Hell Without You (4 page)

When the light came on, he was gone.

“Donovan? God… Damn it!” She hissed when something sharp pierced the ball of her foot.

Glass. She’d forgotten about the sound of breaking glass.

Lifting and twisting her knee, she surveyed the shard twinkling below her toes, a crystalline thorn half-buried in the pad of her foot. Pulling it out hurt almost as much as stepping on it in the first place had.

Clearly, a jar had been broken. She walked around the glittering puddle of glass and dark red stuff that had at first looked alarmingly like blood, but was only raspberry jam. When she’d passed it, she hurried across the room to the open front door.

It had finally stopped raining, but the night smelled wet and humidity made the air dense and thick. Her voice was muffled as she called his name again.

He didn’t answer, but motion gave him away.

“Donovan!” Frustration drove her voice an octave higher as she hurried across the yard, to where he was pacing toward the tree line.

Why was he ignoring her? He had to hear her calling – only a few yards separated them now. Maybe he wanted his privacy – maybe he regretted being so generous with his hospitality – but she couldn’t let him go. Something wasn’t right. She felt that fact in her bones. The unlit kitchen, the rough singing, the treacherous mess he’d left behind in the dark, and his feigning deafness – this was all too strange to be called normal.

“Hey!” She was half-breathless by the time she reached him. Her socks and pajama pants had most likely been ruined by her trek through the rain-soaked yard, but she’d barely begun to think of that when something much more disturbing registered – he was naked.

Completely naked, as bare as the day he’d been born. Holy hell … what? Why? Clementine’s heart sped like a thoroughbred out of a starting gate, lodging itself in her throat. She’d reached for his arm, and her hand rested there now, her fingertips against his bare biceps.

Finally, he stopped.

“Donovan, are you—” She’d barely gotten a couple words out when he flung out his arm, striking her shoulder forcefully enough to knock her feet out from under her. Slipping in the muddy grass, she went down.

“
Ahh
!” Her ass hit the spongy ground with a muted
thud
. It didn’t hurt, but she could barely breathe. He’d pushed her. Or half pushed her, half hit her. Whatever that had been. And he was towering over her, bare
from head to toe, his skin shining in the humidity, his body not quite shielded by darkness, now that her eyes had adjusted.

“Clementine?” His voice was just as rough as it’d been in the kitchen, but he wasn’t singing anymore. “What the fuck?”

She drew in a deep breath and stood, taking a step backward from the man who’d knocked her down, the man who suddenly seemed like a stranger even though she recognized every slash of muscle on display, every hard line. “Donovan?”

“What the fuck?”

She could see well enough in the dark now to tell that he was blinking. “You’re awake now, right?”

“I’m awake.” His answer almost sounded like a question.

“I think you were sleepwalking.” Her knees shook, and she counted on the darkness and her loose pajama bottoms to hide the motion. “You’re in the yard, behind the house. You’re not wearing any clothes. Let’s get you back inside.”

He didn’t move.

She hesitated, then willed herself to be brave. Finally, she reached out and touched his arm, just like she had the first time.

She couldn’t resist. Donovan looked like he needed someone to show him the way, and she couldn’t remember him ever looking like that before.

Her memories were extensive, and so deep they hurt. This was definitely a first. So, ignoring her weak knees, she exerted pressure against his muscles – they really were rock-hard – starting in the direction of the house.

He walked with her, and the journey seemed to take forever. She was aware of his every breath, of the heat of his skin. Aware and afraid that he’d turn and run, or simply walk away – what could she do to stop him, really, if he decided not to follow her lead?

Finally, they made it to the house.

“What a fucking mess,” Donovan said as she pulled the front door shut.

His voice sounded clearer than before. Surely that was a good sign.

“It’s just a broken jar,” she said. “A little raspberry jam.” A lot, actually, but what did it matter?

“Mmph.”

She froze behind where he stood, his back straight, his feet shoulder-width apart.

Jesus
. The overhead lighting beamed down on his naked body, making him look like he’d been sculpted from stone. His skin was brown where it’d been exposed to the sun, olive where it hadn’t been. Muscles defined every contour of his body, roped tight over bone. Her gaze was drawn to the perfectly-shaped halves of his ass and the two dents above, at the base of his spine.

She hadn’t forgotten those dents, but something else drew her eye away from the sight. “Your foot!”

She took a step forward, snapping out of her study. “You must’ve cut it on the glass.”

A puddle of blood had formed behind his toes, leaking from beneath one side of his right foot.

“I’ll live.” He moved suddenly, every muscle in his back shifting as he strode forward, clearing the kitchen in a few long strides.

“Don’t!” She hurried forward, reaching for his arm again. “Don’t go up the stairs – you’ll get blood on the carpet. It’ll never come out.”

His muscles went harder beneath her fingers, and she felt more than heard him breathe a stifled grunt. She almost shrank back, almost feared he’d knock her down again.

Almost, but didn’t. Seven years or no, she knew him well enough to know that he’d never raise a hand against her – not knowingly. “Let me get you some bandages. Are there any in the medicine cabinet?”

“Should be. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“I’ll look.” She left him before he could refuse, taking care not to let the ball of her foot touch the stairs, just in case her small puncture wound was still bleeding.

There was a half-empty box of Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet, even a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She took both, plus a couple of towels from the closet – a full-sized one for Donovan, and a hand towel for his foot.

“We’re in luck – plenty of Band-Aids.” At least, she hoped they’d be up to the task – he’d definitely been bleeding worse than she had. “Here.” She held out the large towel.

For a few seconds, he stared at it like it was an artifact from a foreign planet. Then he took it, unfurling it and slinging it around his hips, but not before she got another eyeful of everything.

The slashing V of muscle, the tan line that signified he’d spent some time outdoors without a shirt on … and the dark crop of hair below, the thick cock she could still feel in the center of her being, delving and stretching, filling her so completely that even the memory sent a gasp rushing to her lips.

She held it back, of course. Didn’t make a sound. At twenty-five, she wasn’t about to go gasping at the sight of a penis – even his. “Let me get a look at your foot.” She raised the box of Band-Aids and clutched the bottle of alcohol.

A defiant look flashed in his eyes, and she expected him to refuse.

“Fine.” He led the way to the kitchen, his muscular butt flexing beneath the clinging towel, damning her attempt to lend him some modesty.

While he pulled out a chair from the white dinette set and sank into it, she ran the hand towel she’d fetched under warm water at the kitchen faucet. “Is the cut bad?” She glanced sidelong at her lightweight medical supplies. Hopefully he didn’t need stitches.

“I think I’ll pull through.” His voice was dry, but she didn’t trust his humor.

“Let me see.”

He raised his leg obligingly, propping his foot on another chair.

She wiped away the blood and dirt, revealing an inch-long laceration. “Looks like a lot to ask a Band-Aid to handle.”

His bare, broad shoulders rose and fell as he shrugged, drawing her eye away from his wound and to the black diamond of hair that was dusted between his pecs. God, it was hot. She’d always liked it, and there was more of it now than there’d been years ago. No surprise there – he’d only been nineteen last time she’d seen him. Last time she’d touched him for more than a fleeting second.

“I don’t suppose I can talk you into letting a doctor look at this?”

He shot her a level look she’d expected.

“No? Then brace yourself, because this is going to hurt like hell.” She raised the bottle of rubbing alcohol, unsnapped the lid, and aimed.

To his credit, he hardly made a sound when she squeezed, sending a stream of the acrid liquid flowing over his fresh cut. His entire leg stiffened though, and he whispered “motherfucker” so fervently that he might have been imploring a lover, if only his words had been different.

She snapped the lid back in place, dabbed his foot dry with a clean corner of the towel and began to prepare a bandage.

She ended up using two, crisscrossing them so they formed an X over his wound. “That should keep it from getting infected, anyway.”

“I take it you didn’t run away to medical school,” he said, lowering his foot.

“Business school,” she said, fighting the way her body stiffened when he said those words. “Sorry, a tender touch wasn’t required to earn my MBA.”

“I see they taught you some ruthless decision-making skills.” He paused, and the silence was so absolute that a stray drop of water falling from the faucet seemed as loud as an explosion. “Or maybe you brought those to the table on your first day of classes.”

She stiffened again, her entire body going rigid as his barb sank deep. Here it was – the anger, the rancor she’d expected.

Deserved
.

A voice in the back of her head protested, but she didn’t dare let it speak. She hated herself too much for what she’d done to defend her actions, even if she had an arsenal of reasons, each backed by impenetrable logic.

The regret – the loathing – she felt at that moment was perhaps her deepest connection to him. The thought plunged her into a spiraling anger of her own, and she ripped off her sock, showing it the violence she didn’t dare take out on anything else.

Her wound was a fraction of the size of Donovan’s. She didn’t bother to take a chair, but rather leaned against the counter with her knee bent and foot raised as she hastily wiped the cut, splashed it with alcohol and applied a Band-Aid.

“You never told me you hurt yourself.”

She let her gaze flicker up to meet his. “It’s a tiny cut. No big deal.” She fought the absurd urge to snap, to say something that would pierce him where his words had put a hole in her. “Are you going to be okay if I go back to bed?”

She couldn’t stay and bear the weight of his accusing gaze, couldn’t fight.

“I’ve survived the last seven years without you watching over me after dark. Figure I’ll make it through another night.”

She arched a brow. “Do you usually go wandering naked outside after midnight?”

When he didn’t answer, she gathered her first aid supplies back up in her arms, careful not to stain her cami with blood. “I’m just saying – you might want to consider wearing underwear to bed, at least.”

“Nobody here but you.”