In His Keeping (Slow Burn #2)(57)

Warmth invaded her cheeks as her thoughts drifted to the night in question. She was deliciously, decadently sore in intimate places, the ache certainly enough to distract her from any discomfort she might feel from a lingering headache and the cut in her side that had stitches.

Funny but she hadn’t given either a thought until now. She was more focused on those more intimate hurts. She frowned. Hurt wasn’t an appropriate descriptor.

Aching awareness? Yeah, that pretty much nailed it. She was tantalizingly tender and only the lightest of brushes over her breasts, between her legs, even her mouth—swollen by his all-consuming kisses—was like an electrical charge, lighting her up and throwing her back to the moment when he’d finally taken her over the edge.

She could stay in bed reliving that experience the entire day and be sated and lazy and definitely wanting to do it all over again.

Her stomach growled when tantalizing smells wafted into the bedroom. Her mouth watered and she rubbed a hand over it. Who knew having sex worked up such an appetite? She wasn’t normally much of a breakfast eater and in fact rarely ate before noon, but she was suddenly starving.

She was so tempted to play the wicked temptress and walk into the kitchen without a stitch of clothing on and see how long it took for Beau to take her back to bed. A satisfied smile curved her lips as she remembered how . . . freeing it had felt to actually play a part in a very mutual, very satisfying seduction. Who knew she had this total sex kitten inside her just waiting to come out and play. Instead of being embarrassed or ashamed she defiantly slammed the door on those two emotions.

Something that good, that heart-achingly beautiful was nothing to regret, to be embarrassed over, and definitely no shame should ever touch something so perfect.

And then two thoughts simultaneously burst her cloud of euphoria, evaporating it into a fine mist as reality hit her square in the face.

One, they very likely weren’t alone for her to go parading through the house, butt-ass naked. And two, oh God. How could she just forget? How could she embark on an affair like her world wasn’t upside down and like everything was in perfect harmony, balance and in accord, when in fact her life lay in shambles. Complete and utter ruin.

Shame, something she’d sworn not to feel, slammed so violently into her heart that she had to sit down on the edge of the bed or fall to her knees. And fear, her constant companion that she’d briefly been able to escape for a few stolen hours, was back with paralyzing vengeance.

While she’d been indulging in a night of complete abandon, a door to a brand-new, previously unexplored world opening wide for her to breeze through, arms stretched wide, like she was reaching for the sun, her parents’ whereabouts were unknown. Their condition was unknown. Whether they were even still alive was unknown.

And she’d been happy. Deliriously happy. Smiling. Laughing. Having sex for the first time and finally understanding what all the fuss was about. Acting like she didn’t have a care in the world when her parents were her world and without them in it, she faced a lonely, barren existence.

Tears stung her eyes and she hung her head. She instantly became aware of the warm slide and metallic smell from her nostrils. Blood dripped onto her lap. She touched it with a trembling finger, already feeling the echo of pain start at the base of her skull and spread out like a spiderweb over the rest of her skull.

“I love you, Mom and Dad,” she whispered.

Why couldn’t her psychic power be telepathy? So she could talk to her parents no matter where they were. There would never be any barrier she couldn’t breach. No place where they could be hidden from her.

What was the use in being able to move objects with her mind? It seemed all she was capable of was chaos and violence. And a levitating bed during sex. Really big freaking deal. Who cared?

She could almost hear her mother saying in her soothing, gentle tone reserved only for her daughter and husband, Stop being so hard on yourself, baby. You have nothing to prove to anyone. Certainly not to me or your father. We love you exactly the way you are and we wouldn’t change a single thing about you. You are the proudest accomplishment in our lives. The most important. No one makes us happier than you do.

She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, smearing blood on her face. Then she sighed in disgust. She couldn’t walk into the kitchen looking like something from a horror movie. Beau would freak.

Feeling the weight of so much sorrow and fear, she trudged into the bathroom and winced at the paleness of her skin and how stark the bright red blood looked against her colorless face.

She warmed the water and then soaked a washcloth, wringing it out and then burying her face in it, inhaling the heated, moist air. Tears seeped in to mingle with the dampness from the water from the faucet and she dropped the cloth, squared her shoulders and visibly pulled herself back together.

The last thing a man wanted was to see the woman he’d made love to the night before walk into his kitchen the next morning looking haggard and mournful. Not exactly good for his ego and she wanted to make damn sure he never thought she had a single regret. Because even though she was ashamed of the fact that she’d given her parents no thought during those precious hours, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

It likely made her a terrible person, but she was at least honest. Most important, she was honest with herself. She wasn’t going to be a flaming hypocrite on top of her other multiple sins.

But making love with Beau had been like touching the sun after weeks of rainy, drab days. He’d been the only light in her world since it had been irrevocably altered by her parents’ disappearance. He was her anchor. The only thing she had that was real and solid, and she was clinging desperately because she had nothing—no one else—to lean on in her time of very real need.