“It’s not a matter of trust,” she finally whispered into the darkness.
“Then what’s it a matter of?” He turned to her then, letting his hand uncurl, allowing his fingers to curve over her hip despite the flinch that jerked through her body. “Tell me, Risa. Why deny yourself when you don’t have to?”
She was still and silent, her breathing jerky.
“Because,” she finally whispered. “The night will come that you won’t be here any longer. And then I’ll have to face reality rather than the illusion. And I don’t think I want to face either.”
Strangely enough, he understood that comment. The reality that he would leave, the illusion that he could stay. Yes, facing either would hurt them both. But Micah was a man who never allowed himself illusion. He knew only the reality, and the reality involved one simple fact.
“Memories can warm you in the cold of the night,” he told her softly. “I know this well, sweet. If you want to make those memories, you have only to let me know.”
SHE HAD ONLY to let him know.
Risa stared into the darkness for several more long moments before she turned slowly to her side, feeling his hand lift, only to return to the opposite hip as she faced him.
There was a sliver of light falling from the bathroom, just enough to make out his shadowed features. He was just as roughly handsome in the dark as he was in the light. His strong jaw was clearly defined, the fullness of his lower lip prominent despite the thinner, brooding upper curve.
And he had the rasp of a beard covering his face.
She wanted to touch it, yet she was too frightened. She wanted to run her fingers over it, feel it against her palm.
Who was she kidding? She wanted to feel it all over her body. She wanted it stroking against her breasts, her belly, her thighs.
“Making memories is a lousy excuse,” she finally whispered, her breathing short and choppy from the mere thought of having his body cover hers again.
He was warm and hard, muscular and so intensely male that he made her mouth water.
“Is it?” His fingers moved against her hip. It took her several seconds to realize he had pushed his hands beneath the loose hem of her long T-shirt. It rested on her bare waist, the calloused flesh of his palm warm and decidedly inviting against her sensitive skin.
“You should think about it,” he whispered, his head moving closer, his lips holding her attention, his need driving spikes of hunger through her system. “Remember how hot it was, baby? How the sweat built on our flesh? How we strained together?”
How he didn’t come?
Risa closed her eyes, her head shaking as her hand pressed against his chest while she fought to hold her hunger at bay.
It was the Whore’s Dust; that was what they said. But was it? If it was related to that damned drug, wouldn’t it happen at a time other than when Micah was near? Why burn her now with such depth when it hadn’t before? Not like this. Not until she wanted to throw caution to the wind and beg him to bury himself inside her.
“Don’t.” She finally managed to push the words past her lips: “Please, Micah.”
His lips brushed her forehead instead and she wanted to cry out with the need to feel that caress against her lips.
“I won’t hurt you, Risa.” His voice caressed her senses, stoked her desires. “I promise you this.”
A whimper of need passed her lips. “No, Micah, you’ll destroy me, and we both know it.”
But he was a man a woman couldn’t help but fall in love with. The type of man a woman could never hope to hold.
She forced herself to turn her back on him once again, to lie alone, except for the touch of his hand against her hip. And it wasn’t the fear of his touch that drove her. It was the fear of learning his touch, craving it, and never having it again.
CHAPTER 8
TWO DAYS OF HELL.
Risa stepped from her bedroom two days later, feeling the lack of sleep that had haunted her, the exhaustion edging at her mind.
She couldn’t sleep with Micah in the bed with her. He slept naked. He crowded her in the bed. His arm always ended up against her, over her, something. At one point, his fingers had curled around her breast, his palm searing her nipple.
It had taken everything she had to remove his hand, the bastard. It didn’t matter what she slept in, he ended up finding bare skin to touch. She was terrified to go to sleep. She knew if she did, she would awaken to find herself draped over him, probably begging him to fuck her.