“Let’s get this over with,” I say as I approach, my voice much more icy than I intend. Ransom doesn’t even flinch. It’s as if he’s becoming immune to my bullshit.
“Come in.” He moves inside to let me in. When I pass, I catch the word inscribed in silver on his door.
Temptation.
Justice Drake, you patronizing fucker.
I ignore it and step inside, my arms crossed over my chest protectively. I’ve never felt unsafe with Ransom, not even when he was tripping off oxy and blow. But now that I’m here alone with him, in a dimly lit bedroom outfitted in lush reds, blacks, and grays, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so afraid. Not of him. Of myself, and what my body wants. And what I’m capable of doing to satisfy it.
“Have a seat,” he says, offering an oversize, cranberry armchair. He didn’t offer the bed. That’s a good sign. He goes over to the small kitchenette and opens the mini fridge. “Water? Tea? Wine?”
“Wine, please.” I know it’s a mistake the very second I ask for it, but I need something to take the edge off. Something to keep me from ripping off this satin robe and mounting Ransom against the mahogany chest of drawers.
He cracks the seal of a small bottle and pours me a glass. I take it with a grateful smile and watch as he plants himself on the bed across from me.
“So?” My throat is coated with broken glass, so I take a swig to wash it down.
“So.”
“You said you had a question, Ransom.”
“Right. I do.”
I make an aggravated noise that sounds too much like a moan. I could have been riding my husband right now after waking him up with my hot mouth. Or shit . . . I could be masturbating. Being here is like walking a tightrope with no net underneath. I know I’ll fall, and on some level I want to, just to get it over with. But I know the plunge will kill me. And right now, with the suspense piercing my resolve like a thousand little ice picks, leaping to my death seems less and less daunting.
Seeing the irritation play across my features, Ransom finally puts me out of my misery after taking a deep breath. “Caleb . . . what did he say about me? What was his explanation?”
I take a sip of wine and look around the room. Against the blood-stained walls are black and white photos of men, women, and couples. All naked. All rooted in their own passion, completely oblivious to the camera’s lens. They’re erotic, yes, but not pornographic. They’re beautiful. They’ve created art with nothing but their skin.
“That you’re an addict,” I finally answer, tearing my eyes from the series of grayscale flesh. “And while he seems to believe you have it under control, sometimes you break and need to get away for a while. Hence our little cross-country excursion.”
He lifts a brow. “And that’s all? That’s all he told you?”
“Is there more?” I want to ask him, how much worse can it get? But think better of it. I honestly don’t know what’s ailing him, and until I do, it’s better not to aggravate him.
He answers, “No,” yet the frown deep between his brows seems uncertain. “Yes, I am. And yes, it’s under control. I’m sorry for how I acted that night you found me at the bar, and I’m sorry for what I said to you. Well, most of it at least.”
“Most of it?”
“I shouldn’t have said anything about Tucker or your marriage. That was out of line. And I shouldn’t have insinuated that you were there for anything more than to put my ass to sleep and make sure I didn’t swallow my own tongue.”
My voice is a whisper on ice, skating across the diamond planes. “You remember that?”
“Yeah. Remember that slap you gave me too. Damn, H. You’ve got one helluva arm.” He laughs and rubs his jaw that’s lightly dusted with dark stubble. “But I deserved it. And again, I’m sorry.”
I nod, accepting his apology, although there’s really nothing to forgive. Can I really blame him for feeling used by me?
“You said you were sorry for most of what you said. What aren’t you sorry for?” I ask, emboldened by the wine.
Ransom shrugs and looks down at his callused hands. “Fill in the blanks, H. Don’t you remember? You were sober that night.”
I was. And I do.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about his helpless plea and the heart-wrenching vulnerability on his face since that night. He asked me to stay with him. He said he could make me feel young again, and do all the things Tucker refuses to do. He felt abandoned, but I could tell it wasn’t just by me. It was by everyone. Ransom felt utterly alone and fraught for a connection. So much so that he was willing to make an older woman’s fantasy come true while her husband stroked himself to orgasm in the corner. What generates that level of desperation? What drives a person to offer their body to a stranger just to feel loved for a little while? Or makes them fill their veins with poison to numb the pain?
Now more than ever, I want to go to him. But not for sex. I just want to hold him, make him believe that he’s not alone. But wouldn’t that be another lie?
“You’re not sorry for that.”
He lifts his gaze to mine and I see just a glimpse of that vulnerability now. It’s the same look he had in his hotel room. The same one he wore inside the tiny airplane lavatory. But just as quickly as I catch it, it’s gone. “No. I’m not. Do you want me to be?”
I tell him what he needs to hear because I don’t want to hurt him. I tell him the truth.
“No.”
Strained silence crawls all over our midnight-drenched skin like sleepy, little spiders. We stare at each other, waiting for the other to break the trance with a blink, but it never comes. Finally, Ransom releases me by looking away. But he hasn’t retreated. No. In the shallowest of breaths, he’s in front of me, leaning over me, pinning my body between his bare chest and the high back of the chair.
“Ransom . . .” It’s not even a whisper or a moan. It’s a sigh. Something done out of reflex.
“I’m not touching you,” he drawls, fanning warm mint-flavored breath over my face. “I promised I wouldn’t touch you, and I won’t.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Smelling you. Seeing you. Trying to let my other senses do what my hands can’t.”
He lifts a hand from the chair and slowly brings the back of it just mere centimeters from the bust of my nightgown. I open my mouth to protest, and he shushes me.
“I won’t touch you. Trust me.”
With that, he runs his hand up to my collarbone, so close that I can feel the sun on his skin. With maddening patience and restraint, he lets it travel down down down, until it stops at my breasts. I can almost feel him there, grazing my nipples with his knuckles, running his thumbs over them, pinching them between his fingers so that heat collects in my belly and slithers like wet paint between my thighs.
“Look at you. Look how you respond to me . . . not touching you.”
I peer down to see that my nipples are hard and straining through two layers of satin, staring at him with pleading eyes. He chuckles lightly and his hand is on the move again, this time roaming over the expanse of my belly. Then he sits on his knees and leans back on his feet, letting both his palms hover over the tops of my thighs.
“I promise you, I won’t touch you. Even if you beg me to. I want to prove to you that I can do this, that I can kick this habit. I want to prove it to myself.”