Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(23)

He laughs, that low, ridiculously sexy laugh of his, and I am again taken aback by how right and wrong he can feel at the very same moment in time. We fall into silence, the sound of the radio mixed with the raindrops on the roof filling the air. I start to drift off when “Take Me to Church” by Hozier begins to play. My gut knots, my chest tightening with some dark emotion that I think might be fear. Which is ridiculous. I’m sitting in the car with Kayden. The song is just a song, but the words sweep through me like a blade, trying to make me bleed.

There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin . . .

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the urge to shove away a memory I don’t want to see, but I can’t hide. I wasn’t a coward when Kayden held that gun on me, and I won’t be one now. Cautiously, I let myself slip inside the past, and it’s like I’m looking down on myself from above, not fully committed to being in the moment. First, there is just me. I don’t see the place I am at. I’m wearing a curve-hugging black dress with sheer, long sleeves. My lips are glossy. My makeup is perfect. My hair is red, vibrant, and this is me. The real me Kayden said he hopes to know. That he swore he would know.

My vision expands, and I can see that I am standing in the middle of a bedroom with expensive artwork on the walls, fancy hardwood floors beneath my strappy high-heeled shoes. To the right of me is a large brown leather chair, and beside it a wooden sculpture of a tiger, and I don’t like it. Not at all, but I do not know why, nor do I care to remember. I cut my gaze away from it, shutting out whatever memory it represents.

I refocus on where I stand, a massive mahogany bed behind me. Two gorgeously etched wooden doors are in front of me, and I’m waiting for them to open. And they do, as if my attention has invited them to do so, and he enters, stealing my breath, skyrocketing my heart rate. I try to see his face, but my mind is still protecting me. I don’t have to know who he is to feel his power or the way he owns the room. No. The way he owns everything, and everyone, around him.

He walks toward me, slow, confident, stopping a mere sway from touching me. He is tall and towers above me, watching me, and I can feel the heat of his stare, but I cannot see his eyes or even what he is wearing. And I don’t want to, I realize. That’s the problem. I’m hiding when I have to face this, and I force myself to go deeper into the memory. No longer am I watching myself from above. I’m right there in that room, living the experience all over again.

“Undress,” he orders.

I blanch. “What? I thought we were going out.”

He steps closer, towering over me, his suit tailored, expensive perfection, like his body beneath it. “You heard me. I told you to undress.”

“I—”

He twists rough fingers into my hair and drags my mouth to his, his breath a warm tease on my lips. “You like our games. Do as I say. Let me f*ck you a new way.”

“Yes,” I whisper, and while I do like our games, there is something different about him tonight, an edge that frightens me. Or maybe it’s my inhibitions, my weaknesses, winning.

But he doesn’t let me go with my agreement, the twist of his fingers in my hair tightening, his mouth closing down on mine, the swipe of his tongue rough with demand I should revel in, but do not.

He releases me and sets me away from him, crossing his arms over his chest to watch me. I undress, but he does not, which is never the case, and my unease expands, burning in my chest. Once I’m naked, feeling at his mercy, his gaze rakes over every part of my body, and I expect him to come to me, or to order me to him. Instead, he turns and walks to a drawer, opening it and returning with a long piece of rope.

“Hold out your hands.”

This man has been my hero, and I should trust him, but I don’t want to do it. I want to grab my clothes and run. His gaze sharpens and I feel trapped, unsure of what to do. He arches a brow and I offer him my hands. Satisfaction gleams in his eyes as he binds me.

“Lie on the bed with your hands over your head,” he orders.

I do it, telling myself he’s always made me hot. He’s always been good to me. He will f*ck me in some amazing way, and my nervous reaction is silly. He walks to the headboard and grabs my bound hands, and somehow, I’m not sure where, he ties them over my head. And then he just leaves. He walks out of the room and leaves me tied to the bed. And for the first time since I met him, I feel alone.

I return to the present with a flutter of my lashes and a splintering pain in my skull, and that song is still playing, reminding me of him, whoever he is. I want it to stop. Please make it stop . . . But still it goes on . . .

My church offers no absolutes . . .

I’m pulled back into the past, expecting, and dreading, seeing that man again, but I do not return to him or his bedroom. This time I’m at the church where Kayden found me tonight. And Kayden is there too, pressing me against the wooden door, his big body framing mine, his hands cupping my face as he kisses me. And I can taste his desire, his passion. His claim to me . . . the possession. And clearly now, when it had not been in the moment, I know that he wants—even needs—to own me. This discovery should scare me, but the scent of him, warm spice and vanilla, is so damn familiar, both soothing and arousing. I cling to him, kissing him back, hungry for more of him. And with him, I am not alone like I’d been in that room, tied to that bed. He is the answer I need. Kayden.

I open my eyes, and I feel like a hammer is pounding in my head. The song is over. The rain continues. And I don’t want to think about why my mind showed me him and then showed me Kayden. I just want to go to sleep.