feel is simply indescribable and I suddenly can’t breathe for the impact of seeing him.
“Come here,” he orders softly.
I don’t hesitate, crossing the small space between us and stopping in front of him where he holds the doors open. “Why are you here?” he asks, and he doesn’t reach for me or touch me when I want him to touch me. And I want to touch him perhaps more than I have ever wanted to touch anyone.
“You know why,” I reply.
His response is no response. He stands there, towering over me, searching my expression, looking for something I hope he finds. Sincerity maybe? A lie I’m not telling this time? I do not know but I am certain whatever he finds will decide if I go upstairs with him. “I couldn’t stay away and the truth is, I didn’t want to.”
There is a flicker of emotion, or perhaps a glint, in his eyes, and then he’s dragging me to him, inside the elevator, and he’s keying in his floor. Another quick maneuver later, I’m in the corner of the elevator, his powerful legs pinning mine, his hands on the wall above me, instead of on me.
“Why are you here?” he repeats, that dark energy I’d felt in him the first night he’d fought with his brother back tenfold.
“I told you. I couldn’t stay away. And…” I hesitate a moment on a confession, a piece of myself I’m supposed to deny now, but I can’t. Not with him and what I know of his father now. “And because,” I continue, “my father killed himself and I know what it’s like to love and hate a parent at the same time. And I know how that guts you and fills you with guilt.”
I have barely said the words and his hands are framing my face, and again, he is looking at me, but not with a question this time, but rather with shock that fades into heat and desire, and then he is kissing me, deeply, completely. And he lets me taste the guilt I’ve proclaimed to understand. The anger, which I know and expect, is there too. Hot. Fierce. Intense and barely contained. It is raw, the way I know his emotions have to be as well and I am certain he wants to drive them away, at least for now. For a moment in time that lets him forget what will never truly be gone.
The elevator dings and he tears his mouth from mine, lacing our fingers together and leading me into the hallway without stopping. With purpose in his steps, he walks toward his apartment, and I am right there with him. I am ready to be alone with him, to revel in every second I have with this man. I know it can’t last. And I am ready to be the way he escapes and finds just a little peace in the war that rages in his reality.
By the time we are at the door my heart is racing and my knees are weak, not from nerves, but from the pulse of energy radiating between us. He opens the door and we are inside his dark apartment at almost the same moment. He releases me then, leaving me chilled in all the places he’d made me warm, which is pretty much everywhere. The door shuts behind me, sealing our deal to spend this night together. A moment later, maybe two, Shane’s hands settle on my arms, and before I know what is happening, I’m facing the wall, my purse clattering to the floor, my hands pressed to the hard surface in front of me. He steps into me, his big body cradling mine, wrapped around me, hard where I am soft. Right in every way that nothing could ever make wrong.
“We’re going to fuck. Just fuck and I need you to tell me you know that.”
“I’m the one who said—”
“Say it.”
“I understand.”
“Say it.”
“We’re just fucking.”
He leans in closer, his breath a warm tickle on my neck, his voice a firm demand. “You do what I say. You trust me. Without question.” Trust. It is not something I give easily, and yet, I sense that this isn’t about just wanting my trust. It’s not even really about trust, but rather the control death steals from you.
“Emily—” he begins.
“Yes,” I say. “You can have the control.”
“I asked for trust.”
“Same thing,” I say, and he must not disagree, as he unzips my skirt, letting it fall to the ground, and already