Maybe I could try some Sanskrit chants?
‘Knickers.’ My eyes spring open. Easier said than done today. ‘Come on, Nige,’ I say, abandoning my bags. ‘Let’s go see what else hasn’t changed.’
The smell of home assails me as I enter the great room. A familiar scent I’d somehow forgotten, so it’s all the more shocking to be enveloped by it. It’s something intrinsic to the house itself; years of beeswax polish mixed with the perfume of the garden—jasmine and gardenia. I loved this room—from the dark beamed ceilings and floors to the massive stone fireplace it was rarely ever cold enough to light.By my Scottish standards, anyway.Pale sofas, carved end tables, and Turkish kilim rugs. Plates and dishes. Frames and art. All these things chosen with love to fill a home I once loved.With a man I once adored.
I squeeze my eyes, hooking my arm around one of the turned colonnades flanking the archway while trying to force a good, hard cry.Wonder how much tears weigh?I reckon I’ve put on at least three pounds in tear retention since leaving LA.
Oh, God, I’m so very, very . . . ‘Fucked.’ The word is little more than a whisper expelled on a harsh breath.
‘Right there, as I recall. Epically.’
I squeeze my eyes tighter at the sound of those smooth bass tones, my mind fighting the images his words create; of the time I’d hung onto this very post as he’d demanded Iget there,his dirty promises filling my ears as he’d pounded me from behind.
I should’ve known. Should’ve anticipated he’d be here.I purse my lips against the things I want desperately not to say—the angry and the intimate. Things I have no license to utter today.All the things I don’t want him to hear. Regret. Shame.
My body begins to tremble at the muted sound of his bare feet against the tile—a slow progression, almost as though he draws closer only because compelled, reluctant because he knows he shouldn’t feel the draw.
This is a sentiment I recognise like my own name.
Should’ve known.
Should’ve anticipated.
Should’ve answered that letter a different way.
‘I’m pretty sure the wood still bears your nail marks.’
Though I try to keep my eyes closed, they flutter open at the pull of his voice. Finding him standing less than a foot away, his arms are stretched high, his fingers touching the top of the archway. It still hurts to look at him. At how beautiful he is. Lean like a rock climber, he’s all angles and planes, and my eyes can’t help but map the contours of his bare arms as, inexplicably, my fingers itch to do the same. To trace the trail of dark hair peeking from the hem of his dark t-shirt. To run my hands over the ridges of his abs to his penny-coloured nipples and—
‘Cat got your tongue, baby?’
My cheeks redden as my eyes snap to his face. Embarrassment is the least of my worries, my thoughts falling away. Tall, dark, and handsome doesn’t even touch this man—high, ruddy cheekbones, a mop of not-quite-black hair, and eyes a shade of green as changeable as the sea. Eyes that are, right now, a muted, stormy green.
He lowers his arms, one hand reaching out, ghosting my cheek. Unprepared and suddenly empty, I lean into it, immediately regretting the motion.
‘You brought me back to reminisce? Really?’ My stomach twists along with this bitterness, but being a bitch is the only way I can deal with him and retain my sanity. ‘And you have my dog,’ I spit, leaning away—away from his body. Away from the scent of him.
It’s not so much a smile as a cynical twist of his mouth as his hand drops. ‘Seven months and that’s all you have to say?’
‘Oh, I have plenty I want to say,’ I snap immediately. ‘You told me you’d gotten rid of him!’
‘I believe I said rehomed.’ A line of tension sits between his brows; I’m going to take it as guilt.
‘Yet here he is.’ One hand on my hip, I find myself using the other like some sarcastic game show model, indicating the scruffy mutt by my side. ‘Do you know how I’ve suffered, worrying about him? Wondering if he was okay—if his new owners were good to him? If you’d killed him.’ I regret this the instant it’s out of my mouth.
‘The fucking dog.’ One minute, his hands in the air, his movements jerky—what the fuckhands—and the next, they’re on his cheeks. ‘The fucking dog she worries about; but of the husband she left behind, not a fucking thing. Haven’t you wondered about me? Worriedhow Iwas doing?’
He steps into me; his fingers tight on my arm as the smell of his cologne assaults my senses, taking me back to another time. Another time in the archway, my fingers clasping the wood as we made love. As we fucked. And that’s the beauty of it; even when we were fucking, we were making love.
Dylan’s nostrils flare, his gaze following the path of my own; he knows where I’ve gone, and his anger softens. ‘Don’t you have anything to say to me? Aren’t you glad to be back,Edera?’ he asks gently. Softness spoken from his mouth contradicts the hardness from his eyes. I close my own, and purse my lips for good measure. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ he asks, his tone now cold and cynical.
I shake my head, fighting against tears as he steps closer still, pressing his hard body against mine.
‘I’m here for only one thing.’ Well, two now. I want my dog back, but I’m not giving him any warning.
‘All that matters is you’re here.’ His cheek caresses mine as he leans his lips to my ear. ‘Welcome home,Edera Velenosa.’ My Poison Ivy.
Chapter Seven
