Secrets and Sins:Raphael(27)

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-