“Oh, do I have to?”
But I felt his fingers at the back of my head, undoing the buckle. He took it off and I blinked. Every light was on in his room. I strained to watch him as he disappeared to the foot of the bed to untie my ankles. A moment later, he sat beside me to untie my wrists. He was quiet, his expression somber as he manipulated the black rope. Was he disappointed in my answers to his questions? Was I not poetic enough?
When my arms were free, I sat back from the pillows and watched him. My ass still hurt, and I wasn’t sure of his mood. I couldn’t tell if there was going to be more sex, or an argument, or kissing and whispering and making out.
“Shower?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes. Please.”
His bathroom was as beautiful and luxurious as the rest of his place. We stood in his huge glass enclosure, a marble and glass structure that raised hygiene to a fine art. There were two shower heads, but he kept me under his, half washing me, half groping me. I closed my eyes when he started to kiss me.
All the time I’d spent tied to his bed, I’d been blind and wanted to see, but now that I could open my eyes and look at him, I wanted to retreat into touch. He held me close, stroking up my back, and then trailing down to squeeze my sore ass. He massaged my nape, a caress and then a grasp to draw me against his muscled front. The kiss deepened, went on for so long I lost myself.
I was drowning in him. It wasn’t only the kisses—although he was great at the kisses. It was the way he held me and stroked me, like he could never have enough of me. It was scary and thrilling, and dangerous to my psyche. Don’t fall in love again.
I pulled away and looked at him, brushing back a wet strand of his hair. “Why does my surrender mean so much to you?”
“Because you’re a fighter,” he said, without thinking about it at all. He tried to kiss me again, but I held him off.
“I answered your questions. Now I want answers,” I said. “Why do you prefer pain instead of love? What happened to you to make you this way?”
“Jesus, Chere,” he said, turning away. “Shut the fuck up.”
“No, answer me.” I nudged him until he turned back to me. “Why do you say you can’t be with me? I know why I don’t trust love, but what happened to you?”
I couldn’t make anything of his expression. It looked like too many emotions at once, shuttered into a concealing mask. “Love lies,” he said.
“Someone lied to you?”
“Everyone lies.” He forced a laugh. “You and your questions, your stupid girly shit.”
“How many stars in your bowl, then? How many shadows in your soul?”
He shut off the water and got out. The question-and-answer session was apparently over. He’d withdrawn from me in that whiplash manner. One minute he was there, engaged, smiling and caressing me, and the next he was a ghost, impossible to touch. While I sat in his room and brushed my hair, he lay back on the bed with his arms crossed behind his head. He didn’t say anything to me, or glance my way.
How many shadows in your soul? He had to have a lot, none of which he seemed willing to discuss. I stood to get dressed, but before I could grab my clothes, he held out his hand.
“Where are you going? Come here.”
“It’s late,” I said.
“Come here.”
Our eyes locked. His gaze drew me to the bed and into his arms. He enveloped me in a hug, this confusing man who’d just finished pushing me away. His hands moved over me, drawing me right against his body. Did I love him or did I fear him? Did I want to get closer to him, or should I be running away?
“I don’t understand you,” I whispered.
His lashes flickered, darker golden-blond than his hair. “Is it so important to understand?”
“Yes. For me it is. After everything with Simon, it’s important.”
His languid look wavered into irritation, as it always did when I mentioned my ex’s name. He lifted my arm, stroked his palm up the underside, across paler, sensitive skin. He brought it to his lips and bit the inside of my forearm. I watched his mouth open, watched his teeth close and bite down.
It hurt. I whined and he let me go, and bit my wrist instead. He licked over the place he hurt, and sighed.
“I want you to sleep here with me,” he said.
“Are you going to keep biting me?”
“Biting is the least of my crimes against you. Will you stay?”
I wanted to stay. He was warm and comfortable, and the surrender part was over. For now.