Leave Me Love (Call Me Cat Trilogy #2)(18)

So I did, my mind churning over the possibilities of what would happen to Bridgette now, of what would happen to me. I'd have to take the bus to school every day, now that I'd be living off campus. That wasn't so bad. The headaches, though, were bad.

When we got to Ash's house, a bald man was waiting for us on the front porch. He had a familiar face, and a black rose tattoo on his neck.

Ash shook his hand and introduced him to me. "This is Jim. I asked him to meet us here so he could help figure out what happened with Bridgette."

Ash opened the door, letting us both in, and left to ask Mrs. Brown to make us coffee.

"You're the guy I saw by Lucky's kiosk," I said, finally placing Jim's face. "How do you know Ash?"

Jim shrugged and looked to Ash who came to sit next to me, his hand resting on my knee as Mrs. Brown served the coffee with muffins that smelled freshly baked. "This is the private investigator I'd hired to track you down," Ash confessed.

A shiver went up my spine. How long had this guy been following me, and how much did he know?





Chapter Thirteen


Mental Health


AFTER I TOLD Jim what happened with Bridgette, he left, and Ash cleared out space in his drawers and closets for me and made space in the bathroom for my toiletries. I drifted, dreamlike, through the unpacking, the surrealness of it all clouding my senses. I couldn't believe I actually lived with Ash now. "What happens when this is over?" I asked.

"When what's over?" He looked up from moving shoes around in the closet.

"When Bridgette is found and things go back to normal." Because I had to believe that, didn't I?

He frowned, not getting it.

"Will I move out then?"

He stood, pulling me into his arms. "That's up to you, but I certainly hope not. This isn't a temporary fling for me, Catelyn. I want you here. Period. Not because of a head injury or because your friend is missing. I want you here because I like that the sheets smell like you after you've slept in them. I like having memories of you in this house. I like how the sound of your life makes this feel like a home and not just a place to get lost in."

He handed me a key ring with two keys on it. "What are these for?" I asked.

"The silver one is for the house, and the black one is for the car. It's yours. I have my motorcycle."

I rested my head on his chest, feeling his heart beat through me, and sighed, wrapping my arms around his waist. "I love you."

He kissed the top of my head. "I love you, too."

I couldn't imagine ever feeling that this was really my home; it all still felt so much like Ash. But when Mrs. Brown came that night to make dinner and I said I'd like to do it, Ash smiled and told her to take the night off. He helped me cut carrots and red bell peppers and we made salads with grilled chicken and had a quiet dinner. After, we sat together, cuddling and watching television.

When Ash's hand slipped under my blouse to cup my breast, I sighed and moved closer, pressing my body against his as the television droned in the background.

Our kisses started softly, touches gentle and tame, but passion took us in an escalation of need and desire. Our lips pressed harder, hands groping desperately to remove the clothing that stood between us, blocking our flesh from meshing together.

When Ash bent me over the couch and fingered me, I moaned, leaning into his hand, begging for more as one arm reached around to squeeze my nipples.

It felt good, so good, but I needed more to fight off the pain and sadness of the day, of the collection of darkness coalescing in my life like shadows huddled together or skeletons cluttering my closet.

I needed something I didn't know how to articulate.

Ash seemed to sense this growing urgency and everything became heightened as his tenderness turned to rough pleasure. When he finally slammed his cock into me, leaning over my body to nip at my neck with his teeth, I knew it wasn't enough.

"More," I begged.

"More what?"

"I don't know."

His hand landed across my ass in a sharp burst of pain that startled me. I paused, reflecting on if that's what I needed.

"Do it again."

He smacked me again and the pleasure and pain joined into something new, something that satiated the gnawing need in my body and mind.

Our lovemaking turned wild, loud, almost violent in its need. I could feel the burn of his handprints on my flesh and craved more.

Each smack and thrust brought me closer to orgasm.

My * clenched, and in a rush of heat and flames, we came together. I screamed. Roared. Released everything in me.

And then I collapsed into his arms as we lay on the floor in front of the fire, naked and sweaty and breathless.

I didn't speak for some time, waiting for my heart to slow and my breathing to return to normal. "Why does that feel good?"

"What?"

"The pain. Why did I like it?"

He turned to face me, propping himself up on his elbow. "The line between pleasure and pain is thin. Sometimes straddling it brings out those sensations more intensely."

"Is there something wrong with me?"

He kissed my nose. "No. It's completely normal. More people than you'd think enjoy it rough from time to time. Is it something you'd like to try again?"