Secrets and Sins: Chayot: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (10 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Aslyn grasped the bedroom doorknob and stopped. Twisted it. And stopped.

After she’d had a restful nap and hot shower, the pity party had been postponed. She was rejuvenated, clean, and hungry. The delicious aromas that had crept into her room a half hour earlier had her stomach rumbling as if yelling. “Feed me!” Food waited down the hall.

If only she could leave her room.

Coward
, a small, snide voice heckled.

So what she was cooped up in close quarters for God-knew-how-long with a man who razed every one of her guards and inhibitions to the ground? So what said man had a piano hauled to said close quarters just so she would have a modicum of familiarity in a strange space? So what the last time she’d been alone with said man he’d given her an orgasm that made TNT resemble a firecracker? Nope, no reason to huddle in the bedroom. No reason at all…

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered and yanked open the door. Ordering herself to grow a pair, she strode through the airy condominium, tracking the scent heavy with Italian spices and garlic. She approached the kitchen entrance and skidded to a halt.

And stared.

She’d witnessed Chay as the successful businessman. The knight in shining armor. The sensual lover. But this side of him—the domestic male—was one of her favorites. White cotton stretched across his wide shoulders and hugged tight muscles. Faded denim hung low on his hips, the frayed hem skimming bare feet. God, what the man did for a simple T-shirt and jeans should require ten Hail Mary’s and an Act of Contrition.

Funny how seeing him move around the kitchen reminded her of how he’d touched her the night before. Knowledgeable. Confident. Deliberate. She smothered a sigh. Everything he did reminded her of sex. He personified it. The subtle caress of his hair against his jaw. The play of muscle under his shirt. The sensual, almost predatory glide that masqueraded as a walk.

Yeah, Chay and sex?

Synonymous.

BFFs.

“How’re you feeling?” He didn’t glance up from stirring the contents of a big pot on the stove.

Damn
. She winced. How long had she been standing in the doorway ogling him like a band nerd crushing on the high school quarterback before he’d noticed?

“Fine.”

She stepped into the kitchen, drawn by the mouthwatering scents and, well…him. Was this attraction some twisted version of Stockholm syndrome? Except instead of bonding with her captor, she longed to crawl under her rescuer and not leave his side. Would this…this magnetic pull toward him fade once the danger passed?

God, she hoped so.

She couldn’t play the piano. Couldn’t create music. Was having identity issues. Becoming the clingy girl who just wouldn’t go away seemed a cruel and unusual punishment. And unacceptable. When her stalker was captured and she could walk away, she would. She’d done the relationship-with-a-man-who-doesn’t-want-you thing. Yes, Chay had kissed the ever lovin’ hell out of her, but he viewed having sex with her as using her. Last night he could’ve laid her out on that couch and had her six ways to Sunday, and she would’ve let him. But he hadn’t. He’d walked away instead.

One man had screwed a freakin’ teenager rather than her. And another man had passed her up when she’d been ready and willing to be taken.

Obviously life was a mean girl, and she was its bitch.

“Are you ready to eat?” Chay asked, breaking into her morose thoughts.
Thank God
. One more second, and she might’ve ended up on the floor, curled in a fetal position, crying,
Why don’t you want me? Don’t you think I’m sexy?

Yeah, so not a pretty picture.

“Yes, I’m starving.” She picked up the napkins and silverware he’d set out on the counter and carried them into the dining room. With the open floor plan of the condo, one room flowed seamlessly into another, creating a loft-like space. If a person had to hide away from an obsessed lunatic, this was the place to do it. “I didn’t know you could cook,” she called over her shoulder, placing the dining items on the table.

“Like I said before, son of a single mother who worked a full-time job. Sometimes a part-time one, too.” He entered the room, two plates heaped with pasta and red sauce in his hands. “Spaghetti and omelets. I kill spaghetti and omelets.”

“I kill pizza delivery,” she cracked, plopping down in a chair and picking up her fork. Inside she ached at the picture of a young Chay cooking for him and a mother who’d obviously been determined to make ends meet. Aslyn had grown up in a household with two loving and attentive parents who doted on their only child. They hadn’t been rich, but she’d never experienced lack, either. Both of her parents had worked, but her mother had always been home by four thirty, cooking, helping her with her homework, carting her to piano lessons. Her throat tightened as she twirled pasta around the tines. Most of the time the pain remained a dull, muted ache in her chest. But then there were moments like this when the sorrow from missing them reared up and sank its teeth into her heart.

“You don’t cook at all?” he asked. “Everybody has at least one dish they’re good at.”

She cleared her throat and slid a forkful of food into her mouth. And groaned. Spices and seasonings exploded across her taste buds, inciting them to do handstands and cartwheels on her tongue.

“Oh my God, this is wonderful.” She moaned again, lifting her gaze from her plate. And clashing with his.

Whoa
.

Hunger she was 99.9% certain had nothing to do with spaghetti burned in his eyes. Her stomach knotted in response. Intense, hooded, his scrutiny stroked over her face before resettling on her mouth. She swallowed past her suddenly constricted throat.

“Chay…”

He blinked, and that fast his expression cleared. Staring into the hated, aloof mask again, a frustrated cry rose inside her.

“So, no special dish?” He resumed the line of their conversation as if he hadn’t just practically scalded her with lust.

“Yes, actually.” She smiled sweetly and waited until he was chewing on a bite of food before continuing. “Hot sex on a platter.”

He choked. Hard spasms racked him. He reached for his glass of water, glaring at her, and she grinned. Childish? Oh yes, definitely. But worth it? Damn right. And he no longer wore that damn reserved detachment.

“You okay?” she cooed. “Need some more water?”

“You are a menace,” he growled.

“Oh, honey,” she purred, batting her lashes. “You say the sweetest things. But aside from serving up coitus, I can make figgy pudding.”

“What the hell is figgy pudding?” He patted his mouth with his napkin, his voice still rough with a hint of wheeze.

She rolled her eyes. “Figgy pudding. From ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’?” She sang the verse where the carolers demanded the dessert be brought to them that instant.

There was nothing distant about his expression now. Pure shock. “Is this an artist thing? Like walking the fine line between genius and insanity? Because I’m not convinced which side you’re on.”

She threw back her head and laughed. And laughed. It felt so good. Cleansing. A release. When she wiped moisture from her eyes, he appeared less stunned and more confused. Still…a smile curled one corner of his mouth.

“Honest to God, I’m telling the truth. The Christmas I was fifteen, my mother found a recipe for figgy pudding. We’d just heard the Christmas carol on the radio, and we decided to bake it since neither of us knew what the hell it was.”

“And?” He twirled his fork. “How’d it turn out? What did it taste like?”

“Like shit.” She grinned. “Correction. Like figgy shit.”

His bark of laughter echoed in the room. For the second time since she’d known him, he laughed. Real, free, unburdened. And she’d done it. To hell with winning a Grammy. This was true victory. Causing this strong, contained man who she suspected had little reason to find hilarity in his life to laugh was a true measure of her success.

A half hour later, she found herself wrist-deep in hot water washing dishes. Not that she minded. Not with Chay drying and stacking dishes next to her.

“I didn’t want to disturb your nap earlier, but Rafe called with news about the trace on your cell.”

She paused, the contentment fleeing in the face of the grim reminder of why she was cooped up in this place busting suds with Chay. Inhaling, she steeled herself.

“What did he find out?”

“The number belongs to a burner phone. He managed to track the cell to the city and location it was delivered to—which was a convenience store here in Boston.”

“What now?” she whispered. “Even if Raphael can convince the manager to hand over the security video, how will he know who it is? I can’t identify the guy. He wore a mask. Neither can you for the same reason.”

Chay shrugged. “It’s a long shot. But even if the bastard paid with cash, the store should have a record of the date and time the particular phone was sold. That narrows down our timeline and the amount of footage Rafe will review. True, we wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a lineup. But we do know more than you realize. He’s male. A few inches above average height. White or Hispanic with a light complexion. Lean build. Between 150 and 175 pounds.”

“Chews spearmint gum,” she murmured.

He froze. “What?”

“His breath,” she recited, already sliding back into her memory and those hellish moments in the car. “The mask had a slit where the mouth was, and I smelled his breath. Spearmint gum.” It’d seemed to fill the interior. The stench of gum and fear. She’d never chew that flavor again.

“Okay.” He nodded. “Good detail. I’ll pass it along to Rafe. He might’ve purchased gum along with the phone. We never know.”

Cool. Good. Redirect.

“Speaking of gum, I remember when I was ten, Jim Granger stuck a wad of Bazooka Joe in my hair. Like smushed it. Right in the back of my head. I ended up looking like damn Orphan Annie by the time my mom finished cutting my hair to even it out.” She scrubbed a pan with a wire scourer, nearly scraping the coating off but unable to stop. “The next day I kicked him in the balls so hard—”

Firm but gentle fingers gripped her shoulders and turned her, dripping hands and all. Those same fingers tilted her chin up. She stared at a strong, golden neck, a solid jaw, full, sensual lips, and finely cut cheekbones. Finally, she met Chay’s scalpel-like scrutiny.

“Deep breaths, baby,” he murmured. “Breathe with me. In. Out.” The hand on her face and the quiet intensity in his eyes refused to release her. She had no choice but to follow the pattern of his breathing. Slowly, the panic retracted its sharp teeth from her psyche. “Good. That’s good.”

Several more moments passed. The only sounds in the room were the inhale and exhale of their lungs. Then even that lessened, softened.

“I’m not weak,” she whispered, needing him to agree. To acknowledge her declaration so she could believe it, accept it deep in her soul. Weak woman didn’t outmaneuver crazed stalkers. Weak women didn’t thumb their noses at caution and tumble into a traffic intersection. She might be a little damaged and more than a little traumatized but…

She wasn’t weak.

He swept the pad of his thumb over the cut along her jaw. Once. Twice.

“Far from it, Aslyn,” he said. “So far from it.”

Chapter Sixteen

Chay hated nights like these. When the deep, silent hours of night pressed down on him like a blanket. Dark. Heavy. Claustrophobic. They’d come more and more often in the last eight months. Since the uncovering of Richard’s death and the counseling sessions. Since he’d had to weekly rip open, expose, and rehash the worst part of his life.

He’d drawn the curtains back from one section of the floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping the vast view of Boston Harbor and rippling waters of Massachusetts Bay would provide some calm. But one second after drawing back the drapes, the futility of his effort struck him.

Because for the first time, his vigil didn’t relate to that painful period twenty years ago. His restlessness had nothing to do with murder and death and everything to do with the woman who slept down the hall in the bedroom across from his. Her presence—so close, so damn tempting—explained why he sat in a dark living room with a beer as his only company.

At fifteen, he’d had his power torn away from him before completely losing it and stabbing a man to death. Since then, he’d ensured he maintained control—control of his emotions, his body, his relationships, business and personal. And except for the first few years after the murder, he’d retained that strict leash on himself and his life.

But in the short amount of time he’d known Aslyn Jericho, the reins had slipped.

He’d mauled her in his living room, went down on her on top of a piano, and been ready to storm a police department to get to her. And here he sat in a dark living room, brooding—yes,
brooding
—in the middle of the night, trying to convince himself opening her door and waking her up with his mouth on her breast and his fingers buried inside her was a bad idea.

If only the attraction was purely physical.

Part of him wished like hell this craving for her could be chalked up to that killer body, beautiful face, lovely dove-gray eyes, and mass of auburn and gold curls. If so, he could fuck her out of his system; he could rationalize scratching an itch. But he couldn’t deceive himself. She was so much more than gorgeous breasts and slim thighs. She was magic cloaked in flesh. Vulnerability wrapped in strength. Whimsy and purity embraced by sensuality.

And this beer must have crack in it
, he sneered, tipping the bottle to glare into its depths.

“Hey,” a soft voice called out of the darkness. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Fuck me
. “No,” he said, lowering his beer, fixating on the woman who glided in the room with the grace of a dancer and the seductiveness of a porn star. Moonlight streamed over her golden limbs, casting them in marble as she passed through.

Three
.

The number flashed in his frontal lobe like a bright matinee sign as her gaze flickered over his bare chest and lingered.

Three. The number of clothing items he’d have to drag from his and her body before he could be balls deep inside her. His jeans, her tank and brief sleep shorts. Four, if she wore underwear. Because the hard points of her nipples and unfettered bounce of her breasts assured him she didn’t have on a bra.

She was trying to kill him.

“Me, neither.” She settled into the big armchair next to him and curled her legs under her hips.

“Nightmares?” The thought curdled his gut. To know she’d been shivering in her bed, alone, afraid and tormented, cut him up inside.

“No. Can I have some of that?” She nodded toward the bottle in his hand. He levered off the couch and handed her the drink. “Thanks. But no, no nightmares because I haven’t been to sleep yet. I couldn’t.”

She tipped the bottle to her mouth and drank deeply. Behind his zipper, his shaft thickened, lengthened. And not just because the sexy purse of her lips covered the narrow opening. Too easily he could imagine parting that pretty pout with his dick. Slowly piercing it with the head first, then feeding her his length inch by torturous inch. His flesh throbbed, demanding to make that vision a reality. But the other reason behind his zipper nearly tattooing his erection was the intimacy of her mouth covering the same area his had just touched. Like a kiss. When he recovered the beer, maybe he’d taste her.

“Do you know what I was thinking about?”

He loosed a strained bark of laughter. “I’m afraid to ask. I can’t predict what will come out of your mouth.”

She didn’t chuckle or toss back a wisecrack like he’d expected. Instead, she set the beer on the table and pinned him with an unwavering scrutiny.

“I was lying in bed thinking, we’re really not going to talk about what happened last night. We’re going to be all civilized and pretend a screaming orgasm on my piano didn’t happen.”

He couldn’t move. Need had him trapped in a vise grip that didn’t permit movement or breathing.

“Afterward, even as you held me, I knew you weren’t going to be there when I woke up. What I don’t know—and want to—is why. Three times you’ve left. In my kitchen, the night after the photos came. After you kissed me. And last night. Why do you walk away from me? And,” her voice dipped, softened. “Why am I so easy to walk away from?”

He should lie—lying was easier.

Simpler.

Safer.

It would keep him on shaky but familiar ground, whereas the truth would have him plummeting into an abyss called Loss of Control. Yeah, lie. Lie and this clawing hunger for her might drive him a little more insane but he—his heart, his life—would remain safe.

“Because I can’t be numb with you,” he confessed, shocking himself and her. She straightened, blinked. “I can’t fuck you and feel nothing.”

Silence followed his bald confession, resonating louder and louder with each second it was almost deafening. How screwed up did his reason sound to her? What kind of man admitted he didn’t have sex with women unless no emotions were involved? It made him come across as a selfish prick.

He heaved a sigh, thrusting his fingers through his hair. “Listen—”

“You told me you would be using me for forgetfulness. Oblivion.” She didn’t wait for him to confirm or try and pretty up the raw truth. “I get that, you know? Remember I said playing the piano allowed me to escape? To find a little peace in the chaos? I get it. We all need a place to disappear to where we’re not hounded by other people, the world—ourselves. I get it,” she repeated.

“Aslyn,” he murmured.

“I can be that for you,” she interrupted. Stealing the words and air from his throat. He froze. “I can be that place for you—I
want
to be that place for you. Even if only for one night. You could find oblivion and peace in my bed. My arms. My…body.”

“Jesus Christ, Aslyn,” he breathed.

“And afterward, I’d hold you. Whatever has you out here in the middle of the night sitting in the darkness wouldn’t find you in my bed. You could sleep, and I would watch over you, beat back the demons. Even if only for a little while.”

The demons? He stared at her. Detected the knowledge in her eyes. Inside, he cringed. He didn’t need or want a pity fuck, damn it.
Hell no
hovered on his tongue, the rejection hot and bitter. He parted his lips, but then he looked again. Really looked. No fear shadowed those silver eyes. Desire. Vulnerability. Determination. But no fear.

Disbelief and fear warred with the voracious greed demanding he accept her offer. He could lose himself in her. Drown in the ecstasy of finally being buried inside her. Take. Take and forget everything but the pleasure of skin on skin, of being surrounded by her legs, arms, and pussy.

And afterward, I’d hold you…beat back the demons. Even if only for a little while.

He closed his eyes. She couldn’t comprehend how that offer tempted him the most. Seduced him more than the fantasy of tasting, touching, and fucking her ever could.

She couldn’t know. But he did. And he couldn’t accept her offer—her gift. When daylight came, when reality intruded, he would still be damaged goods with nothing to give her. In spite of her belief, Aslyn wasn’t the kind of woman who could casually indulge in a few sexual encounters. She was too passionate, too sweet, her heart too big and open. Before long she would realize she’d surrendered her body to him, and he had taken even while acknowledging the things she would require—trust, honesty, intimacy—were impossibilities.

Soft palms cupped his shoulders moments before her honey-and-sugar scent enveloped him, and her weight settled over his legs. He stiffened, his body rocketing to full alert.
Shit
. What did she think he was made of? Titanium? His chivalrous streak would only uphold if she maintained her distance. If he didn’t have to touch her, smell her… He grabbed her hips, prepared to gently, but firmly lift her off him. But, as if she’d anticipated that reaction, she tightened her thighs around his, locking herself into place on his lap. Shifting her hold from his shoulders to his face, she cradled his cheeks between her palms and tilted his head back.

“I love how you touch me,” she whispered. “How you know just where to put your hands, your mouth as if we’ve been together before countless times.” She brushed her thumbs over his lips. “And, for the record, I object to the term ‘using’ me. Not because it demeans me, but because it degrades you. It implies you don’t have more to offer than this sexy, work-of-art body. When you do. Already you’ve given me pleasure and a safe haven to explore and experience it. You’ve boosted my confidence in my femininity. Because of you, I believe I can trust a man with my desire and passions, and he won’t use them against me.” She stroked her mouth over his. “I’m not asking for forever. Or promises. Just you.”

Her words sliced through the tenuous leash on his control. A sensory snap resonated through him, and he erupted. He gripped her ass in both hands, leaped from the couch, and nudging the coffee table out of the way, bore her to the floor.

Go easy. Be gentle
.

The admonishments ghosted through his mind underneath the almost blinding lust. He tried—damn it, he tried. But as he fisted her fiery strands and crashed his mouth over hers, he acknowledged his failure. He feasted on her. Devoured her. And couldn’t get enough. Her lips immediately parted for the thrust of his tongue. God, she was sweet. Both her taste and how she so eagerly and willingly took him.

He crushed his body to hers—chest to chest, hips to hips, her slender thighs spread wide around him.

Closer. Need to get closer
.

He ground his cock against the soft pad of her sex, eliciting a low moan from her throat.
Hell yeah
. He clenched his teeth against the pleasure. Wrenching his mouth free, he dipped his head and dragged the flat of his tongue up the slender column from where the rough, hungry groan originated.

“I love that sound coming from you,” he growled, rocking against her again. And again. The only thing preventing him from being inside her, from pushing deep inside her, was his jeans and her pajama shorts. She bucked beneath him, meeting him halfway. Rolling her cloth-covered flesh down his dick.

“I swear I can feel your pussy, so wet and hot, through these damn clothes.” Nipping her neck one last time, he lowered, raking his teeth over her collarbone to the top of her breast. “Not enough, baby. Nowhere near enough.”

With a whimper, she captured his mouth, thrust her tongue between his lips and tasted him. “God, I love how you talk to me,” she whispered against his lips. “How you don’t hold back but speak to me from real, genuine need and hunger. The words aren’t flowery. At first I thought they were a barrier, like the first time you talked to me that way but, no. They’re raw, honest. Like you. I love that you put my pleasure first like I matter.”

Groaning, he snagged the skinny straps of her tank and yanked the top down, baring her breasts to his greedy stare. He shuddered, his breath ragged, harsh.

“Gorgeous. So damn gorgeous.” He stroked the back of his finger down the side of the right mound, his knuckle nudging the hard peak. He’d wondered about the color of her nipples, and now he had up-close-and-personal confirmation. Pale gold skin crowned with light brown tips. Honey and brown sugar. And he possessed a sudden sweet tooth only she could satisfy.

Bending his head, he opened his mouth over her breast and coiled his tongue around the dusky nipple. He tugged. Lapped. Sucked. Fantasy come to life right in his arms, under his lips. He released her with a soft pop, but couldn’t stay away. The engorged tip had darkened in color, agitated by his hard pulls and stroking. He brushed his lips over the nub. Teased it with the edge of his teeth.

“Please,” Aslyn pleaded, grasping his head and holding him to her chest. Blunt fingernails grazed his scalp, and he closed his eyes, savoring the small sting. “Please don’t stop. I didn’t… That’s never—”

She didn’t finish. He pinched the damp tip, rolled it between his fingers, and her confession abruptly ended in a rough cry. She writhed beneath him, arching into his touch, offering him full access to her sweat-dampened breasts.

“That’s never what?” He switched to the neglected peak. Sucked it hard and deep. Another cry rang in his ears. “Never what, Aslyn?”

“Never felt…like this,” she panted. “Oh my God, it hurts. Chay, make it stop hurting.” She twisted, her grip on his hair tightening.

“I have you, baby,” he promised. Ignoring her wailing denial, he slid down her torso, forging a damp trail over her soft belly, stopping only momentarily to swirl a caress over her navel before continuing south.

Curling his fingers in the band of her shorts, he tugged the pajamas over her hips, swept them down her legs, and tossed them aside. Leaving her bare, wet, and swollen. Palming her inner thighs, he spread her wide and open to his gaze. He couldn’t contain the growl that rumbled up and out of him. Didn’t care that he probably resembled a hungry beast stalking its prey, measuring how it would be taken down.

He circled her wrists, removed her grip from his hair, and pressed her hands to the floor, next to her hips.

“Don’t move them,” he ordered.

He waited until she frantically nodded her agreement then wedged his shoulders underneath her legs. He inhaled deep, his eyes seeming to close of their own accord. Her musky scent—distilled, heavy, and fresh at the center of her body—embraced him, surrounded him. He’d just been here last night, but he could have his tongue buried in her hot center a hundred—thousand—times, and it wouldn’t be enough. With just one taste, she’d enslaved him, made him an addict.