The sound of Owen's voice scraped across Silbie's skin like a dull knife, setting her nerves on edge. He didn't sound like himself. Anger tinged his tone, but she couldn't let that discourage her. She was determined to stick to her plan.
"If you please let me stay for a few minutes, I'll leave."
He paused a second, surprised. Probably surprised that his intruder was a female.
"Did... did Dante send you?"
The question rolled around in Silbie's brain like a squeaky wheel. Why would he think Dante sent her? Then the answer came. He thought she was a hooker. Hilarious—or not. "I don't understand. This... Dante — he sends prostituée to your room?"
"No. But he thinks I need—never mind." He rose from his chair but didn't move. "Your accent. French?"
Silbie sighed in relief. "Oui. I only must stay until the beach is clear."
"Coast."
"Excusez-moi?"
"I think you mean until the coast is clear. Is someone after you?"
"After... me?" She parroted.
Owen stepped closer. Through the open curtains, enough light beamed in to bring his face out of the shadows. From the growth of his beard, he'd not shaved in days. He looked older. Weary.
"Chasing—uh—following you."
She shook her head, then realized he probably couldn't see the motion from where she stood in the shadows. "No. I came to see someone, but it was a mistake. He is with another."
He huffed a breath as if disgusted. "I get that."
Silbie raised her eyebrows. "You, too, have lost love?"
He ignored the question. "How did you get in here?"
"The door opened when I leaned against it. The lights in the hall went out and startled me. I'm sorry. I will leave." She placed her hand on the handle. Hesitated for him to say something. When he didn't, she turned it.
"Wait. Don't go. I mean... you can stay longer if you need to."
Her pulse raced. She faced him again. "I don't want to disturb."
"You're not," He sighed, as if exasperated. "I mean, it's okay."
She moved closer and sized him up. He was barefoot, dressed in jeans and a shirt that wasn't buttoned. She wanted to throw herself into his arms. Press her face against his skin. Breathe him in. Tell him how much she missed him. Maybe if she did, he'd embrace her and tell her he felt the same. But—maybe he wouldn't. She couldn't take the chance. Not now. Not when she was this close.
This was the time to use her improv skills from the class she'd taken. Some of the most iconic movie lines came from improvisation. This was the perfect opportunity to test her talent.
Inching ever closer, Silbie talked. "You said your friend thinks you need a woman. Do you?"
"No," he huffed.
She stopped in front of him, gazed at his bare chest, then pushed his shirt aside. Her heart gave a hard kick. "You have a tattoo," she exclaimed. And it was a surprise; the last time she saw him, it hadn't been there.
"It's the Roman Goddess, Luna."
She sucked in a breath, traced the ink with her fingers, and the heat of his skin made her senses sizzle. "Beautiful."
He pushed her hand away. "Do you want something to drink? I only have whiskey or tap water, but I can call room service."
This wasn't going the way Silbie had hoped. She needed to shift gears. "No. I have intruded enough. Being here with you makes me more aware of my loneliness."
His chin trembled. He walked to the window and stared outside. "For strangers, seems we have a lot in common."
She followed him and placed her hands between his shoulders. "Do you not long to be touched? I do."
He sighed.
She eased his shirt down, but he spun around and grabbed her wrists. "Don't!"
She reared back in surprise.
"I have scars," he said by way of explanation. Then his expression changed, and he let go of her hands as if they'd burned him. "I'm sorry. I didn't hurt you, did I?"
"Pas—no." She laid her palms against his chest, glided them up and slid the shirt down again. "Please, let me see. I want to."
He closed his eyes. His nostrils flared. But he said nothing.
She stepped behind him and let the shirt drop to the carpet. Her breath caught and tears stung her eyes. The horrors he must have gone through caused her heart to ache. She understood why he'd shut everyone out of his life, but she also knew closing himself off wouldn't help him get better. His arrest had been proof of that, and her determination was stronger than ever.
He tried to step away. She grabbed his arms, held him in place, and pressed her lips to the marks. "I'm so sorry."
He pulled free and sat on the edge of the bed. "I warned you. Not a pretty sight—and a constant reminder of my weakness."
She knelt in front of him and lowered her head to meet his eyes. "To have survived such cruelty is a sign of strength—not weakness." Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him, then whispered against his mouth. "You said you don't need a woman, but do you want one? Because I need to be wanted, even if it's just for a little while."
He pressed his forehead against hers. "You don't understand. I—I'm not sure I can..."
Things were worse than she thought. His physical wounds were bad enough, but the sadness in his voice told her the damage had gone much deeper. He didn't see himself as a man anymore. "Then let me hold you." She rose, turned away, untied the straps at her shoulders and let the slinky lamé pool at her feet, leaving her in nothing but shoes and a mask. Maia had convinced her to ditch the undergarments.
Owen choked. "Fuck."
From the sound of his reaction, it'd been good advice. But she wasn't sure his surprise was from seeing her naked, or the tattoos. "I have some ink of my own. Does it repulse you?"
"Nn—no. Damn. Your whole back is covered. Is there a reason?"
"A story for another time." Silbie placed her hand against her heart and drew a silent breath. Now came the real test. What to do if he recognized something about her body? Chances were slim because they'd only had one night together and so much time had passed. After seeing the condition of his back, she doubted he'd thought about much more than survival.
She waited for him to make a move. When he didn't, she glanced over her shoulder. He appeared to be glued to the mattress, his expression frozen in shock. On the bright side, at least he was already on the bed. Right where she wanted him.
She eased toward him. Behind those sad eyes and beaten down persona, the Owen who loved her was still there, and she'd find him again if it was the last thing she did.
She clasped his hands. Urged him to his feet. He obliged like a robot.
Fear gripped her, and she didn't know who was more afraid. Him? Her? Either way didn't matter. All those months ago when she'd shown up at his place hell-bent on losing her virginity, she'd seduced him with every trick she'd read.
Even though he was still her only conquest, she was older now, and thanks to him, more in tune with her body and emotions.
She slid the button of his jeans free.
His breath hitched. "I told you—"
"Shh. Don't think."
She glided his zipper down, slipped her hand inside and pressed her palm against the heat of him. Fire raced through her veins. She raised up to her tiptoes and took his mouth in a warm wet kiss.
Inside his jeans, he responded.
He wrapped his arms around her and fed on her kisses.
She ground against him as heat spread across her skin like a grass fire. He was back. The Owen she knew. The one who'd believed in himself before strangers in a foreign land had beaten it out of him. She'd never hated anyone before, but she hated them for what they'd done to such a good man.
His kisses became frantic. His hands chaotic, sliding across her body as if trying to touch her everywhere at once.
She stroked him, and he swelled more.
A growl came from deep in his throat. He abandoned her mouth, buried his face in her cleavage and planted more kisses there.
She ran her fingers through his hair and guided him to her breast where he sucked the nipple into his hot mouth. This is what she wanted. Needed. She'd been too long without him, but that was about to change. She pulled her hand from his jeans. "Make love to me."
He didn't argue. Just went into action jerking his pants down. His erection jutted free, hard and powerful.
She pulled the bed covers back, slid across the cool sheet and eyed him. No man was more magnificent than Owen Filgard. Through the window, shafts of silver light touched his face and threaded through his dark hair. His dark eyes dilated with what had to be lust, locked gazes with her.
"Take off your mask," he said.
"No. Mystery is better."
[MATURE THEMES AHEAD]
He didn't press the matter. Instead, he planted his hands next to her hips, and his rough cheeks chafed her skin as he lowered his face to her belly and placed more kisses there. As much as she wanted him to continue south, given his worry about performance, tonight needed to be about his pleasure. At least the first time.
With trembling hands, she brought his face to her. "Inside me."
He held her gaze, and like an erotic dance, he began his entry. Just like she remembered, he pushed in the broad head of his penis slow and steady, giving her a moment to stretch and adjust.
He grasped her thighs, and thrust hard, burying himself fully. "I'm sorry," he said. "I thought I could go slowly, but I can't."
They could waltz later. If he'd been without her as long as she'd been without him, a cha-cha was fine by her. She grabbed hold of his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his thighs.
He pulled half-way out, then plunged again. "You feel so damn good."
Like a bottle rocket, heat blasted through her. From the top of her head to the soles of her feet lust raced a greedy route. Each thrust felt better than the last. If he could just hold back for a few more seconds, she'd be there. She released his shoulders, fell back and propped on her elbows, arching into him.
He drove higher. Deeper. Faster. Propelling her toward orgasm.
Her brain spun, and without thinking, she said what he'd been unwilling to hear. "Je t'aime. Je t'aimerai toujours. " Even if he didn't understand French, her declaration of love made the moment more intimate. She loved him. She'd always love him.
And just as she teetered on the edge of pleasure, he came—and said something that turned her ecstasy to fear.
[MATURE THEMES OVER]
"I love you, Silbie. I love you so fucking much."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. Did he know? Should she say something? She stared up at him. No sign of recognition. He didn't seem to be aware he'd said anything.
He collapsed on top of her and drew an unsteady breath. "I know that wasn't good for you. It's been—I can..."
She pressed her fingers to his lips. "Feeling your skin against mine—having you deep inside me was—merveilleux—amazing. I have so missed the intimité—uh—intimacy."
He pressed a warm kiss to her brow. "Me, too. Thank you."
He started to move away, but she held him in place. "Not yet. I would like to be on top now, please."
"Oh—okay." Without breaking the connection, he rolled over.
As she moved against him, she smiled. "You are a very sexy man. I don't think it was coïncidence we met."
He placed his hands on her hips. "Have I told you how much I like your accent?"
"You do?"
"Yeah. And the sound of your voice."
She gyrated against him in smooth strokes. "Thank you."
A small sound came from the back of his throat. She wasn't sure if it was pain or pleasure, but she didn't care because he was getting hard again.
"When we were—you know. What was it you said to me in French?"
She picked up her pace. A little dirty talk might help him along. Her current character, Simone, always knew exactly what to say to get her American lover in the mood. "Just that I liked the way la bite felt inside me."
"Damn."
His face pinched, and he met her thrust for thrust. She gripped his forearms, leaned away, forcing him high into her and took everything he had. She pumped faster, demanding more, and he gave it to her. As the orgasm claimed her, she bit her lip to keep from screaming his name.
He cursed and praised the gods at the same time, then struggled for breath.
She rolled off and lay next to him. Nothing but the sound of their labored breathing filled the room. When she finally caught her breath, she pushed up on her elbow and looked down at him. "Now, I know the reason for your tattoo. Why is she no longer with you?"
"Fuck. Did I say her name? I'm sorry. That was—."
Again, she pressed her fingers to his lips. "No apology. We are replacements. So, what happened? To let you go, she must be a foolish woman."
"It's not like that. I'm no good for her."
Silbie sat up and gazed into his eyes. "Have you considered—maybe she is not good without you?"
Welp. Good thing that was Silbie, or that might've been awkward. Not that he knew.
TEASER: "So no reason for you to worry anymore about me needing a woman. The one I conjured up was damn good."
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