Secrets and Sins: Chayot: A Secrets and Sins novel (Entangled Ignite) (6 page)

As if he were a magnet and she metal, she leaned into him, shifted until her hips were wedged between his inner thighs. Until her breasts pressed against his chest, and the ache in her hard nipples increased and eased at the same time. She stared at the shallow dip in the center of his collarbone, revealed by the opening of his shirt. What would happen if she laid her lips there? If she tasted him? Would he stiffen? Push her away? With Chay she couldn’t tell…

But damn she wanted to find out.

So she did.

She lowered her head, swept her mouth over his tight skin. Traced the small bowl with the tip of her tongue. And moaned.

Yes, he tensed. His hands clutched her waist but exerted no pressure, as if uncertain whether to push her away…or draw her closer. Palms flat on his thighs, she pressed into him, savoring the dichotomy of hard to soft. Of planes to curves. She opened her mouth, drew his skin between her teeth, and suckled. His groan rumbled up his chest and vibrated over her breasts, adding another electrifying caress.

“Aslyn,” he growled. His hold on her waist tightened seconds before one hand gripped her hair and twisted the long ponytail around his fist a couple of times. He tugged, drawing her head back. Tiny bites nipped her scalp. Not enough to hurt, but enough to incite a hunger to straddle his hard thigh and soothe the hungry emptiness in her sex. “Do you want to be fucked?”

She froze, slapped by the frank rawness of the question as well as image upon erotic image of being naked under him, over him. He would be gorgeous. All golden skin and lean muscle thrusting into her, pleasuring her. Yes.
Yes
, she wanted it. The slick skin sliding over skin, the dark groans, stroking hands, and gut-wrenching ecstasy.

But the montage of pictures in her mind didn’t match up with the guttural tone he used. He made it sound fleeting, dirty…shameful.
No
. She didn’t want that.

“Do you, Aslyn?” he demanded again. “Because I could fuck you. I could pick you up, carry you down the hallway to your bedroom, and lay you out on that bed. Or better yet, push you against the wall, strip off your pants, put my mouth on you. Taste you. Suck you. Make you come down my throat before working my cock into your pussy. I’d take you against that wall, Aslyn, thrusting so deep, riding you so hard, you’d scream my name as you came again. I can do that, baby.” He nipped her lip, soothed the sting with his tongue. “But it’s all you would get from me. It’s all I have to give.”

“Chay,” she rasped, her will razed to the ground by the picture he’d drawn with his explicit description.
Holy shit that was hot
. Her chest rose and fell, her breath labored, heavy. Every nerve hummed, jumped, pulsated. She’d transformed into one giant ache. She circled the wrist of the hand that was still entwined around her hair.

“No, Aslyn,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “You are not a fuck-’em-and-leave-’em woman. And I’m not a relationship man. You wouldn’t sleep with your boyfriend—your
boyfriend
—before ninety days, and we haven’t known each other for ninety hours. I don’t deserve someone as pure, as
good
as you. I’ve done some foul and selfish things in my life. But I won’t add using you to the list.”

Gently, he released her and pushed her back several steps. He stood, and before she could stop him, he circled around her and headed for the kitchen entrance. She sorted past the surprise, the hurt of rejection, the heat of desire, and focused on his last words.

“I won’t add using you to the list.”

“Use me?” She whipped around, palming the edge of the island for support. “Use me for what?”

Chay didn’t turn to face her, and for a moment, she believed he’d keep walking without responding to her question. But he glanced at her over his shoulder, and the cold, aloof shield had returned, locking his thoughts in and her out.

“For forgetfulness. Oblivion.”

She didn’t try to stop him again for another explanation. Instead, she remained silent as he strode across her living room and exited her house.

Leaving her aroused. Rejected.

And wondering.

An hour later, Aslyn sat at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys. Tension raced down her spine, drew her shoulders tight. Her stomach clenched.
Wait.
She sucked in a breath.
What was that?
A fluttering. Like a bird’s wing deep in her soul. Hazy, nebulous, but there. Sweat dampened her forehead, rolled down her back. She lowered her hands to the keyboard. And froze. Whatever had quickened in her chest—if there had been anything there in the first place—was gone. With quick, harsh breaths, she lowered the cover over the piano keys, concealing them from her sight. As if the action could also shut off the sense of loss and emptiness.

Damn
. She jammed her fists against her thighs. With another soft curse, she shoved the stool back and stalked from the room, the grief sharper somehow. Because the music had been there just beyond her reach. But still unobtainable.

A half-hour later she exited the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her, tucking the ends between her breasts. Steam from her shower trailed after her into the bedroom. She shivered, the central air chilling her damp skin. But the air couldn’t account for the skittering across the nape of her neck. She shot a glance at the window.

The shade was drawn. Men hired to protect her were parked outside guarding her home. The alarm was set, the security cameras active. She gripped the knot in the towel, loosened it…

“Damn it,” she hissed, then stalked to the bed, snatched up her tank and pajama bottoms, and retreated to the bathroom. One of the photos had reflected her undressing in the bedroom. Tearing the towel off and pulling her nightclothes on, she couldn’t stifle the creepy sensation of being watched, even though every shade in the house was now drawn.

Minutes later, more material covered her body, but the feeling of exposure didn’t dissipate. Pulse tapping out an erratic rhythm, she flicked the wall switch, plunging the room into shadows except for the small pool of light from the bedside lamp. Hurriedly, she crossed the room and slid under the sheets, pulling the covers over her shoulders. When images of the photos hunkered at the edges of her conscious, ready to sneak in, she curled on her side and shoved the panic back. Instead, she conjured something guaranteed to distract her.

Chay.

His last words continued to haunt her.

Forgetfulness. Oblivion.

She understood seeking forgetfulness. Hell, there were nights she convinced herself she felt herself coming down with a cold so she could down some Nyquil. Nightmares couldn’t reach her in medicated sleep. But oblivion. He sought a total void of thought, of consciousness. From what? What haunted him so much—what hunted him—that the only way of escape was nothingness?

Her chest ached with the pressure pushing against its wall. If he’d assumed his raw, blunt description of sex and the warning of using her would disgust her, alienate her, he was sorely misguided. And wrong.

So wrong.

Yeah, reason presented a strong argument in favor of maintaining distance.

But instinct, intuition, emotion—whatever—skipped the logic bullshit and gunned for how he made her
feel
. Safe. Protected. Special.

Alive.

Ninety days be damned. If he’d find oblivion in her arms and body, then she’d give both to him.

Because she yearned for the same from him.

Her cell vibrated on the bedside table seconds before a generic ring tone pealed, cutting through the silence of the room. She rolled over and stared at the phone. Liam was the only person who called her on the cell she’d purchased just before leaving L.A., and she’d assigned him a special tone.

Moisture fled from her mouth. She sat up, the sheets pooling around her hips. Her pulse echoed in her head, almost drowning out the jazzy tune emanating from the phone. Finally, the noise stopped.

She exhaled.

The cell buzzed and rang again.

Palm dotted with sweat, she grasped the phone. Swiped the answer key. Pressed the cell to her ear.

Silence echoed over the line.

Then, “Hello, Aslyn.”

She squeezed her eyes shut, clapped her hand over her mouth to physically trap the whimper in her throat behind her lips. The voice…
Oh Jesus
. The voice was electronic as if the person on the end used one of those gadgets designed to purposefully distort and conceal. And male. Unmistakably male.

“Aslyn, I know you’re there,” he cooed. “Did you get my pictures today? I wanted you to see how beautiful I find you, but I kept the originals for myself. I love looking at you.” His tone deepened, the device unable to hide the lust thickening the voice. “I love your hair. Your skin. Your body.”

“Who are you?” Aslyn whispered. “Who is this?”

Harsh, rough breathing rasped in her ear.

“I’m coming for you, Aslyn,” he promised. “You’re mine, and I’m coming for you. Very soon.”

She jabbed the “end call” key and hurled the phone on the bed.

Shaking, she drew her legs to her chest, wrapped her arms around her knees, and rocked.

She wouldn’t sleep tonight.

Chapter Nine

Fury poured through Chay’s veins in a molten flood. He stared at his office and at Aslyn through a crimson film. She sat in front of his desk, fingers clenched, trying—and failing—not to betray her fear. The charade only notched the mercury level on his temperature higher.

The stalker had contacted her last night.

With the voyeurism, photos, and phone call, Chay could no longer entertain the possibility of this being a bored teenage kid or run-of-the-mill Peeping Tom. No, as Aslyn had relayed the caller’s conversation, especially the ominous promise at the end, Chay acknowledged lightning had indeed struck twice. Another sick bastard had made her the target for his obsessed, twisted desires.

And Chay had left her.

He’d run away from her—from the voracious hunger she stirred in him—and left her vulnerable. And scared. Vulnerable, scared, and alone.

Leaning back in his office chair, he inhaled and drew his cold but familiar shield around him. It was fractured, but it held. For now.

“Rafe has your phone now,” he said, the calm of his voice belying the rage still simmering in his gut. “He’s—” His own cell, set to vibrate, hummed against his desk. He flicked a glance down and noted the number on the caller ID screen. Dr. Hayes’ office. The phone fell silent, the call forwarding to voicemail. His mouth flattened. He had a session scheduled for that afternoon, and the therapist’s office had probably called to confirm the appointment.
Fuck
.

Why hadn’t the judge just let him serve out his five years’ probation without the mandated therapy? Shit, the murder had occurred twenty damn years ago. He’d learned to cope, to survive, on his own. In all that time, he’d grown to become an upstanding citizen who paid his taxes, owned his own home and security firm with Rafe. What the hell could counseling accomplish? Get in touch with his emotions? He could’ve saved Boston taxpayers a shitload of money in that case. Yeah, he had feelings. But he wanted far from them. Let those motherfuckers stay buried.

Just like they’d buried that bastard Richard Pierce.

He ground his finger and thumb into his eyes, rubbing hard.

Aslyn shot to her feet and paced away from the desk. On the return trip, she paused, her arms locked around her torso. “What? Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said abruptly. “Anyway, Rafe’s uploading an app that will allow us to trace the call next time this guy contacts you.”

“Even though the ID shows ‘unknown’?” Cautious hope brightened her gray eyes.

He nodded. “It’s a project Rafe has been working on. We’ve used the app a couple of times before now, and it’s worked. If the caller is using a burner, we’ll only be able to trace the number and actual phone to the batch it originated from. But still, using that information, we can track down the state it was shipped to as well as the store it was sold to. And maybe we’ll be able to pull security footage if the store has cameras.”

“Okay,” she murmured, tightening her self-embrace.

Exhaustion clung to her. It paled her drawn face, darkened the fragile skin under her tired eyes. He rose, intent on going to her, cupping the nape of her neck, and pulling her against his body. Offering her rest. Or whatever she needed from him.

But he didn’t move. Didn’t cross those few feet. Didn’t dare touch her. Last night more than proved that would be a mistake. He craved her too much.

Fantasies of fucking her had dogged him home, into his bed, and into the darkest hours of the night. Exactly how he’d described to her. His warning had backfired and tortured him with vision after erotic, vivid vision of his mouth on her breasts, sucking her nipples, tracing the shallow indentation of her navel, licking the swollen, wet folds of her pussy. His dick hardened, lengthened, and he gritted his teeth against the throbbing.

What kind of asshole did it make him that she stood trembling from fear and fatigue in his office and he wanted nothing more than to lay her out on his desk and bury his face between her thighs?

Sighing, he dragged a hand through his hair. This lack of control was the very reason he needed to maintain an emotional and physical distance. She’d come to Boston to heal, and now some jackhole had decided to terrorize her. The last thing she needed was an entanglement with someone bearing as much screwed-up baggage as him. And the last thing he needed was to become hooked on a woman who was not only leaving but whose very identity would bring the furor of the media into his life. A media that wouldn’t be satisfied with his name but would dig into his past, uprooting the scraps of anonymity that Boston offered.

“Aslyn.” He circled his desk and perched on the edge. Dipping his head in the direction of the chair in front of him, he silently invited her to sit. “While Rafe works on your phone, I have a few questions.” He waited for her to lower into the chair before continuing. “They’re about Quinton Lakes.”

She visibly swallowed, and her fingers clenched in her lap. Still, her chin hiked a centimeter and her shoulders drew back as if bracing herself against just the mention of the man’s name. “What about him?”

Admiration for her surged. Her steady voice revealed none of the terror he imagined had to be crawling through her. Strong. She was so damn strong. And that innate strength was sexy as hell.

“I did some investigation into Quinton Lakes’ background.” Christian kindness dictated Chay should have sympathy for the obviously deranged man who’d assaulted Aslyn. Yeah, he’d get right on that. “You mentioned him, and I just want to reassure you that from what I came up with last night and this morning, this doesn’t appear to be someone associated with Lakes. He was a loner. No family. Very few friends. The police didn’t find any evidence of a partnership. Although there are similarities between Lakes and this UNSUB, those can be attributed to anyone who followed the news on the stalking case.”

She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t appear surprised, either. At some point between his finding her on the floor surrounded by photos and now, she’d probably reached the same conclusion.

“One thing I did find odd. You never said anything about receiving letters, which Lakes did send to you. Have you or your manager received any?”

She shook her head. “None here in Boston. And Liam never mentioned unusual or threatening letters arriving in L.A. And after everything we’ve been through this last year, I can’t see him not bringing it up to me.”

“That’s what I figured. Which strikes me as funny. We’ve had a few stalking cases, and in our experience, there’s almost always initial communication through letters. Or email, these days. Only when those are ignored does the stalker escalate to personal and physical contact. This guy skipped that step and went straight to criminal behavior with the trespassing, photos, and a call. All within twenty-four hours.”

She propped her elbows on her thighs and dropped her face into her hands. Her whispered
“Jesus”
reached him. He fisted his fingers, squeezing tight, before stretching them and surrendering to the siren call in his chest. He tunneled his fingers through her thick, red hair, smoothing the strands back and away from her face. She shuddered and leaned into his caress. Finally, she lifted her head and turned into his palm. Her lips grazed his skin and the almost-kiss shot straight to his dick as if it had been the recipient of the feather-like touch.

“Aslyn,” he said softly. “We’re going to keep you safe. I promise you no one is going to hurt you. Not again.”

With a long exhalation, she pushed to her feet and strode to the window. Leaning a shoulder against the frame, she quietly stared out. Since the view from his office offered the spectacular vista of the postage-stamp-size backyard, he figured the small garden hadn’t snared her interest.

“In times like these—when I was stressed or upset—I would’ve sat at my piano and played.” She splayed her fingers wide on the glass. “Just played until peace settled in and the problems faded. I could escape. Nothing could intrude on that place where the music existed.”

He frowned, his attention sharpening and snagging on her choice of words.
I
would’ve
sat at my piano and played.
Would’ve. She had that huge, gorgeous grand piano in her living room. Why
couldn’t
she play it, relieve the pressure? Lakes had stabbed her in the lower back, not in the shoulder or arm that would hinder her. As far as he knew…

“Are you okay?” He rose, slid his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching out to her. “I know Lakes hurt you—”

She huffed out a short, humorless laugh. “Physically, I’m fully recovered. Mentally, emotionally…” Another of those grim chuckles. “I didn’t used to be this broken, scared person. I used to be fearless; I attacked life after losing my parents so unexpectedly, because I knew how short it could be. But Quinton Lakes changed me. More accurately, I’ve allowed him to alter who I am. I don’t recognize who I’ve become, and I damn sure don’t like her. Someone who’s always afraid, untrusting. Fucking damaged.”

Damaged
. Hearing her apply that term to herself seemed wrong. An anathema. A woman so beautiful, so gifted, so honest, so open couldn’t be broken or damaged. Hurt maybe. Bruised. Traumatized. But not irrevocably ruined.

“Liam called me yesterday morning about returning home to prepare for a concert,” she murmured, momentarily taking him aback with the switch in subject. “Part of me was scared shitless. Returning to the spotlight before I’m ready terrifies me. But the other part,” she said, voice wistful. “The other part was excited. Leaving here and returning to L.A. would mean I’m finally healed. It would mean Quinton hadn’t won, that I’m whole and
me
. Going home would mean I’m strong. That I’m a fighter again. I could pl—” She balled her fingers into a fist and pressed it against the window. “But those pictures took me right back to when I lost my power. To when I became a victim. I’d started to believe I was coming out on the other side of this—or at least that I could come out—and those photos stole that away.”

“Aslyn,” he breathed. The ugly seed her earlier words had sown took root, spread until it bloomed into an even uglier idea. He stood, crossed the room before he could convince himself touching her would shoot his control and resolve to hell and back. “Baby.” He paused in back of her, a gasp of air separating his body from hers. He palmed the window frame so his arms and chest created a shelter, a covering, for her. A section of him loathed asking the question ricocheting off his skull, but he had to know. “Can you play the piano?”

She stiffened, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak. But then the tension seeped out of her, leaving a weary slope to her shoulders.

“No,” she whispered. “Since he hurt me, I can’t touch the keys. I can’t play. I can’t compose.”

Her pain and confusion whipped around him like a cyclone wind, tearing at him. How did she stand it? Murmuring her name, he closed his eyes. Pressed his lips to the top of her head. And waited.

“The piano, the performing, the creating—they’re my passion. They’ve been my best friend, my comforter, my purpose since I was a kid. When people didn’t understand me, hurt me, betrayed me…died…I always had music. But now when I need it most, it’s gone.” She shuddered, and he shifted closer, relaying without words that he had her back. Nothing could touch her while she was at her most vulnerable. “But it also brought me to Quinton’s attention. The thing I love most is the very thing that put me in danger.” Her voice cracked on the admission.

In that moment he wanted to dig Quinton Lakes up from whatever potter’s field grave they buried him in, beat the shit out of him, and then stomp him six feet under…again.

Explanations about how trauma affects the psyche swirled in his head. The same rationalizations his therapist quietly offered him when Chay sat on his couch in those damn sessions. But none of them coalesced into a suitable, comforting reason. And none of them rang true.

“People like Quinton Lakes,” he paused, gritted his teeth. Started again. “
Predators
like Quinton Lakes…there’s something missing inside them. Call it neurological, chemical, mental—there’s something missing.” In the eyes. In his darkest dreams, he always saw pale blue, empty eyes. If the saying was true and they were windows to the soul, then the soul behind those eyes didn’t exist. “They see something beautiful, good…innocent, and their first inclination is to capture it so no one else but them can have it. Even if it means twisting, hurting, or silencing the thing or person until they—or no one else—no longer recognizes who or what they first were. They’re selfish, greedy, and a poison. A deadly poison, but only if you let them.”

He’d allowed Richard to change who he was. For twenty years, he’d lived with a burdensome secret, and it’d shaped him. But she didn’t have to be consigned to the same fate; Lakes didn’t have to taint her. She didn’t have to live with him ten years from now because she’d never discovered how to purge him.

“You were innocent.
Are
innocent. There’s nothing you could’ve done to escape his focus on you, just as there’s nothing you could do to deter it. Don’t let him contaminate and silence you. Your music…” He lowered his head, grazed his lips over the top of her ear. “It brings joy, peace, escape. Peace. That’s who you are, what comes out of you. Don’t let him have you.”

Her harsh, rapid breathing echoed in the silence like small explosions. Her back rose and fell against his chest. She didn’t cry. Didn’t crumble. The hoarse gasps of air reflected her struggle for control, as if she were afraid to let go. Unlike the previous night when he’d found her, this would be a conscious choice to trust him with her pain, with the exposure of her raw fears and heart.

He brushed a kiss over her temple.

“Shh,” he soothed. “You’re safe with me.”

As if his assurance unlocked the door on her ragged emotions, the first sob broke free, rough and animal-like. Murmuring softly into her hair and ear, he steadied her, allowed her to lean on him. He promised her safety when he was the one in jeopardy. With her in his arms, his heart aching for her even as his body throbbed with hunger, he stood in the direct line of danger. “Professional distance” had been demoted to a buzzword, a powerless phrase in the face of his desire for this strong, beautiful, but hurt woman.