Wounded Birds (The Grayson Series Book 1) (17 page)

Chapter 14

Dance With Me

I jerk up off the pillow gasping for air with trembling hands clutched against my chest. “Damn you,” I mutter as I glare at the perpetrator. I smack the alarm clock, shutting off the blaring sound, which scared me half to death. I collapse back on the pillows and let out a long sigh.

I was restless the whole night trying to figure out how this madman knew I was kissing Michael. Did he just assume and called me taking his chances, or could there still be a bug or video camera left in the apartment that Trent or his friend Peterson may have missed, but Michael said that was impossible, not with the way technology is now-a-days. I squeeze my eyes shut trying to forget, but it’s useless, his message keeps repeating in my head.

I moan and stretch my still aching muscles. I peek over at the enemy, telling me the time. It’s seven in the morning. I yawn, debating if I want to get up or not.

I wonder if Michael is up. I pull myself out of bed, wrap my robe around me, and head for the kitchen. I hear the music playing through the surround sound. I gasp and jump out of my skin when I hear Michael right behind me. He must have been outside on the terrace.

“Good morning, Ariana.” Michael greets me dressed in his black slacks from the night before and shirtless.

“Good morning, Michael . . . I guess . . . I owe you a new shirt,” I murmur.

“So it appears,” he says with a husky tone, and lowers his head, brushing his cheek against mine. “I like that side of you. It turns me on,” he murmurs and takes a nibble from my ear, sending chills over my sensitive skin.

“I’m . . . I’m going to shower,” I squeak, sounding like a schoolgirl, all flustered.

“While you’re showering I’ll make breakfast.” He gives me a sly grin and winks.

***

The aroma of delicious bacon and eggs with freshly brewed coffee lingers in the bedroom heightening my senses and, of course, my growling stomach.

I scurry off into the kitchen only to stop dead in my tracks. My jaw drops when I get a full view of Michael’s broad, well-developed back and wearing my yellow apron, looking all hot and sexy in his slacks.

My heart races off, riding on her black stallion, galloping through the sandy beaches of St. Barts, singing, “I Got You, Babe” by Sonny & Cher.

Michael turns to face me; a slow smile builds across his face, and he gazes at me, seducing me with his eyes, holding a spatula in his hand. How erotic.

“Hey, sweetheart, I meant to tell you earlier you’re beautiful when you first wake up in the morning,” he says placing the spatula down. “Breakfast is ready.” He points over to the counter with a crooked smile.

My mouth begins to water, and I find myself continuously swallowing past the lump in my throat. I can’t stop gaping at this man. He’s sculpted to perfection, a perfect ten.

“Ariana, are you okay?” He asks, his eyes squinting with a smirk as if he knows I’m lusting over him.

“You’re mouthwatering.” I gasp and slap a hand over my mouth, eyes wide. I can’t believe what slipped out. “I mean . . .” I point toward the dishes. “The food, you know . . . the bacon and eggs . . . I . . . . Um," I’m mortified. I shut my eyes, turning away from him, my face flush with such intense heat you could fry an egg. I hear him approach me. His warm breath is against my neck, his arms circling around my waist.

“So you find me mouthwatering.” He chuckles and nuzzles his mouth at the curve of my shoulder, weakening me in the knees. Oh God, this man sure knows how to make me quiver.

I swallow hard. “I . . . a . . . me-meant the food,” I stutter and continue to curse myself. How embarrassing.

He spins me around. “Open your eyes, Ariana. Don’t be ashamed, sweetheart.” His alluring voice with his English accent isn’t helping me. He leans closer and stares at me with those compelling eyes. I begin to turn into putty and melt when his hands brush over my shoulders working their way up to my face.

His lips graze the corner of my mouth, making me tingle all over. I gasp, thanking the universe for answering my prayers as he devours my lips. Our mouths fuse into one like chocolate and caramel. I wrap my arms around his neck, my breathing erratic, and heart pumping wild. Everything inside me begins to burn, aching to be touched and kissed.

“Breakfast can wait,” he mutters and sweeps me up into his arms, and we’re on the sofa. He reaches for the zipper on the back of my dress and eases the silver tag down, and the alarm bells go off in my head with a neon sign flashing,
Back off, back off
.

“No! Michael, I can’t.” I push him off, and he falls to the floor. We’re both breathless, hungry and sexually aroused, his eyes dark with desire. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I apologize . . . please forgive me.” I rush toward the foyer and lock myself in the entry bathroom.

I stare at the reflection in the mirror. My hair mussed and the lip-gloss no longer on my lips. As I zip up the disheveled dress, I stare at the ugly scars reflecting off the glass. I begin to feel disgusted and depressed. I tried plastic surgery, but the welts were too deep and thick.

A pang of sadness hits me, and I begin to cry. I hear a faint knock on the door. “Ariana, you okay?” He knocks again. “Come on out, sweetheart. We need to talk.” He sighs. “I think I know what this is about.”

“No, you don’t,” I blurt out, sniffling. I grab a tissue from the bathroom vanity and blow my nose.

“I have an idea it has to do with the scars on your back,” he whispers, his tone so soft and gentle. It’s like molten fudge running down your throat.

I gasp, shutting my eyes. Of course, he’s aware of the scars. I was stupid enough to flash them at him.

“Come out, Ariana. I’ve wanted to speak to you about the marks on your back.”

“I’m not ready for this conversation,” I confess.

“Okay, then I won’t bring it up, but you can’t keep hiding. There will be a time that we’ll need to address this when our relationship escalates to another level, which we came within seconds of reaching just a few moments ago.”

How can Michael want a relationship with me? I stare at myself all tear-stained and mascara-smudged eyes. Moisture begins to blur my vision. I tilt back to blink them away. He’ll cringe with revulsion when he touches the savage marks. I shake my head with repulsion. No one will want me. I’m scarred for life, inside and out.

“Come out, Ariana, or I’ll break in,” he scolds, sounding agitated.

“You wouldn’t dare,” I exclaim, holding onto the bathroom sink, feeling sorry for myself. How pitiful.

“Try me, sweetheart.” There’s a pause. “Please don’t hide from me. I’ll never hurt you, Ariana,” he whispers and jiggles the knob.

I wash and dry my face quick and open the door, and there he stands with his arm leaning up against the doorway, his half-grin all sexy and seductive. He reaches out for me. He pulls me close to his chest, and with tenderness, he places his hands against my back, and I stiffen.

“Ariana, look at me,” he says and with gentleness, he pulls my chin up until we are eye-to-eye.

I blink back the tears that are swimming in my vision.

“Do you trust me, Ariana,” he whispers.

I stare into his emerald-green eyes and see an honorable man. “Yes,” I whisper.

He encloses me in his arms, and I feel his fingers applying small amounts of pressure over every scar embedded on my skin. I tense and shut my eyes in revulsion. He continues until he feels the tension release from my muscles.

“Ariana, this is a part of you. This is not atrocious, revolting, or whatever you think I’m feeling. If anything, this shows me how strong and courageous you are.” He kisses me and continues to caress my spine, easing the tightness, one touch after another.

I start to cry. I can’t believe this. I’m such a sap. Standing before me is a wonderful man God has blessed me with, and I’m scared to death.

He rocks gingerly, soothing me with his soft embrace. “Shhh, it’s okay. I won’t push you, Ariana. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll be all ears and attentively listening to your every word and supporting you one hundred percent.”

What if this is all an illusion, and he turns into the sadist Danny was. I flinch at the thought. I stop and realize I’ve saturated the apron he’s wearing. My eyes must be bloodshot, my cheek's red and tear-stained, and yikes; I need to get to work.

I step back. “Sorry, you’re soaked with tears.” I giggle.

He smiles and shrugs. “No worries, sweetheart; it will dry.” He pulls away from me for a moment, walking into the bathroom, and soon he’s back with tissues and begins to wipe the tears from my face. “Let me go warm up our breakfast. I won’t allow you to leave without eating.”

“I’m not hungry,” I say. “I lost my appetite.”

He lifts his right eyebrow and glares at me with a stern look. “You’re eating. Breakfast is an important meal. One I never miss. Now, let’s eat.” He wraps his arm around me, escorts me to the kitchen, and heats the food in the microwave.

***

We sit across from one another out on the terrace, eating and listening to the sweet sounds of soft music playing in the background. I gaze across the horizon watching the sun peaking through the scattered clouds, playing hide-and-seek, as the leaves hanging from their branches, painted in autumn colors, dance with the breeze.

“Ariana,” Michael whispers and I turn away from the bathing sun and look into his vibrant eyes and see longing and desire, along with . . . what . . . love. No. Impossible.

“Yes, Michael.”

He leans forward, and the tender kiss from his lips makes me tingle all over and dizzy. From the first moment that we set eyes on one another, everything changed. The atmosphere in my universe altered its course. It’s as if our souls were once whole and were separated through death a lifetime ago, and by some miracle, we reconnected.

I stare at my empty plate, smile, and place my napkin on the table. “Michael, this was scrumptious. I never had a man cook for me, well, except for Blake, but I had the flu,” I compliment and drink the remainder of my orange juice.

He nods. He seems deep in thought. “How close are you to Blake?” He asks curiously.

“I’m close, but not in the way you’re thinking. We’re best friends. I love him, and he loves me. He’s my rock, my pillar, and the wall that keeps me standing. He’s been with me through some of the formidable and wonderful moments in my life. No one can ever take that away . . . and . . . he’s Gay.”

From the expression on his face, relief seems to wash over him. “Good to know, I’m a territorial man, Ariana, and I do get jealous . . . very jealous. Something I can’t help; it’s in my nature.” He smiles with a chuckle and says, “I guess I won’t have to worry about Blake. I’m assuming Francis is a male? Correct?” He questions with a smirk.

“Yes,” I say laughing

“May I ask you a personal question? If you don’t mind?” I ask with caution.

“Of course,” he says with a nod.

“Why are you so protective? I understand you’re concerned for me.”

“I’m worried about you. Who wouldn’t be? Isn’t Blake protective over you?” He blinks several times and seems distant.

“Blake has known me a lot longer than you. I see the torment in your eyes, something deeper. You’re excessively protective, controlling and overbearing. Your facial expression changes to terror any time this psychotic torments me, whether through his e-mails, phone calls or chocolates.” He interjects before I could go further.

“Don’t forget the little trick you pulled after making your executive decision when you went for a jog. Especially when Trent left you explicit instructions not to walk out of your apartment without an escort. The demented fuck attacked you in the park,” he retorts, seething through his teeth.

“I’m never going to live that down, am I?” I huff out, eyes wide. “There’s that look again. You take this to a personal level. Did you lose a girlfriend? What about your parents’, are they alive? I never hear you mention them.”

I watch him closely, and he takes a long, deep breath. His eyes close for a brief moment. Deep frown lines appear over his forehead. The tendons around his neck grow taut as his blood pulsates through his vein. I think I hit a nerve.

“I’m . . . sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you such a personal question. Forgive me.”

He clears his throat. He seems uncomfortable, a bit anxious and edgy. “My mother died during childbirth with Trent,” he responds, looking uncomfortable, writhing in his chair. The temperature in the air changes to brisk.

I touch his arm. “Oh God, Michael, I’m so sorry,” I say, giving my condolences.

He smiles, and suddenly his eyes grow mournful. “It was a long time ago, and Trent is the one who feels the most guilt.” He blinks several times and then there is silence, except for the faint music in the background and the busy streets of the Manhattan.

I can’t even imagine not growing up without my parents’. They may have died when I was in my early twenties, but they were there for me when I took my first steps, my first day of school, first date. When I was sick, or woke up in the middle of the night from a nightmare, and they rushed into my bedroom to comfort me.