All of Me (Inside Out #5.5)(8)

I don’t miss how he catches himself before he says dead or the pain in his eyes that he allows me to see. He’s hurting and I hurt for him, and for Amber. Guilt stabs at me as I think of that gut feeling I’d had the night I’d gone after her at the club. That sense of desperation in her voice that had rung like danger to me in some way I couldn’t quite understand, but couldn’t ignore.

My fingers curl on his jawline. “How did you end up the owner of The Script, Chris? Was it always your business?”

“It was Amber’s business, but she borrowed money to start it and insisted I be on the paperwork until she paid me back. One loan turned into another, and that never happened. Tristan knew the setup and he didn’t like it. And while I think he’s a good guy, he’s angry, and obviously hell-bent on seeing me hurt. I have to be concerned.” His phone buzzes again and he glances at his screen and then me. “The attorney wants to meet right before lunch. I need to go get this behind me. You said Chantal wants to meet and talk about our wedding. See if you can do that now, so you’re free for the next few days to see the city.”

“I can go with you.”

“No.” His tone is absolute. “Go with Chantal.” He releases me, throwing back the blankets and sitting up on the edge of the bed, torment radiating off him in waves.

Tristan is getting to him. He can’t grieve and heal while defending himself, and I pray this isn’t the start of him shutting me out. I can’t let him shut me out. Not with Isabel and her damned whip here in the city.

Fighting for the man I love, I sit up and scoot toward him, wrapping my arms around him and laying my head on his back. I say nothing, silently letting him know I’m here for him, and that he’s not fighting this war against grief and guilt alone. At first he’s stiff under my touch, unmoving, and I feel fear forming in my belly, but slowly I feel him soften, the tension easing from his body.

He grabs me and pulls me around, cradling me while one hand slides into my hair. “Go see Chantal and I’ll deal with the attorney. I want our schedules cleared. I need to get away from this Tristan stuff and get lost with you, Sara. I’ll take you to explore the city I love. A few days of just you and me.”

My hand covers his, a mix of relief and heartache ripping through me. “Yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.”

His mouth comes down on mine, his kiss a deep slice of pain and passion that is over too fast. “Today I’m going to have to make some decisions where Tristan’s concerned that I don’t want to make. I need to think about what that means, and prepare myself.” He stands and walks toward the bathroom, leaving me to stare at his naked body as it disappears through the doorway.





The shower comes on, and my fingers sink into the mattress as I fight my instinct to go after him, since he’s clearly told me he needs a few minutes. My fear of his torment, and the whip he calls relief, is powerful, and so is my awareness of Isabel, the woman who first lashed him with that leather. A huge part of me needs to rush into that bathroom and make him promise he will not be tempted by the whip if he is shaken today. But I don’t. That’s not what he needs from me right now. Suffocating him isn’t trust—and not only has he done everything possible to deserve my trust, but I also believe he needs me to trust him enough for both of us.

? ? ?

I’m on the second level of the house, sitting at the kitchen island with a coffee in my hand when Chris walks up the stairs, looking dark and dangerously intense in black jeans and a black T-shirt with skulls on it that I suspect fits right in with his mood. I’m certain I’m right when he stops beside me, locking me in a smoldering stare. His hand covers mine on my cup handle and he brings it to his lips and drinks, swallowing with slow seductiveness. “I always like my lips on your lips.”

And just that easily, his lips might as well be on every intimate part of me, because I’m wet and wanting, and I can’t remember what I was worried about seconds before. “Chris,” I whisper.

He sets the cup aside. “Right here, baby,” he says, and before I know what he intends, he pulls me to my feet and tugs his shirt, the only thing I have on, over my head. A moment later he sets me on the island and spreads my legs, his hungry gaze sliding over my breasts, then lifting to my mouth. “Which lips do I want first, is the question. Why don’t I let you decide? Which comes first, Sara, baby? Your mouth, or that sweet spot right here”—his fingers slide between my thighs—“that I know will make you moan.”

My lashes lower for two beats and lift. “Both are very good choices,” I manage to choke out.

“Lean back,” he orders. “Hands behind you.”

Dark Chris is back. Commanding, dominant, sexy, troubled Chris. I like this part of him. I like it a lot. I do as he bids, leaning back, my nipples thrust into the air by the new position, and he is quick to tug me forward just enough to ensure that I’ll fall if I dare to move. He squats between my legs, his thumbs feathering over my inner knees, back and forth, with excruciating deliberateness. Back and forth. When I think I can’t stand it anymore, he leans in and kisses the delicate skin he was just touching, following his lips with his tongue.

I moan, just as he’s declared I will, and his lips hint at a smile before he leans in and blows on my clit.

I swallow hard, arching toward the touch he denies me, trembling when his tongue just barely flicks my nub. “Chris,” I pant; his name a demand that only assures I will wait longer.