“Listen to me,” he gasped as his fingers dug into her.
She bit his earlobe and whispered, “Don’t stop. Touch me, Ty. Touch me all over.”
“Oh God,” he groaned as if he was in real pain. “You’re a talker.”
“Please. Touch me. I want to eat you up.”
He took a step back and held her at arm’s length. “This can’t happen,” he repeated, and this time he sounded like he meant it.
A frustrated moan escaped her lips. “Why?”
“I have too much to lose.” He dropped his hands from her shoulders and took another step back. “You’re not worth my career.”
Chapter 9
A steady downpour drenched Seatt
le as the United flight from San Jose landed at Sea-Tac Airport and rolled to the gate. Faith sat in coach with her Fendi purse on her lap. It had been years since she’d flown coach. She’d forgotten how crowded it was. Not that it mattered. If Jules hadn’t found her a flight, she would have sprouted wings and flown herself home. She would have rented a car and driven. Hell, she might have even walked. She hadn’t cared what it took; she’d had to get out of California.
She was a coward. Running away like she was guilty of some crime and not wanting to face what she’d done. Maybe at some future date, she’d be able to face Ty again. Maybe next week, or next month, or next year, she’d be able to be in the same room with him and not recall the excruciatingly painful details of kissing him and touching him and wanting him more than she could ever recall wanting a man. His pushing her away and his wide shoulders and dark head as he’d left her in the hall, alone and confused.
She would have to see him again, of course. But not today. She just couldn’t face seeing him on the flight back from San Jose. Probably not tomorrow either, when her behavior and his rejection would still be so fresh in her head.
She was definitely a coward, but feeling like a coward didn’t compare to feeling like she’d betrayed her husband. After she’d kissed Ty and made a fool out of herself, she’d gone to bed and lain awake all night with a horrible churning guilt plaguing her and burning a hole in her stomach. Virgil was dead, but she still felt married. Felt like that kiss—that hot, consuming kiss she’d shared with Ty—was a knife to the back of her dead husband. Not because it had been so bad, but because it had been so good. So good she might have done anything to make it last. To make it burn hotter and longer. To drink him in and suck him up and feel things for him she’d never felt for Virgil. Hot, achy things she wanted to do with a man who did hot, achy things to her.
She gathered her jacket and hatbox from the overhead and moved toward the gangway. It was after noon the next day, but she still was as embarrassed and confused as she had been standing outside her hotel room watching Ty walk away. How could he have left her? He’d been as turned on as she was. She’d felt his extremely hard erection pressed against her, and yet he’d been able to walk away. And as humiliating as that was to face, thank God he had. Waking up naked with one of her hockey players was so extremely wrong. Way beyond acceptable. He worked for her. Good Lord, he could probably sue her for workplace harassment or something. What a disaster.
She shoved her arms through her jacket sleeves and hung her purse on her shoulder. So, how had it happened? With him? Of all people? There was only one possible explanation.
Layla.
The part of her she’d created to deal with the harsher realities of her life as a stripper. The woman she’d created who didn’t mind a lap dance because the money was good. The woman who’d partied till the sun came up and loved a good tequila shooter. The part of her that liked good, hot, sweaty sex with a beautiful man.
She was Mrs. Duffy now. She didn’t need Layla anymore. Layla was trouble.
Her Louis Vuitton wheelie waited for her at the carousel and she pulled it to long-term parking.
Her neck and shoulder ached from the long flight and she had a difficult time shoving the piece of luggage into the trunk of her Bentley. By the time she made it to her condo, she wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and pull the covers over her head.
Pebbles’s yippy bark greeted her as she opened the door to her apartment. She picked up her hatbox and wheeled her suitcase inside. The drapes were drawn across the wall of windows overlooking Elliott Bay, casting the great room in inky shadow. The gas fireplace licked the fake logs and Marvin Gaye’s smooth “Let’s Get It On” purred from the speakers of her sound system.
“Mom?” she called out as she moved into the room and hit a bank of lights.
“Faith!” Her mom rose to her knees in the middle of the living room floor. A man knelt behind her, and except for their shocked expressions, they were both completely naked.
“Oh!” She spun around to face a blank wall as her shock buzzed her tired brain. “Oh my God!”
“What are you doing here?”
“I live here!” While Marvin sang about not beating around the bush, her cheeks burned with the horror at what she’d glimpsed. Walking in on her mother was just as disturbing now as when she was fourteen. And ten. And seven. Hell, pick a year. She pointed behind her. “Who the hell is this?”
“Pavel Savage,” the man said.
Her mouth fell open as she stared at the rough texture and latte-colored paint on the wall in front of her face. “Ty’s father?”
“You weren’t supposed to be back until tonight,” her mother accused.
“What does that have to do with anything? You’re having sex. In my living room.” Oh God. “What’s wrong with you?”