"Off," he growled, his fingers tugging at the lace of my panties.
I wriggled my hips as he yanked them down. I have no idea if he tossed them aside or if they ended up tangled in the sheets. I was too preoccupied with the way he clutched my thighs, his thumbs grazing teasingly close to my sex. He pushed my legs apart, spreading me wide as he bent lower, then licked every intimate inch of me.
He was the first man to touch me like this since I'd been waxed, and the sensation of his tongue against my bare flesh came damn close to pushing me over the edge, the glorious sensation matched only by the teasing way that his tongue danced over my clit in sweet little motions designed to send me spiraling into the heavens.
I wanted to cry out--to scream in pleasure--but I also didn't want him to stop, and so I bit down on the pad of my thumb until I couldn't take it anymore. Until the sweet, decadent pressure inside me became too much to bear and I had to cry out as my body shuddered and exploded, only to be drawn back to earth again, tethered to Evan, just as he had promised.
"Evan--oh my god, Evan."
"Shhh." He moved up beside me, then pulled me close until he was spooned against me. He was still in his jeans and T-shirt, but I could feel his erection straining against my ass as he hooked an arm over my waist to anchor me against him.
"Don't you want--?"
"I want to hold you. I want to fall asleep with the taste of you on my lips and the scent of you all around me. And I want you to drift off with nothing in your head but the pleasure I gave you. Do you understand, baby?"
I remembered everything he'd said in the alley. I wanted that--I wanted it desperately.
But I didn't want it right then. All I wanted was the safety of his arms.
I nodded, and if I weren't so tired, I would have smiled. Once again, Evan Black understood what I needed.
"Good girl. Now close your eyes." His voice was soft, almost sing-song, and I complied.
I never fell asleep easily, but with Evan beside me, I felt myself drifting off. Falling away in the arms of this dangerous man.
And never in my life had I felt more safe.
eight
The rest of the night passed easily, and I woke up feeling so alive and refreshed and alert that I actually laughed out loud. I never slept without the nightmares. Not ever. Even when they snuck in under the radar, so small and quiet that I didn't remember them in the morning, I always knew that they'd been there, creeping around the edges of my subconscious like vermin.
And yet in Evan's arms they'd stayed away, as if he'd stood sentry against the dragons, slaying them as a proper knight would.
Slowly, I rolled over, careful not to wake Evan who still had his arm over me. His face was calm, at peace, and yet I could still see the dark hints of the man who had protected me in the alley. The sharp contours of his face. The shadow of beard stubble. That scar that stood out as a reminder of what he was capable of. I'd seen it, hadn't I? If those men had taken it further--if they'd tried to hurt me--Evan would have killed them with no thought and no regret. He was, I thought, an avenging angel. My avenging angel.
And all I wanted right then was to finish what he'd started. To give him the same pleasure that he'd given me.
Gently, I shifted on the bed, hooking my leg over until I was straddling him, my knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The covers slid down my body and the cool air brushed over my back and my bare breasts. I was naked now, my panties having been flung aside last night like an afterthought.
I stayed like that for a moment, my eyes on his face. My breasts felt heavy, my nipples tight. My breathing was ragged and wild, and I slid my hand down my belly, then closed my eyes as my fingers found my sex, hot and slick. I drew in a shattered breath as the remnants of a dream returned. He'd banished the nightmares, yes. And the dreams that had replaced them had been sweetly, desperately arousing.
I pulled my hand away. My body might be on the edge, but I had no interest in being the one who pushed me over. I wanted Evan and only Evan. I bent forward at the waist and lowered my hips until I was brushing against his crotch. Just that one point of connection, and yet every atom in my body was reacting, swirling and bouncing and dancing in glorious anticipation.
My hands were on the bed, palms flat, on either side of his head. I was low enough now that my breasts brushed the cotton of his T-shirt, my nipples so tight and hard that the friction was almost painful. My breath was ragged, my body nothing more than need.
I brushed a soft kiss over his lips and watched as his eyes fluttered. I held my breath, exhaling only when his eyes fluttered open to reveal the smoky depths of those enigmatic gray eyes.
"Angie," he murmured, and that was enough for me. I rocketed forward, capturing him in a hard, fast, demanding kiss. His mouth was open to me, and I tasted him, drawing him in, savoring him. He broke the kiss suddenly, gasping, and I arched back to look at his face. His eyes met mine, and I saw myself. My need and my desire. I saw years of pent-up passion, and in that moment I felt wholly vindicated--at least until the moment the shadow passed between us.
"Oh, Jesus, Angie," he said as he looked away. And in that instant the world around me shattered like glass.
"Evan," I said, but what I meant was "Please."
It didn't matter. He'd been with me--right there--but now he was pulling back. Frantic, I reached out, grabbing his collar and holding him in place. "I want this," I said. "I want to finish what we started last night. What you said. Don't you see? I'm still not running."
Once again, his eyes met mine, and this time there was no passion. Only regret and bald determination. "I know you're not." He closed his hand gently over mine, then loosened my grip. "But you should."
He drew in a heavy breath, then shifted on the bed so that he was no longer over me. I lay there, numb, as he sat up on the side of the bed. His back was straight as a board. His shoulders were squared. I had the impression I was looking at a soldier about to go into battle. Reluctant, but determined.
I understood what he was doing--what I didn't get was why.
"Evan." My voice was barely a whisper, as if volume might push him out the door. "We both want it. I do, and I know you do, too."
He stood up, then turned to look at me. I dragged the covers up to my neck, needing to keep at least part of me hidden. I'd already exposed too much of myself to him.
"Don't you?" I pleaded when he said nothing. My voice was laced with a note of insecurity, and I hated myself for it. I watched the expressions shift across his face like clouds upon the wind, and fear slashed through me. "You're not seriously going to stand there and tell me I'm wrong? I felt it, Evan. I felt you."
His expression was flat, but his eyes were like a storm when they met mine. "I have done and will do a lot of things that you would probably find reprehensible. But I will never, never, lie to you."
I shook my head, confused and wary.
"Last night--what happened in the alley." He shook his head. "It was a mistake," he said, and with that single word, I understood everything. Whatever he'd seen in me--whatever he'd wanted--I'd managed to destroy it. He might have lost control last night, but in the end, I was dragonbait--some weak female who needed rescuing. But it wasn't a princess that Evan Black wanted. It never had been.
"A mistake," I repeated dully. I thought of the way I'd felt in his arms. The way he'd kept the nightmares at bay.
Yeah, maybe that was a mistake. Because he'd given me peace--and I damn sure didn't deserve it.
"You're a fucking idiot. You know that, right?"
I gaped at Flynn over the coffee I was sipping to nurse my raging headache. "What the hell?"
I'd called Kat first for cupcakes and sympathy, but she'd had to go into the coffee shop to cover someone else's shift. I'd ended up at Flynn's, figuring that if anyone could cheer me up it would be him. So far, I was less than impressed with his technique. "When you said I should come over, I thought it was so you could make me feel better."
&nbs
p; "That was before I knew the full story. And that you plan to just let the guy walk. Like I said. Fucking. Idiot."
"Let him walk? He practically sprinted." I ran my fingers through my hair. "He doesn't want me. And I sure as hell shouldn't want him."
He added some Tabasco to the Bloody Mary he was mixing, then slid it onto the counter in front of me.
I raised my steaming coffee mug. "Headache."
"Trust me. This'll knock it out a hell of a lot better than coffee."
I rolled my eyes. Flynn held a firm belief in the healing powers of vodka. But despite my doubts, I sipped the drink--and had to acknowledge that it was pretty damn good.
I was sitting at the breakfast bar that was attached to the kitchen island. For the eight months we'd lived together, that had been my usual weekend perch. I'm not exactly competent in the kitchen, but Flynn can make anything taste good. At that moment, he was scrambling eggs, making hash browns, and frying up sausage patties, and the kitchen smelled like heaven.
He moved between the island and the stove with casual efficiency dressed in gray sweatpants and a John Barleycorn saloon T-shirt. He was damn good-looking, with deep-set eyes and a swoop of hair that fell over his brow, though he constantly pushed it out of the way. His obsession with jogging and biking kept him in shape, giving him a tight ass and the kind of biceps that made even the tallest woman feel petite. He could cook--which in my book was a plus--and I happened to know that he was a lot of fun in bed.
He flipped two sausage patties, then turned to me, his eyes narrowed. "What?"
I held up my hands in a gesture of innocence.
"You have that look. What's on your mind?"
"I don't have a look," I countered.
"I've known you forever. Trust me when I say you have a look."
"There is no look. But if there was a look it would be one of confusion."
"And you're confused because ...?"
"I'm just wondering how you're justified in giving relationship advice. I'm pretty sure you've gone out on a first date with every woman in Chicago, but somehow that whole second date thing eludes you."
"I'm highly selective," he said. He pulled himself up to sit on the granite counter. "This isn't an exercise in dramatic irony, is it? You're not going to blurt out that even though you've been pining after Evan all these years, now you realize it was really me you wanted all along?"
"Don't flatter yourself," I said. "And I think your potatoes are burning."
"Like hell they are," he said, but he slid off the counter and turned down the heat, then started filling a plate for each of us.
I absolutely loved Flynn to death, but I wasn't in love with him any more than he was in love with me, and I never had been. Of course, that hadn't stopped me from sleeping with him all those years ago. He'd been angry at his father. I'd been angry at the world. He'd stolen the keys to his dad's Harley, and we'd rocketed down Sheridan Road all the way to Wisconsin.
I didn't remember which one of us initiated it. I only knew that he'd wanted to get laid, and I'd wanted the release. More than that, I'd wanted to get my first time over with. I wanted to make the fantasy that Evan would be my first go away. Because if I could put an end to that, maybe I could put an end to it all.
It hadn't worked. Thankfully, our experiment in sexual healing hadn't messed up our friendship. It had been weird for about a week. Then we'd gotten drunk on the beach, confessed that even though it had been fun and felt nice, neither one of us wanted a repeat performance, and continued on the way we'd been going. Only now I had the added benefit of being able to talk to him about sex stuff. Considering he came at the whole dating and girl thing from the perspective of a straight male, that was a pretty handy perk.
"Let's back up to this idiot thing," I said as he slid a plate in front of me. "Pretend you're a guy--"
He cocked his head, cupped his balls, and lifted a brow.
I rolled my eyes. "Pretend you're a guy who's just walked away from a woman he's attracted to."
"We're not playing this game, Ang. He didn't walk away because you melted down when some assholes with knives came after you. He walked away because your fucking uncle made him fucking promise."
"He damn sure managed to get over the promise in the alley before the assholes showed up."
"He was thinking with his cock."
"And he wasn't when he went down on me?"
He opened his mouth to retort, then shrugged. "Score one for the little lady."
I reveled in my victory, even though it was the purely Pyrrhric kind. And, frankly, the reason didn't exactly matter. I'd thought for a shining moment that I'd get the man I'd always fantasized about, and then it had all gone to hell.
Honestly, I should have expected that.
"And you know what?" Flynn said, waving a spatula in my direction. "If he's so worked up about keeping promises, he needs to keep the one he made to you."
I had no idea what he was talking about, a fact which must have shown on my face, because Flynn just shook his head in exasperation.
"What do you think happened on that dance floor? In that alley? Not to mention your bed."
"Not enough," I muttered grumpily.
He lifted his Bloody Mary in salute. "True, but I was going to say that it was a promise, too, right? He was promising you one hell of a good time, and then he went and cut you off. Do girls get blue balls?"
"Yes," I said flatly.
He snorted. "Well, I know guys do, and he must have a serious pair. I mean, shit, the guy got you off, had you right there naked, and still didn't fuck you. Do you have any idea how much self-control that takes? The guy's freaking Hercules."
At that, I laughed outright. I'd known coming here was a good idea. Already, I felt better. "Maybe he's just not attracted to me," I said, forcing myself not to grin.
"Now you're just fishing for compliments."
The smile I'd tried to suppress blossomed. "Well, duh. I'm not sleeping with you, remember? What good are you to me if you don't lavish me with positive affirmations?"
"Good point." He shoveled in the last of his eggs, then slid off the stool to go scrape the dregs from the pan to his plate. "You're an exceptionally gorgeous woman with astounding acrobatic abilities in the sack. You have good taste in movies, terrible taste in candy, and you make a damn good Manhattan, thanks to my incredible teaching, of course."
"Thank you," I said graciously. "You're wrong about Twizzlers. But I love you anyway."
"As you should. But as for Evan Black ..." He trailed off, shaking his head regretfully. "He's an asshole who doesn't keep his promises."
"No, he's not," I said.
Flynn burst out laughing. "Oh, man. You really do have it bad."
I sighed. Because I did. I really did.
Flynn took the last bite of his sausage, then glanced at my mostly untouched plate.
"I'm eating," I said, shoveling a huge forkful of hash browns into my mouth. "Where are we going this week?" I asked, thumbing my nose at etiquette and talking with my mouth full.
Our weekly museum jaunts had started last May on the very day that we'd moved in together after I'd graduated from Northwestern. Before that, I'd lived on campus and Flynn had kept his tiny bedroom in the groundskeeper's quarters that came with his father's job on the massive Kenilworth estate just a few blocks from my uncle Jahn.
Flynn's father, who rarely left his world of flowers and trees and shrubs, had taken the train into the city the day we moved into the apartment. He'd looked around the room, nodded approval, then pulled his son into a bear hug. I'm pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.
I'd felt a knot of jealousy curve in my belly. The neighborhood was safe and affluent to satisfy my parents' concerns, but we'd taken the cheapest one bedroom we could find. We'd both wanted to pay our own way, and my starting salary at HJH&A wasn't exactly impressive. Not that Flynn was doing much better between tending bar and working as a flight attendant. But we figured that we'd make do with me in
the bedroom and Flynn in the living room--and the Oak Street Beach just a short bike ride away.
While the setup might have made Flynn's dad proud, it had only frustrated my father, who made it more than clear that he'd happily buy me a condo if I would just say the word.
I remained silent.
Pops, as Flynn's father liked to be called, had taken us out to breakfast, then led us to the Red Line. We'd asked no questions, just gone with him until we reached the stop at Roosevelt. Then he walked us to the museum campus, bought a hotdog from a vendor, and pointed to the Field Museum of Natural History. "Whenever you two have a day off," he said. "Here, there," he added, indicating the aquarium. "The Art Institute, one of those boat rides that shows you all the buildings. You explore. You learn. You see the world that you're part of and you live in it. You understand me?" He poked Flynn in the chest. "That goes double for you. The opportunities you have flying all over the country. All over the world." He sniffed, then pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "If only your mother could see you."
Flynn eyed me sideways, his expression a little amused and a little embarrassed. But I liked the idea of living in the world. Especially since I sometimes feared that I'd forgotten how to do that.
Now Flynn started the dishwasher before we headed toward the door. "Let's do the aquarium this week."
"How about the Art Institute?"
"We went there last week."
I shrugged.
He eyed me sideways. "If you already knew where you wanted to go, why'd you ask me?"
"An overabundance of politeness?"
"Let me guess. The windows."
I took his hand and smiled happily. "See how well you know me?"
I feel about the Chagall windows the way some people feel about Notre Dame or the National Cathedral or Westminster Abbey. There is something about the experience of looking at that stained glass, with the oddly fractured images, so many of which seem to have been caught mid-flight, that makes my soul want to soar.
I'd discovered them by accident one day when I'd gotten turned around trying to find the cafe, and I'd stood there, no longer hungry, and just watched the light move across the vibrant, vital blue.