RISK(29)

"Do you always tell it like it is?"

"I try to," I admit with a nod of my chin.

"I guess that means I should tell it like it is too."

There's a subtle challenge woven into her silken words. She narrows her eyes as if she's studying me with the intent of finding the most vulnerable part of me. Right now, it's my cock, hard as nails, aching from tip to root.

"Tell it like it is, Ellie," I volley back because I like the game. I like that she's not in a rush to f*ck. She's biding her time, setting the pace. It's an experience I'm not accustomed to.

"I know your secret," she whispers with a lift of her brow.

I try to retain my composure, but it's a battle I can't win. I stare at her, in silence, dumbfounded by her words.

She knows my secret. One of my secrets. I have many, too many.

"There are clues all over your apartment." Her mouth quirks.

"Clues?" I scratch the back of my head. This game of cat and mouse would be infinitely more enjoyable if I were the cat and she played the role of the mouse, but that doesn't suit her. She's the one tugging on the string waiting for me to take the irresistible bait. "What clues?"

She leans closer so the seductive scent of her hits me. My body's response is feral. A fierce desire burns inside me to push her against the window. I want to f*ck her until her secrets are mine. I want to punish her for playing with me. I need her as bare and exposed as I feel.

"There's a picture on top of your piano of Crew holding a small baby in a pink blanket. It looks like it was taken in a hospital room. It must be his niece in his arms." She flashes a smile at me. "Crew looks younger in it. I'd say it was taken a few years ago."

A few years ago, indeed. Five years, three months, twelve days.

"I saw a black marker on the table in the foyer." Her eyes drift past me to the hallway that leads back to the door she followed me through. "It's permanent, but not really. The ink fades once water hits it."

The dots she's connecting make perfect sense to her. The scattered unframed pictures on the piano I never learned how to play, the black permanent marker left near the door by a delivery man with a tight schedule and an absent mind. He handed me the pen. I signed for the package and by the time I was pulling a ten dollar bill from my pocket to offer him, he was back on the elevator.

"You said that the person who wrote on your hand wasn't a woman or a man. That only leaves the possibility of a child."

My chest expands. The air in my lungs stalls as I wait for her next words.

"Crew's niece wrote it when she came to visit you." She smiles. It's obvious she can't help it. I see the relief on her face. I hear it in her voice. The uncertainty about the message on my palm was her last thread of resistance. "That ladybug earring you had on belonged to her, didn't it? Little girls love pretty things."

Seconds pass and I don't say a word. I've never discussed this with a woman. Not even with Shelby and the two other women I saw more than once. I kept everything neutral, only giving meager details about my life as I dressed after rolling off the sheets and away from them.

This is why I only take women to the hotel. I need that barrier between my world and them. I don't want them stumbling into my real life. I'm not looking for impromptu deliveries of home baked goods from a woman I f*cked and forgot. I don't want the complications that come when a woman shows up at my place in lingerie expecting a repeat.

There was a time when that worked for me, but no more. Not now.

I'm giving Ellie more of a glimpse into who I am than I have with anyone else, yet it still feels trivial. I should explain everything before I have her. Tell her who she's really sharing her body with.

"Can I tell you one of my secrets?"

"Yes," I say hoarsely, as eager to hear her confession as I am desperate to move the conversation away from me. "Tell me."

She looks up at me, her mouth curving into a small smile. "I'm relieved that a woman didn't write those words on your hand."

If she thinks that's a secret, I need to explain the meaning of the word to her. The relief that she felt was written all over her face. It was there in her body language.

She shakes her head. "I'm not saying that I think this is an exclusive thing. I don't. I know that we're probably going to have sex tonight and that doesn't mean you won't be having sex with other women tomorrow or that I won't be having sex with other men this week or whenever."

"What men?" I cock my head to the side, the bitter unfamiliar taste of jealousy coating my tongue, forcing the question out.

"It doesn't matter," she answers quickly on a sigh. "I was trying to say that I won't sleep with a man if he's in a serious relationship with someone else. If a woman loved you enough to brand your hand, even temporarily, you might love her back. I'm glad that it wasn't a woman who wrote it."

"What men, Ellie?"

"I don't know." She shrugs. "I wasn't talking about a particular man, Nolan. I was talking in general terms about having sex with other men."

I swear to God my vision is blurring from frustration. Why can't she give me a straight answer, and more importantly, why the hell do I care?

I've been in bed with women I know for a fact were f*cking other men the night before I got my turn and I never gave them another thought. One of my friends from college married a woman he screwed an hour after I did at a frat party. I didn't think twice about it. I went to their wedding with a gift from their registry in my hands. I've never given two shits about what guy a woman f*cked before or after she's been with me. Right now, the only thing I want is Ellie to tell me who the hell else she wants.