If I Were You(Inside Out 01)(50)

“You didn’t want me to go?” I ask, unable to stop myself from seeking confirmation, from craving more from this man — the question is ‘more’ what? Pleasure, I promise myself. This is about pleasure.
He studies me for such a long time; I fear I might ramble again, but thankfully, he saves us both my undoing. “I don’t bring women to my apartment, Sara,” he informs me, his tone hard, gravelly, almost angry. “I don’t have sex without condoms and I don’t ask about their pasts. And I sure as hell don’t talk about mine.”
Of all the things he’s just said, I hone in on the one of the least consequences considering I’m supposed to be trying to keep this about a sexy fling. Nevertheless, I do it anyway. My brows furrow. Is he really inferring he’s talked to me about his past? Because if he is, and he considers what he’s told me about, then I assume any real information I might garner would be downright criminal.
I study him and there is a fizzle of discomfort expanding and taking shape inside me. He seems really upset, as if…is he blaming me for making him do things he doesn’t want to do? He is. I can see it in his face. Oh good gosh. He’s blaming me. A hot spot in the center of my chest begins to burn.
I drop my feet and clutch the blanket. “I should go.”
“Please don’t.” His voice is soft, but it halts me with the raw vulnerability in its depths. There is true distress etched in his handsome face, as I imagine I must have on mine as well.
“You’re confusing me, Chris.”
“That makes two of us, baby,” he says, and pushes off the window. “Give me just a minute.” And just like that, he heads past me and up the sunken living room stairs, leaving me where I’m sitting.
What? Where is he going? I twist to watch him disappear down a hallway. Brows furrowed all over again, I face forward and search for my clothes without luck. His shirt isn’t anywhere nearby either. I’m captive. I can’t leave. Do I want to leave? I think maybe I should. Or maybe I shouldn’t. This man has me in in a whirlwind of…feelings? Emotions? Passion. That’s a safe word. Or is it?
Footsteps sound behind me and Chris hurries down the steps and is in front of me in a snap. He is squatting in front of me, close, and he smells woodsy and fresh and to my complete surprise he is sliding a navy cotton robe about three sizes too big around my shoulders. There is a protective quality to his actions and I am not sure I have ever felt more delicately female than in this moment. Never safer than with a man who is virtually a complete stranger, never with a man I’d almost called my husband. The rightness of this man and of walking away from my past, resonates through me. That decision brought me here.
I’m still clutching the blanket and Chris glances down and back up, wordlessly urging me to let it fall. A low burn is expanding in my belly, sliding through my limbs. I want him. I want him in a way I barely recognize as within the realm of my capacity.
Our eyes lock and hold and I see the shadows in the depths of his stare, and I think…I think he’s letting me. My chest tightens with this realization, this certainty. I let the blanket slide into his hands, and I am naked, but I feel as if he is naked, too. I never bring women to my apartment. There is something happening between us and I pray I was wrong last night. I pray it’s not the beginning of two damaged people tearing each other apart. Some part of me needs Chris. Maybe we need each other.
Eternal seconds pass, and we don’t move, don’t speak. His gaze drops, sliding slowly, hotly over my breasts. “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, a husky tormented quality to his voice that says more than the compliment.
I am shaken by the rush of emotion his words send through me. Yes. Oh yes. There is definitely something happening between us, something rich with promise, and ripe with potential heartache, but I can’t seem to care. My hand goes to his hair, stroking it, urging him to come to me, to be with me.
“Put your arms in, baby,” he orders, and I sense his struggle, some internal battle that tells him not to touch me. I do as he commands and he pulls the robe shut and ties it.
He looks at me then, and he’s found a place to bank whatever he was feeling. His eyes are lighter, his mood seemingly cooler. “I make a mean omelet. Are you hungry?”
His shift in mood flits through me without much resistance on my part. I’ve seen this in Chris several times before, and I’m coming to expect it. Being able to make him smile holds growing appeal.
I smile. “You’re always feeding me.”
“And yet we never seem to finish a meal.” He rotates slightly to indicate the pizza boxes on the table behind him. “We didn’t do the pizza justice.”
“No and you were right. It was really good.”
His lips quirk. “In our defense we had other things on our minds.” He doesn’t give me time to blush and remarkably, considering what I’ve already done with this man, I would have. He pushes to his feet and pulls me with him, towering over me, and reminding me how big he is, and why the sleeves of his robe swallow my hands.
“I’ll cook if you make coffee,” he bargains.
“I’ll take that deal if I can find my hands.” I hold them up and they are lost in navy cotton cloth.
He laughs and starts rolling one of the sleeves up. “You’re melting away. Another reason to feed you. How’s your head this morning?”
“If you mean from the wine, apparently I’m fine.” I can’t resist teasing him. “And I guess you weren’t worried about taking advantage of me when I was intoxicated?”