And, of course, that last bit was the whole problem.
“I know nothing about your past,” I added.
“We aren’t defined by our pasts,” she shot back. “We are who we are. You don’t have to know where I grew up, what year I was born, to know the woman in front of you.”
We were at the house, and I pulled into the garage, turning off the car.
We said not a word to each other as we went inside, then up to my room.
We got ready for bed in silence.
We were lying down on our sides, me wrapped around her from behind, before she broke it.
“I love you,” she said, voice quiet and firm.
“You can’t possibly know that yet,” I chastised, though every time she said those words it felt like balm on my bruised heart.
“Fine. I won’t say it again, if it bothers you that much.”
My gut clenched at the finality in her voice, but I knew it was for the best.
“I don’t have good judgement when it comes to you,” I said into the darkness, breaking another long silence that had overtaken us.
She shifted, turning until her face was buried in my chest.
I burrowed my face into her hair, breathing in her scent.
She pulled my head down until she could speak into my ear. “Maybe good judgement is overrated. Maybe it’s time for you to be bad.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
She stayed for three days. It was heaven.
The only hell was knowing that she’d leave again.
It was on the second morning, as I was taking her from behind, bright sunlight streaming over her lovely back, that I noticed an unusual scar on the soft spot just inside of her shoulder blade, a few inches from her spine. It was a small circle, about the size of the tip of my finger. It was very precise.
I finished inside of her, on my knees behind her. She was on all fours.
We were still panting, recovering, when I traced the scar softly.
“What’s this from?” I asked her.
She wiggled a bit, to distract me, I thought.
I pulled out, determined to get answers before I went off the deep end again. “It’s unusual. Tell me how it happened?”
She sighed, and rolled onto her back, her thighs sprawling wide apart.
Another blatant distraction that I had to work hard to overlook.
“You really want to know?” she asked, and just from the light tone of her voice, I didn’t figure she was going to give me the truth.
“Yes,” I said anyway, because even her lies told me something.
“It’s a bullet wound. I was shot. Curiosity killed the cat and all that, but I still have a few lives left.”
My whole body tensed up.
She caught my expression and burst out laughing. “Oh Dair. You should see your face. You’re too much.”
She did such a good job of mixing lies and half-truths that I couldn’t decide what she was using on me just then. “So if that’s a bullet wound, who shot you?”
She shrugged, still smiling. “I was kidding. It was an accident at camp one year. Some kid poked me with a burning stick. Don’t even remember his name.”
I continued to scrutinize her.
The way she operated, one of those was a lie, one the truth, or at least half a truth.
The first one, I decided, the way she’d thrown it out so teasingly, purposely throwing me off.
“It’s a bullet wound,” I said, sure of it now, and sick to my stomach at the thought. “Who shot you?”
She shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter. The who is irrelevant.”
“How is that not relevant? What’s more relevant than that?”
“Believe me, it is beyond mattering now. He won’t be shooting anyone else.”
“What was his motivation?” I asked, because sometimes she gave me answers when I found just the right question.
She smiled ruefully. She knew what I was up to. “Money, most likely, though I can’t be sure.”
“You’re saying someone was paid to shoot you?” It was worse even than I’d thought.
“Paid, no, I doubt it. He wasn’t alive to collect. But he was hired, and I doubt it was just to shoot me. I’m pretty sure his job was to kill me.”
I was still reeling when she rose from the bed and headed into the bathroom to shower.
Eventually I followed, far from done with the subject.
“Do you have any clue why someone would be hired to kill you?” I asked her, as I joined her in the shower.
She didn’t speak, just turned and started washing my body, particularly my spent cock.
That she made pristine with several vigorous strokes from her soapy hands.
With a curse, I freed myself, warding her off. “Stop. I’m not going to drop this.”
She turned away, going back to washing her hair.
“Please, tell me,” I pleaded quietly.
She turned my way again, this time washing her own body.
I deliberately didn’t look.
“I can’t tell you any more,” she finally answered, voice final. “I’ve said too much already.”
“No. You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”
She finished cleaning herself, and stepped out of the shower, sending me one rueful smile before she turned away. “Fair? Who said anything about fair? None of this was ever supposed to be fair, baby.”
On that confounding, infuriating note, she walked out of the room.
I caught up with her again in the kitchen.
She was cooking breakfast.
French toast.
She was shameless.
The smell of cinnamon filled the room even as I stared at her, jaw clenched.
I kept my distance, putting the entire kitchen island between us. “You know I can’t drop this. I get that there are some things you don’t think you can share with me, but I need some sort of an explanation here.”
She kept cooking in silence.
Finally, I went into the dining room, sitting down to wait for her.
She started coming in and out of the room, setting the table, bringing in plates, silverware, syrup, butter, jam.
I was too agitated to even offer to help. Instead, I just watched her and brooded.
Her hair was wet, her face clean and flawless.
She wore a tight tank top (no bra) that read, ‘Are you kitten me right meow?’ and some hot pink cheer shorts that had the waistband rolled so the shorts covered less than most panties.
Well, not less than her panties. But her panties were typically nothing more than lacy strings.
It was a distracting outfit. I tried my best not to be distracted.
She brought in a heaping platter of French toast and bacon, setting them close to my plate, serving me without a word.