How I would have given up music entirely, in favor of hearing that one song on her lips forever.
Still, I’ve never seen her this close up and naked, at least not completely. Not long enough to appreciate it.
The night at the tattoo shop, the shape of her sopping cunt and the feel of her thighs against my ears are seared into my memory, but the top half of her body is uncharted territory.
I swallow, a hard knot lodging at the base of my throat as my eyes rake over her. Those peach-colored nipples pebble as they’re exposed to the cool air, and I grip the blanket tighter, resisting the urge to strum my thumb over one.
It’s bad enough that I’m looking.
Perfectly swollen tits give way to a flat, slightly concave stomach, which tapers to round hips and porcelain thighs. Folding the cover back so it rests just above her knees, I sit back and admire the shadowed view.
God, the things I want to do to her.
Depraved things—things a man like me, stuck indefinitely in the public eye, shouldn’t crave. But every cell in my body screams out for her, like sheep helpless against the slaughter.
A whimper startles me, and my eyes shoot to her face, afraid she’s woken and caught me staring. Her eyes are still closed, though. Relaxed as she traipses through dreamland, completely unaware of the danger sitting at her bedside.
My hand twitches, my gaze sliding over the slender slope of her neck, tracing the ridges of her collarbone, the dip of her navel. She shifts, scissoring her thighs as if trying to get comfortable, and the movement draws my attention to her partially-covered hip.
Lifting a hand, I gently reach out, trying to suppress the trembling. Eyes snapping to hers, I watch, rapt, as my fingers sweep over the ink there, tracing the slightly raised lines as if they weren’t seared into my being the moment I put them there.
Angel.
Something pinches in my chest, prodding at my heart like a hot poker as I crest the point of the letter A. She shifts again, inching closer, and my finger moves higher; it brushes against something rough, and I frown, following the trail of distinctly smooth skin disappearing under the blanket.
It zips up toward her belly button, stopping at the edge, and when she rolls to her back, I see a flash of shiny white.
Planting my palm on the other side of her, I lean in to try and get a better look; the closer my nose gets to her body, the stronger that peppermint scent gets, and I’m thrust back in time to the night we met.
When I buried my head between her legs—but not before she kept me from raising her shirt.
My heart weighs heavy as I determine it’s a large scar, but I have no idea where she could have gotten it.
From what I’ve been able to learn about Riley Kelly, her mother was a known drug addict, and they were far from well off, but there are no extensive medical records of hers detailing the kind of assault something this large would entail.
I know scars. This is not the kind you come by honestly.
Sitting back on the bed, I absently slip a finger beneath the band of my watch, satisfying the ever-present itch lurking beneath my tattoos.
I start to cover her back up, hating the sympathy pulsing around the edges of my soul, desperately seeking entrance. If I allow myself to feel bad for her, then I lose my advantage, and my entire reason for coming to this literal hell is moot.
Riley’s head jerks on the pillow, twisting as she lets out another whimper. Her fingers tangle in the sheets, clutching them to her chest, and as she thrashes, I see the same slivers of perturbed flesh on her face; one at the corner of her mouth, the other slashed across her cheek.
What the fuck?
Those, I definitely would’ve noticed in New York. Most of what I did that night was stare at her perfectly symmetrical nose and imagine how soft her lips would be.
Frowning, I glance down at them, recalling they’d been softer than I ever could’ve imagined. That kissing her felt like coming home after a lifetime of not even realizing you’d been missing.
Deciding to return back to my cabin to investigate her history further, I lean down, inhaling and trying to see if I can sense a slight change in the scent of her lotion.
My hand comes up, fingers coasting over her jaw, and I let out the smallest sigh.
Then, her eyes pop open.
23
My vision is blurry as I peel back my eyelids, the presence of someone in the room yanking me from an Ambien-induced sleep.
At first, I’m irritated that not even pills can keep my fight-or-flight response subdued.
When my gaze focuses on the hauntingly beautiful face hovering over mine, though, I can’t help wondering if this actually is a dream.
Tension ripples through my stomach, tying my organs into knots.
Jesus Christ, this has to be a dream.
There’s no possible way Aiden fucking James is sitting on my bed right now, staring at me like he’s seen a ghost.
Somehow, he doesn’t look spooked; he looks like someone who lives in an abandoned house because of the spirits. Like he’s been expecting me.
But that can’t be right—I never even told him my real name all those years ago, and if he were here right now, calm resignation is the last thing I feel he’d be experiencing.
The longer he stares, a still silence coursing between us while our breaths mingle, the more convinced I become that I’m still sleeping.
It’s the only plausible explanation.
“Pretty girl.”
Oxygen catches in my throat, and I feel my eyes widen, but for some reason, I’m detached from the actual movement itself. Just like when he lifts a palm, dragging a ringed finger along my jaw; his calloused print is rough on my skin, but it’s almost as if there’s a thin barrier separating us.
Something protecting me.
When he pauses at the corner of my mouth, the air stuck in my esophagus escapes in a panicked whoosh, and my chest compresses with horror.
I glance at the lamp across the room, then back, pushing my head into the pillow in an effort to evade his touch. Hoping that he can’t see well in the dim lighting.
Gray eyes narrow just slightly; his stormy gaze penetrates deep, pricking at my soul like a needle drawing blood.
“So many secrets,” he says, voice as low and gravelly as ever. His hand shifts, his thumb coming to my mouth and sliding over the scar there up to the one on my cheek.
Applying the slightest pressure, he traces the jagged sliver, a blank expression on his face.
My mouth dries up, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth like sandpaper.
“Nothing to say, even after all this time?” he continues, cocking his head to one side. “No questions, concerns… admissions?”
I try to make my lips move, try to make some sort of noise to appease him, but my body refuses to cooperate.
He tsks, letting his hand fall to my collarbone. My lungs expand, expressing a gust of air when I remember I’m naked.
That my entire body is bare beneath my blankets.
Just centimeters away from the handsome phantom before me.
As if sensing my renewed panic, Aiden hooks a finger in the comforter, tugging without displacing it. I tighten every muscle in my body, folding in on myself to keep out the intrusion.
“I have a lot of questions for you.” His eyes dip to my throat, and I feel his thumb sweep back and forth over my skin, just above the hem of the cover. “Should I quiz you now, or is this not a good time, with you being naked and all?”