sense, but my instincts have rarely led me wrong.
The clothes he gave me are soft and warm and far too big, but the drawstring on the pants keeps them from falling off entirely. I roll up the sleeves of the sweater, inhaling the scent embedded in the fabric. His scent.
When I finally emerge, my wet clothes bundled awkwardly in my arms, I find him in the kitchen area, his back to me as he doessomething at the counter. The domestic scene is so at odds with his powerful presence that it stops me in my tracks.
"Put those down anywhere," he says without turning around. "I'll have them cleaned."
I drop the bundle on a nearby chair, then hover uncertainly, unsure of what to do with myself in this strange man's space.
He turns then, holding two steaming mugs. "Tea," he explains, extending one toward me. "To warm you from the inside out."
I approach cautiously and take the mug, our fingers brushing again. This time, I'm sure the jolt between us isn't my imagination—his eyes darken, his jaw tightens.
