Risking it All (Crossing the Line, #1)(62)

“You want to call this a win when we’re both aching for it? That’s just fine, Sera.” His mouth grazed her ear. “Just remember one thing. No matter what happens or where you go, I had you first.

I took up every tight inch of you. I watched you get off while you called me your man. Nothing, nothing, will ever change that. You might not want me, but I’ll be your man until I die.”

Her eyes flew open at his words, heart beating so out of control it was a wonder it stayed inside her rib cage. Jaw set, gaze on fire, he was a glowing brand burning his words into her skin where they’d be for all time. He seemed taller, broader in that moment, filling her entire vision. Inescapable. Real. Part of her, the part she’d let fall for him so fast, begged her to launch herself at him and return the promise. Yet even in her overwrought state, she knew she would regret it. It would be a promise she wouldn’t keep and that would hurt even more.

His face grew shuttered the longer she stayed quiet, earnestness replaced by bitter acceptance. With a final once-over of her shuddering body, he whipped a towel off the metal rack and wrapped it around his waist.

“Tell you what, baby, I’m going to keep it hard for you. I want you to know it’s there waiting.”

He left the bathroom without a backward glance.





CHAPTER TWENTY


Bowen stared at Sera over the rim of his nonalcoholic beer. It tasted like shit, but what didn’t taste like shit lately? On top of the slight hangover he was still nursing from last night, he didn’t want his reflexes dulled, so he suffered through a long pull. His hand tightened on the glass when she dropped off a round of drinks to a table full of men who, in their inebriated state, couldn’t help sending her appreciative looks.

She would make her move soon. He’d seen the glances she’d been throwing around the club to judge how much longer she should wait to head downstairs. As it got later, the music got louder and people stopped noticing how long she spent out of the dining room.

Except for him. He noticed every single movement she made. Every breath, every hesitation, every gesture.

The torturous afternoon he’d spent painting so he wouldn’t lose the battle with his urge to just f*cking seduce her already, she’d spent plotting in the guest room. Knowing she was so close had wreaked havoc on his senses for five unbearable hours. He’d wanted that voice in his ear, begging him to f*ck her faster, deeper. He still wanted it with a vengeance, but at this point he would settle for her simply talking to him, sharing her plans. After the shower that had resulted in this century’s worst case of blue balls, they’d retreated to their corners and hadn’t spoken since, except to decide what time he’d take her to work.

There was an unspoken agreement that tonight

she

would

finish

her

investigation come hell or high water, but she obviously had no intention of involving him. So he was involving himself. He’d sit at the bar drinking shitty nonalcoholic beer until she needed him. A dozen different emotions battled for supremacy in his chest. Desire for her to succeed and prove herself in a way he’d never gotten the chance to experience. Self-disgust over a small hope that she didn’t succeed and had to stay with him longer. Rage that she wouldn’t involve him. Fear that she’d get hurt.

Not that he would allow that nightmarish outcome willingly, but what if she got caught in a cross fire? He bit his bottom lip to avoid asking the bartender for something stronger, to drown out the image of Sera in pain. In fifty years, even if he never saw her again after the dust settled, he knew that outcome would remain his worst nightmare. He’d told her as much this morning, ripped open his bleeding chest and let her see his bones. And she’d rejected him. It didn’t matter that she still wanted him physically. Women had wanted him as long as he could remember. That didn’t help him now, not with someone like Sera, who needed something more. Some one more.

As if she’d heard his thoughts from across the dining room, she slowly straightened from the table she served and looked at him. Just…looked. At first, he didn’t know what she was trying to communicate to him, but it slowly dawned on him. Good-bye? This was her good-bye? It plowed through his chest like a freight train, sucked the oxygen from his lungs. He slipped off the stool, wanting, needing, to go to her, but she shook her head subtly, halting him in his tracks.

No, no. No. It couldn’t end like this.

What he’d said to her in the bathroom couldn’t be how he left things. He couldn’t live with that. Couldn’t live with the memory of her cowering from his touch, as if he’d ever lift a finger to hurt her. But he had; he’d been hurting her by throwing their mutual attraction in her face. Challenging her to say no, even though he’d known it was the right thing for her to do.

He shook his head, trying to communicate his need to say a decent good-bye. Remind her that she’d live inside his head forever. But she broke their eye contact and disappeared into the kitchen. Bowen stood there frozen, torn between the need to go after her and common sense, which told him someone would notice if he followed her. A minute passed, maybe two, and he could already feel insanity creeping in. As if she’d dragged the light out along with her, leaving him standing in an awful red glow that felt more like a horror flick than real life.

“Driscol.”

His last name being spoken behind him permeated the red fog. He wanted to turn and take a swing at whoever stood there, like a wounded animal. Then the voice registered and his blood ran cold.