Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(33)

He studies me for a moment and I think he might push for more, but thankfully he moves to an easy question. “Siblings?”

“No. You?”

“No.” He considers me again, more of that deep understanding in his eyes. “You’re alone.”

“I’m a survivor,” I say, regretting the statement that says too much.

“And a fighter,” he says, letting me off the hook without a probing question. “I’ll stand in line to hire you as my attorney when the time comes.”

“Let’s hope not. I want to be a criminal defense attorney, and to fight for those who can’t fight for themselves.”

“Why do I feel like there’s a story behind that choice, just like there’s a story behind you being a control freak?”

We’ve just entered another section of no-man’s-land, and I quickly take us in another direction. “Your story is what’s interesting.”

“You don’t want to talk about yourself. Got it.”

“No. I mean . . . no. My story is—”

“Who you are,” he supplies.

That idea hits about ten nerves. “No. I refuse to believe we’re defined by our history.”

“You can’t tell me you believe history doesn’t motivate our actions.”

“But it doesn’t define us.”

“No. It’s a tool we use to carve out who and what we are.”

He’s right. The past has carved out who I am by showing me what I don’t want to be. “I don’t know your different pieces, Jason, but I admire what you’ve done and achieved. You fought for your dream, and that’s inspiring to me.”

A surprised look flickers over his face, and he reaches over and caresses my cheek. “Like you are.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re doing it,” he says, his fingers leaving my cheek.

My gaze catches on the tattoo on his palm, and before I can stop myself I reach for it, flattening it to find the image of a red bull on his hand. I grin and glance up at him.

“Embracing who I am.” He closes his hand around mine, the air thickening around us. “And like I said,” he adds, his voice low, sultry, “they call me Red Bull for a reason. I see what I want and go after it—which is why it’s going to be hell not to press you to let me into your room tonight. But I won’t. I’m going to kiss you and touch you unless you tell me to stop, but nothing more.”

“I knew what would happen if I came with you. I’m not looking for rings, babies, and manicured lawns.”

“You’ve made that point, but we both know it’s no longer that simple.”

“It is that simple. I’m not going to think worse of you because we act on something we started earlier.”

His lips tighten. “Whatever I do here, be it to f*ck you or not f*ck you, might feel like manipulation tomorrow, but one can’t be undone, while the other can be remedied. I need your trust, Skye. That comes first. I have a reputation in Vegas, and I want you to ask around about me. Find out who I am, and then decide about the storage unit, and my bed.”

He wants my trust. He needs my trust. He could demand. He could threaten. Instead, he’s invited me into the private space he swears he doesn’t share with others. It matters to me for reasons he can’t understand. “And what will I hear when I do?”

“That I like to win. That I’ve had my share of women. And I never make a promise I don’t keep. I need you to do this, Skye. Talk to anyone and everyone. There are no boundaries.”

But there is an urgency to his tone, laced with a plea. “I will,” I say, and right then, I know I’m going to tell him about the chip. I even open my mouth to say the words, but I check myself. He has to sit down at a poker table and be composed for television and the game. If I tell him what I have now, he’ll be climbing the walls of his own mind for hours, and it might crack his armor. Which would allow his blackmailer to feel powerful, which could be dangerous.

Jason arches a brow. “Why do I think you want to say something?”

“Because I do.”

“But you aren’t.”

“No,” I say. “I’m not.”

“That’s honest.”

“Because I hate lies.” The words come out a little too harsh, a confession I don’t mean to give him, and this man who makes a living reading people knows. His eyes narrow, darken, and seconds pass in which I feel he sees pieces of my puzzle I don’t want joined.

“Good,” he finally approves, and when I fear he will push me for answers I won’t give, he doesn’t. “Come here,” he says instead, draping his arm over my shoulders and pulling me against him, my hand settling over his heart, which beats in a steady, comforting rhythm. For several beats that turn into at least a minute, we lie there, and I slowly relax into him in a way I haven’t relaxed with a man in a very, very long time.

When the tension has completely eased from my body, he softly says, “Skye.”

“Yes?” I ask, my pulse suddenly racing.

“When we get naked, and we will, you will know it’s all about you, and nothing else.”

I inhale the deliciously male scent of him, his warmth touching me everywhere, in places he is touching and in places he has not touched, but I still feel him. And suddenly I fear I’m far more naked with this man than I ever intended to be.