Silence echoed in the room. Out of habit, she stiffened as if waiting for the rejection, the confidence-bruising comments. The sharp sting of pity.
"I didn't know you had dyslexia," he murmured, his thumb absently rubbing back and forth over the inside of her knee.
She waved away his words with a flick of her wrist, hurrying to cut off the condolences as if she had a disease. Not from him. She couldn't bear to hear that "Bless your heart" tone from him.
"I'm not ashamed of it … now. But when I was a girl-a painfully shy little girl from a wealthy family and attending one of the most prestigious private schools in Boston-it was … " Horrible. Devastating. Terrifying. "As far back as I remember, I was different. I tried to hide it with little tricks like memorizing, asking questions, bluffing. Math, reading, spelling-they were the stuff of nightmares to me then. The letters, the numbers, they didn't appear the same to me as they did to the other kids."
"But art wasn't," he interrupted. "Pictures, drawing, painting. You excelled in those."
She smiled, nodded. "Art was my … savior. I wasn't different in art class; I was better. Not that being able to draw meant much to the kids I went to school with or my father. In my world, ‘different' meant ‘bad.' It meant relentless teasing, being ostracized. And to a girl of seven, eight, and nine, those kids' acceptance was nearly as important as pleasing a critical, domineering, impossible-to-satisfy father."
"Father" seemed to echo over and over as if bouncing off the walls of the bedroom. She almost cringed as her words replayed in her head like a sound bite. God, she hadn't meant to admit so much. To reveal so much.
Even now she could hear her father's caustic criticisms like a blade slicing into her brain.
I don't give a damn about drawing. A monkey can draw with its feet.
It's ABCs, Greer. ABCs. Maybe we need to send you back to kindergarten with the other babies to learn how to read.
You're an Addison. We don't have idiots in our family.
Her dyslexia was moderate, but to her father it'd meant damaged. Dysfunctional. Stupid. Though she was a woman of twenty-six now, those words from the man who was supposed to believe she was perfect even when she wasn't … call her beautiful even though she'd been more duckling than swan … love and accept her even when the world didn't … those words from her father had burrowed deep in her heart, her soul. Forever changed how she saw herself and other people.
The nine-year-old eventually grew to adulthood and came to recognize who and what the man and woman who'd raised her were. But there were still moments-such as now, when she was splaying herself open without a safety net-the old doubts resurrected like ghosts refusing to go into the light. If her own father couldn't love her, how could others? If her own father couldn't find something in her worthy of his loyalty, how could she expect others to? Like Gavin. Like Aubrey. Like her mother.
Like Raphael.
"I met your father once," Raphael murmured. "About five years ago. We were hired to test the strength of the security and information system at his bank's headquarters and fix the weaknesses. He was one of our first big clients." He paused, rubbed his thumb over the mark. "He was also an arrogant shit. And I was thirty at the time. I can imagine how terrifying a nine-year-old would've found him."
She stared at him. Snickered. Then burst into laughter. An arrogant shit. Yeah, that about summed up Ethan Addison to the-
Warm, firm lips pressed to her knee. Directly over the scar.
Her breath snagged in her throat, held prisoner by the heart that had soared there to join it. On pure reflex, she tangled her fingers in his tousled hair-whether to pull him away or hold him there, she couldn't decide.
Pleasure zinged from her joint, up her thigh, and powered straight to her sex. Deep inside, she pulsed with impatient need. Her feminine muscles clenched as if in urgent demand to be taken, to be filled as only he could do it. Her inner thighs tensed in anticipation of finally wrapping themselves around his narrow hips as his cock nudged, then penetrated, the empty sheath that hadn't forgotten the delicious stretching his width caused.
All this from a kiss to her knee.
Jesus, what would happen if those beautiful lips traveled higher? Would she spread her legs wider and welcome him? Would she lift her ass, silently beg him to taste, to touch, to fuck? Would she come unglued for him as he sipped from her sex, curled his tongue around her clitoris, slid his fingers deep in her spasming core, easing and agitating the terrible, exciting ache?
She squeezed her eyes closed, flexed her fingers in his dark strands, and swallowed a groan.
Yes. Oh, God, yes. She would do each of those things. And more.
Those amazing lips lifted, and before she could draw another breath, swept over the mark on her collarbone. Even though only his lips touched her, she was overwhelmed by him: his nearness, his scent, his heat. His long hair tickled her chin and jaw, and she had to force herself to remain still or she'd do something incredibly insane like nuzzle the thick strands.
His mouth swept over her chin.
"Raphael," she whispered. That's it; all she said was his name, because she didn't know what to say after that.
Stop. Don't stop.
Enough. I can't get enough.
No more. More.
His lashes lifted, and his eyes ambushed her, ensnared her with the desire and compassion darkening his navy eyes to nearly black. He brushed his mouth over the old injury again, and a curious melting unfurled in a closed-off section of her heart.
The meaning behind the caresses wasn't lost on her.
She'd never had a mother's kiss take away her pain; her hurts and childhood spills had been left to various housekeepers and nannies. The old saying about kissing boo-boos had always seemed like sentimental drivel. But now … now she believed. No, the sweet stroke of his mouth over the marks couldn't erase the past or the memories. But after tonight, when she looked at the scars, it would be this moment she remembered. The delicate press of firm lips. The soft huff of his breath against her skin. The storm of hunger softened by the gentle rain of affection.
He'd gifted her pleasure for pain.
And she longed to offer him the same.
She loosened her grip on his hair and eased away from him, at the same time palming his shoulders and nudging him back.
Disappointment flared in his eyes before they blanked, became unreadable. She didn't waste time explaining that she wasn't rejecting him. Instead, she scooted down the bed and showed him.
His sharp inhalation delighted her ears like the most beautiful aria. So she parted her lips and dragged the tip of her tongue up the Barbie versus Matchbox injury. He fisted the sheets next to his hips, and she couldn't squelch the surge of pride and satisfaction that swirled in her chest. Next, she moved to those fists-the scarred knuckles. She trailed a kiss over the very thin pale lines. Back and forth. Back and forth. Until those long, elegant fingers capable of breaking into the most convoluted security system and drawing forth the most devastating pleasure slowly straightened, then turned over to cradle her cheek.
She skimmed up his body until they were nose to nose, eye to eye. Eyes that were no longer inscrutable but hot, fierce with hunger. Trembling, she cupped his head, tilted it forward, and pressed her mouth to the most tragic wound of them all. The one that had to cut the deepest. Even if he would never admit it.
His hands slid over her scalp, twisted in her hair, and dragged her down until their breath mingled, mated. The moist blast of air from his parted lips caressed hers seconds before his mouth did. He took her. There wasn't any other way to describe it. With a low, rumbling moan he took her. Consumed her. Dragged her under. Helpless to respond, she opened her mouth to his invasion, and his tongue swept inside, ravaging, tasting, devouring. He slanted his head, demanding she give him even more.
Executing a quick flip, he covered her as soon as her back hit the mattress. She widened her legs, cradled him in the vee of her thighs even as she wound her arms around his neck and pulled him closer. Oh, God. She shuddered, savoring the heavy weight of him. This was a first. She closed her eyes, memorizing how his hard, sculpted frame countered her smaller, more slender body. The width and length of his truck's backseat had prevented them from experiencing this old-fashioned but perfect position.
Stop! Are you nuts? a small-very small-voice of sanity scolded. This is crazy. It's-