Up in Smoke (Crossing the Line, #2)(12)

“What are you doing?” he demanded. Do it again.

“What feels right,” she whispered, stroking her fingers over his chest. “Tell me what you’re thinking about. Is it me?”

“Of course,” he shouted. “You don’t want to know any more than that.”

“Yes, I do.” She lightly scraped her fingernails down his back, and he growled. “I want to know what I’m missing out on. Tell me.”

Against his better judgment, he let his lips come within a breath of her straining nipples, shifting beneath her shirt with every breath. Torture. This was torture.

“You said you want to fill every inch of me. Is that what you’re thinking about?”

“Yes, goddammit.”

Her eyes turned glazed, unfocused. In his entire life, he’d never seen anything like her, vulnerable yet regal at the same time. She lifted her right hand and sucked two fingers into her mouth, before sliding them down the front of her panties. Her mouth parted on a gasp as she sank them into her *. “We can play pretend, can’t we?”

Connor’s body lurched with the force of his brutal climax. His vision dimmed under the weight of it, but he fought to keep his eyes trained on her hand, moving subtly inside her panties. His wild groans bounced off the walls of the bathroom as he stroked out the last of his come, aware that it was landing on her bare legs and unable to feel an ounce of regret over that fact. Right at the end, when the tremors were beginning to die down, she removed her fingers from her panties and dragged them across his lips, ripping an aftershock out of him, coating his palm with the effect.

“Dammit, Erin. Dammit.”

She slipped both hands into his hair and massaged his scalp, gently pulling on the strands. Until he swore it was the only thing holding him upright. “Gorgeous man,” she murmured. “Amazing man.”

“No. I’m not.” How could he stand this close and not bury his face against her chest? Her stomach? It felt like a ritual he was neglecting to complete. “Don’t mistake me for something I’m not.”

“I make a lot of mistakes, but coming over here wasn’t one.” He heard her heavy swallow. “I’m sorry I made you hurt. I’m sorry I can’t…”

The need to reassure her cut through everything. Her toes curled into the edge of his bathtub, chipped black nail polish on her toes. Without the bravado she’d worn like a second skin since he met her, she looked exhausted. Her eyelids drooped, making the heavy circles under her eyes look more pronounced. Now that his need had been momentarily slaked, shame plowed into his stomach like a battering ram. He shouldn’t have let the situation get away from him. Whatever she was harboring on the inside was more important than his attraction to her, mind-numbing though it might be.

He rearranged himself back into his sweatpants and took a deep breath. “Why did you come over here, Erin?”

“The window in my room might as well be painted on. It doesn’t go anywhere.”

“Explain.”

She glanced toward the mirror, flinching at her reflection, before hopping off the tub and leaving the bathroom. He grabbed a towel off the rack and followed her. When he entered the living room, he felt a flare of panic at not seeing her, but breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped into the light coming in through the window.

Evidence of his release was still visible on her legs and he put a stranglehold on the surge of pleasure it gave him, seeing it on her skin. He handed her the towel, wishing he could be the one to clean her off. She stared at the towel for a beat before comprehending why he’d brought it. As she wiped her legs clean, there wasn’t a hint of embarrassment in her expression, only methodical concentration. When she’d finished, she held on to the towel and looked out the window.

“See, from here, there are twenty-two steps to the street.” Her words sounded subdued, but concise. “One step onto the fire escape, five down the first set of stairs, five down the second. One when I hop down onto the asphalt. From there, if I run at a sprint, I can be in front of the building in ten steps. There’s a security light that goes on if it senses movement, but the bulb has been taken out. It’s the first thing I did when I got to the building this afternoon.”

Connor’s chest felt like someone had lobbed a sandbag onto his chest. Dots were starting to connect, though. Escape artist. Needs to be near windows. He wasn’t ready to ponder the reason she’d developed the skill, but he had to know. It felt like his responsibility. “Your window doesn’t have a fire escape?”

Erin scoffed. “I could get out without one. No problem.” She rapped on the windowpane with her knuckles. “There’s a closed-in area below my window, only accessible through a basement door. Fifteen-foot-high cinder-block walls. I could potentially get over them, but it would kill my timing. And I wouldn’t have any visibility on the other side. It’s a trap.”

It was unbelievable, really. The way she appeared so self-possessed while calmly discussing escape routes. So unlike the unusual behavior he’d already come to associate with her. It made something inside him hurt. “Does someone want to trap you, Erin?”

“Yes,” she whispered, then shook herself. “Don’t ask me that again.”

It took Connor several moments to calm the rage. Was her need to have a way out associated with her aversion to being touched? He’d known there had to be a reason she didn’t like hands on her, but now that he drew closer to an explanation, he was afraid to know the whole story. Afraid to have his depravity confirmed. God, what he’d just done in front of this girl couldn’t be excused. Nor could the desire to do it again. To do whatever she’d allow him to do.