His jade gaze darkens, and his mouth hardens as if words are shoving against his lips and he’s barricading them. It doesn’t take a Magic 8-Ball to guess what those words would be. Another claim of fault, of misplaced responsibility.
Unraveling my arms from around him, I grab his wrists and draw his hands down between us. Clasping them in mine, I can’t help but appreciate the differences between us. His hands are so huge, capable of delivering a beating but also of extreme gentleness. I rub my thumbs over the backs of his fingers and thumbs—over the words STILL I RISE inked onto them just under his knuckles.
“I’ve always wondered how an Irish fighter came to have Maya Angelou’s words tattooed on him,” I admit. “And why this poem.”
“Grace, my trainer Jake’s mother, became a second mother to me when I was younger. Jake offered me an outlet for my rage after my dad died by teaching me to channel it into boxing, martial arts, and wrestling. But Grace”—his fingers curl around mine—“she saved my mind. Sometimes I think my soul. I was so angry, and she mothered me when mine was…unable to. When Grace died four years ago, I had this done in memory of her. It was her favorite poem by her favorite poet.”
Tears sting my eyes, and I rapidly blink to fight them back. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him speak anything even remotely critical of Katherine—including last night when he told me about her abominable accusation—and my heart aches at his reluctance to utter even that. His love for both the women in his life who raised him is apparent.
It also strikes me that I was wrong; someone had taken care of him, looked out for him. And her name was Grace. I’ve never met the woman—never heard of her before now—but I’m grateful to and for her.
“I first noticed the tattoo when I started working here, and do you know what I thought when I saw it? Well besides, damn, dude is gorgeous, has a beard,andgreat taste in literature? No wonder he pulls a lot of ass.” His soft snort has the corner of my mouth quirking, but the amusement fades as I caress the words once more. “I thought, he’s an eagle. Sue me, I’d just watched a show on Animal Planet about them. But they use the winds of a storm to gain altitude and rise above it. That’s you, Knox. You’re the eagle with the wind. The things that force other people to ground, to seek shelter and hide, things that would devastate them, you use them to soar.”
I lift my gaze from his tattooed fingers to meet his gaze. And almost flinch from the emotion saturating his stare. Gone is the Sphinx, and in his place stands the battered and scarred warrior who’s witnessed horrors but still survived and goes on. His jaw works, and his nostrils flare. But before I can decipher the origin and details of that tempest in his eyes, he hauls me against him, burrows his fingers in my hair, drags my head back, and covers my mouth with his.
The kiss is hungry, carnal, wild…and desperate. I taste it in the aggressive thrust of his tongue, the clench and release of his fists in my hair, the almost frantic angling of my head so he can dive deeper inside me, demand more from me. And I give it. Whatever this man who never asks for anything—doesn’t expect anything from others—needs from me, I’ll give it.
God, I’d been right to be wary of getting too deep with Knox, this man with the stony face, heartbreaking eyes, and magical mouth, hands, and dick. He could so easily have me losing myself again.
That sends a shard of unease slicing me, but not enough to pierce the dense fog of lust that encases us.
Dimly, I catch the ringtone of my cell phone on the dining room table, and ignore it, raising on my toes to open my mouth wider under his and meet him in this erotic battle we’re labeling a kiss.
But after a moment of silence, the phone starts again. Groaning, I drop to the soles of my feet and tilt my head back. It’s Monday morning; that could be Jude or any of the other tattoo artists on the other end, even though it’s still early.
It could be Kathrine or Dan.
As soon as the idea passes through my head, I can’t eject it. Or all the other thoughts that follow. Last night. Knox in my kitchen, half-naked this morning. The consequences if anyone found out. Was sex between us a one-time thing—okay, two-time thing—or…just what the hell are we doing?
Sighing, I scrub my palms down my face and edge around him. Seconds later, I pick up the phone just as it stops ringing. A missed call from Simon. With a swipe of my thumb, his voicemail fills the room.
“Hey, Eden. I’ve been trying to reach Knox, but knowing him, he’s probably left his phone somewhere. That’s bullshit.” His chuckle echoes from the cell. “He’s probably just not answering. Anyway, when you see him today, could you let him know I have those two new pieces he wanted? I’ll bring them by the shop this afternoon. Thanks, sis. Love you.”
The voicemail clicks off, and “sis” and “love you” ping-pong off the walls of my skull, magnifying with each rebound.
Would he continue to call me his sister and show me that easy affection if he suspected that not four hours ago I—his brother’s widow—had been pinned under his other brother’s body, begging him to fuck me harder, faster? Would he, or Jude, or Katherine, be able to look at me, accept me, call me family…love me?
The possibility of losing them, the only people in this world who have ever really loved and accepted me, strikes me in the heart like a finely-honed dagger. Being abandoned again—it’s the only nightmare that competes with those about Connor.
Family isn’t everything only to those who’ve never been without one, who’ve always been blessed with the presence and security of one and take that precious gift for granted.
But… When I’m with Knox, it’s like that breathless expectation of Christmas Eve mixed with the exhilarating, stomach-twisting combination of pleasure and excitement similar to catching a glimpse of your crush down the high school hallway. I feel vibrant, sharp,alivewhen I’m around him. And after two years of living in that awful in-between like a zombie—breathing but dead inside—it’s addictive;he’saddictive.
“I would never make you choose, Eden,” Knox says, studying me from the distance that separates us.
God, does the man have mind-reading abilities?
I carefully replace my cell on the dining room table then meet his unwavering gaze. Unlike before the kiss, his normal, impenetrable expression has returned. And a part of me mourns that glimpse into the tortured man beneath. Even for a brief amount of time, he let me in.
“I don’t want to choose.” God, I can’t believe I’m saying this…doingthis. “I want both. At least for as long as I can. As long as we can.”
An emotion spasms across his face before his harshly beautiful features resume their usual inscrutability. He shakes his head, and I can practically see the “no” on his lips before he utters it. “Eden…”
“I know this can’t go anywhere, and I’m not asking you for a relationship or forever. But if we’re careful, if we agree to keep this between us, why can’t we have each other? For the first time since…” I trail off, unable to say Connor’s name in a hot-sex-with-no-strings-attached conversation with his brother. “I don’t have to be anyone but myself with you. Yes, I want to fuck you until I can’t move,” I say, the flash of heat in his gaze a match to the desire that’s always at a low simmer inside me. “But it’s more than that. I’m not a widow, a daughter, or a lifeline with you. I’m not…alone.”
The truth of that staggers me. I have been alone. I’ve lived the past two years with this invisible shield of grief between me and the world.
Except with Knox.
