Denial (Careless Whispers #1)(45)

Leaning into the bath pillow, I close my eyes and intend to keep my thoughts on Kayden, looking for answers. Instead, I keep seeing myself naked and tied up on that damn bed, and then sitting in front of that drawer, staring at that gun. Frustrated, I stand up, grabbing a towel, not sure why my mind keeps showing me the same thing over and over instead of the complete picture. I hate it. I hate it so much.

I dry off and pat on honeysuckle lotion before slipping on a silk button-up sleep shirt in a soft pink, and brushing my hair. Walking into the bedroom, I stare at the journal on the nightstand, and I want to throw it out the one window in the corner. I don’t want all of these pieces of the puzzle. I want the completed story. My story. And I want Kayden’s, too, neither of which appears willing to be explored.

Grimacing, I stop resisting and grab the stupid journal, sinking down on the floor and opening it. I have no idea why, but I start drawing a butterfly. A butterfly, of all things! It’s just odd and I have no real thought to drive the action. I finish an elementary image and give it a disapproving eye. “You are definitely not going to make your fame and fortune as an artist, Ella.” I shut the journal and leave it on the floor, pushing to my feet to glance at the clock. How did it get to be midnight?

Feeling claustrophobic, I need out of this room and my own head. Deciding to go make a shopping list for Marabella, I hunt for a robe I don’t find, and settle for slippers and a zip-up hoodie I wear over the top of my silk nightshirt. Opening the door, I listen, and I’m not really sure for what, but all I hear are more creaks and moans, disappointment filling me when there are no lights or any other sign of Kayden’s return.

I enter the hall and hurry toward the archway to the living area and kitchen, and when I reach it I end up staring toward Kayden’s room. I bite my lip, telling myself to go the other direction, but I think of him standing at that window, at the torment rolling off him, and I’m not sure if it’s me who needs him or him who needs me. Somehow my feet are moving toward his door. He’s not even here, so it won’t matter anyway. Still, my heart races, thundering in my chest, and it’s pure adrenaline that pushes me to his door. I stop and look at it, but I can’t seem to get myself to knock. I shouldn’t knock. Or maybe I should. No. I shouldn’t.

“Ella.”

At the sound of Kayden’s voice I whirl around to find him standing only a few feet away, his light brown hair tousled, his dark jeans and T-shirt paired with black boots and a sleek black leather jacket that confirms he’s been gone, somewhere, perhaps with someone.

“Is there something wrong?” he asks, an air of the rebel about him, of danger, that I perhaps find far too sexy.

My fingers twist together in front of me and I drop them, afraid I look as nervous as I feel. “Nothing is wrong. Or not really. I just wanted to talk to you.”

His eyes narrow sharply, his displeasure with my answer slicing through the air, and I don’t know why. What is wrong with talking? He advances on me, a predator closing in on his prey, his anger a live wire that has me backing up until I hit the door. He stops in front of me, towering above me, his big body a wall between me and the rest of the world.

“You wanted to talk?” he demands, his voice low, fierce. “In your nightgown?”

My defenses bristle. “I wasn’t thinking about what I was wearing.”

“In your nightgown, Ella.”

“Yes. I’m in my nightgown because I couldn’t sleep. I meant to go to the kitchen and then I ended up here because I wanted . . .” His reaction cuts like his anger. “Just never mind.” I try to move around him but his hands press to the wall beside me, caging me, and now I’m angry. “Are we doing this again? Don’t bully me. My stupid flashbacks are doing a fine job of that on their own. I said I’m sorry. Just let me go back to my room.”

“You wanted what?”

“I wanted you to do what you swore you could,” I blurt, having nothing to lose when everything is already gone. “Only I don’t want you to f*ck me until I can’t remember my name. I want you to f*ck me until I stop thinking about that man and the gun. Because you were right. Memories are the enemies that never die. But I know you don’t want—”

His hand slides under my hair and he drags me to him, my hand flattening on the hard wall of his chest. “I do want. So f*cking bad it’s killing me.”

My palm is directly over his heart, and I can feel it racing, the air around us crackling with barely contained passion. “I don’t need a hero to save my virtue tonight. I need you. So please. Fuck me and then f*ck with my head so no one else can. Let me choose my own sins.”

He is stone, unmoving, his body steel, his expression unreadable, the sexual tension crackling between us. “You want sin, sweetheart,” he says. “I’ll give you sin.” His mouth closes down on mine, his tongue licking into my mouth, wicked with demand, and I can taste his hunger, his need. A deep, aching need I want to fill. This is what I’ve sensed in him, a pain that runs deeper than that of a ten-year-old boy, raw and open, carving him inside out. This is what brought me to his door. I wrap my arms around him, sinking into the kiss, the hard lines of his body absorbing my softer ones, a shelter and escape from the storm raging inside me.

But just as I am lost in the kiss, in the man, he tears his mouth from mine, jolting me back to reality and staring down at me, shadows etching those blue eyes. I don’t know what he searches for but I do not blink, holding his stare, letting him see that I have no hesitation in me. And he must get the message, because he turns me to face the door, his big body hot and hard against my backside as he reaches around me and opens it.