Chapter Sixty-One
The day breaks not, it is my heart.
He stands a stark silhouette framed by shadow, all but obscured by the brightest of sunlight streaming in through the window. His shirt, mostly unbuttoned and pulled carelessly from the waist of his pants, whispers as he moves closer, moves towards the bed.
Large. Looming. Drawing near.
My mind stirs from the thickness of sleep, heavy with the weight of my dreams, disorientation dragging at my consciousness as I struggle to comprehend where I am. Who I am, though I recognise him.
Kai.
I’d fallen asleep in his arms. Were things resolved? Did we talk at all?
Watching him from mostly closed lids, I lie still as my heart begins to stir with a mixture of desire and unease. Unease because it’s all coming back to me. We were on the beach, arguing; surfers and dog walkers slowing down as they passed to stare. Yes, I ran from Dubai—I’d admitted it, loud and adamant, but not for the reasons he’d claimed. I didn’t believe him—couldn’t allow myself to comprehend—that who I saw in his hotel suite couldn’t have been him.
Sophia, naked and on her knees in between Kai’s splayed thighs.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and I deserve it. I fought against my instinct to trust, telling myself he was no better than Shane, but if I’d been loud and adamant, then Kai was just the same. And angry, and hurt, and as convincing as hell. I knew he was telling the truth, but still needed convincing.
And then he’d proposed.
I know I have trust issues; it’s hardly surprising. But maybe I should trust myself more from now on, because this was something my heart answered, not my head.
My heart.
I’d thrown myself at him. Wrapped myself around him.
I’d said yes.
I rub my eyes, realising they’re a little swollen. Behind my closed lids, I sense his dark lashed gaze, still heavy on mine.
He’d wanted to talk about my reasons for leaving, and those for agreeing to marry him, when all I’d wanted to do was sleep. Retreat. I’d almost managed it in his car, as we’d left the beach. In the face of what had happened in Dubai, he’d promised me no hotel. No suites with sluts on their knees. Instead he’d brought me to a house, Sovereign Island, I think.
As he reaches the bed, I see clearly the signs of his tiredness, beyond the air of fatigue. His eyes are darkly circled. Tired eyes, yes, but with a gaze that’s cold. How golden can be anything but warm, I don’t know. What I do know is, the look on his face is one I don’t recognise.
My body starts as his words hit the air. In response, I murmur that I am, not that I need to, but for some reason I feel compelled to fill the space between us with something else.
The sun gleams in from the window behind him, cresting his head with a halo of light as he brushes his hand through my hair. Moving the wayward strands from my face, he rearranges the mass against the white pillow. But he doesn’t speak again, and beyond an intake of breath, I can’t find any words as he begins tracing my mouth with his thumb. Pulling gently at my bottom lip, his fingers drift down over my chin, to my neck. It’s such a soft, gentle caress, and in total contrast to his gaze. Almost detached, he watches me like I’m something of mild interest, some sort of specimen.
‘I have copies of my flight manifest.’ His voice is as soft as his eyes are not.
My mind works on delay, brain function still hampered by lack of sleep, by his presence, by this strangeness washing over him.
‘I said.’ I’m mesmerised by his mouth, how he enunciates excessively clearly. ‘I have copies of the manifest of my flight from Riyadh. Proof that what—who you saw, couldn’t have been me.’
As I lift my head from the pillow in an enquiring inch, his caressing hand opens, his fingers wrapping around my neck and pushing me back against the pillow.
My spine stiffens and I come fully awake quite suddenly. This isn’t a gentle touch, and it’s not like we’ve done this before. Abstract thoughts begin to fill my head—this isn’t an appropriate time for power games. Is this his attempt at make-up sex? Angry sex we’ve experience of, but this beast isn’t the same. For a start, he’s holding me by the neck. Carefully? A potential choke-hold?
Shouldn’t our reconciliation begin elsewhere? A conversation to clear the air; not a touch to restrict it?
I close my eyes, swallowing thickly as the pressure of his hand adjusts, deepening my panic. Tendrils of fear unfurl deep in my gut, but I remind myself I can breathe. There’s little pressure on my windpipe; his fingers tighter on the sides of my neck. The panic is in my head—in my stomach—across my prickling skin.
‘Open your eyes.’ His words are emotionless, yet somehow I still feel compelled.
‘Please.’ The word leaves my throat in a whimper; his thumb and fingers pressing tighter. The sound of the word vibrates beneath my skin as an inexorable and familiar sensation flares between my legs.
This can’t be.
