No in Between (Inside Out #4)(47)

“Not you, Chris. From me. I’m all over the place. I’m worried about tomorrow. I’m worried about Ella and Amanda and—” I press my hands to his face. “Fuck me, Chris! I need you to f*ck me.”

His answer is silence, and I can feel the deep, slow way he’s breathing, the calm calculation I sense in him that has me counting torturous seconds. He leans back, his eyes locking with mine. “It won’t work.”

“Why not?” I ask.

His voice is sandpaper rough. “It would be so damn easy for me to tie you to the bed and f*ck you every which way, but it wouldn’t distract me from asking questions, like you think it would. It’ll become the tool I use to get the answers you don’t want to give me.”

“Even if that’s not what I want?”

“I won’t be able to help myself. Because the last time I saw this look in your eyes, Michael put it there.” Abruptly, he sets me away from him. “But I won’t force you to tell me what’s wrong, no matter how insane it’s making me right now. That would make me no better than he was to you. But be clear, Sara: If you want me to trust you and show you everything, you have to be willing to trust me that much, too.”

He walks out of the bedroom, leaving me staring after him.





Fourteen



I stare at the doorway Chris has just exited, stunned. He knows I’m still affected by Michael. I didn’t know; how did he? Or maybe I did, but I was in denial—and that’s a mistake Chris doesn’t make. He accepts his scars. More than once he’s told me that the way Mark lives is dangerous, convincing himself that extreme control over everything and everyone around him somehow wipes out his past. Chris called it a crash waiting to happen.

And he’s right. I see Mark unraveling, pieces of him falling, cracking like glass on the ground he thinks is solid under his feet, but even that’s unsteady. Perhaps Mark’s ability to live in a fa?ade of rightness is what draws me to him, since I’m also guilty of that, too. That’s how I survived Michael, and I’ve never envied Chris’s ability to know himself as much as I do right now.

Kicking off my shoes, I rush to the bathroom and undress, anxious to explain everything, so he doesn’t believe tonight was about a lack of trust on my part. I consider showing up in Chris’s studio naked, exposed in every way, to make a statement. But his mood is a swiftly changing vehicle, and I have to drive the appropriate speed. I decide to err on the side of caution, slipping on a long, pink silk robe.

With bare feet and anxious steps I rush through the apartment, and down the long hallway. The studio doorway is cracked open but the lights are out, and there’s silence where Chris usually favors music. I don’t know what this means, but I rethink playing this cautiously. That’s what got me into trouble in the first place. It’s all or nothing with Chris. It always has been. I need to make that statement, to declare to him that I am not holding back.

I drop the robe and step inside the studio. Chris stands in the center, his feet bare, his shirt off, his inked skin and defined chest deliciously male.

He is shrouded in shadows, his features dusted with starlight, his blond hair a wild, spiky, finger-tousled mess, and I can almost see him running his fingers through it in frustration. Because of me. I’ve twisted him into knots, when I was trying to protect him. I wait for him to act or speak but he does nothing, and I slowly become aware of what sits next to him: the painting of me naked, sitting on this floor, my hands and feet bound. It is a sign that he’d expected me to follow him and, no doubt, a warning and a promise of what he has planned.

His gaze rakes over my body, taking a leisurely stroll over every part of me, before lifting to my face. “I see you came dressed for the occasion. Come here.”

I don’t hesitate. I never do when Chris’s dominant side is in control. My feet travel the floor quickly; I want him to know that I’m eager. And I am. The sooner I’m touching him and he’s touching me, the sooner I can breathe again.

“Stop,” he orders when I reach the center of the room.

I halt and he closes the distance between us, all long-legged grace and confident man. My man, whom I don’t want to lose. He halts in front of me and I can smell the earthy, wonderful scent of him that has come to mean dominance, power, and home.

His green eyes meet mine in challenge. “Showing up naked is an invitation to get f*cked, Sara.”

“Yes,” I say softly. “Please.”

“Do you remember what I said the painting means to me?”

“You said it’s about trust.”

“That’s right. I also told you that if I f*ck you tonight, I’ll make you tell me why you just tried to run from me.”

“I know.”

“I changed my mind, though. You want to be f*cked, I’ll f*ck you. But I don’t want what you don’t give me freely.”

“Everything, Chris. I give you all that I am, and I give it freely.”

“And yet there’s fear in your eyes, and you ran rather than telling me why. Do you know how crazy that’s making me, or what I’m imagining the cause might be?”

“I didn’t mean to make you worry.” I hug myself so I won’t reach for him. I desperately want to touch him, but I sense the edge in him, the way he needs control right now. I understand it. I’ve lived it, and he gives me the freedom to let it go. And that’s what I have to do now. Just let go and tell him.