It takes all my self-control not to chase after him and finish what we started.
He didn’t get a release.
He didn’t ask for one, either.
Benji would never have let that happen. He didn’t do selfless acts. Not in the bedroom. And—shit. I need to stop this. I have to quit comparing Matthew to my late husband because it always ends in guilt.
I’m not doing it anymore.
Benji is gone. And Matthew is only temporary.
I need to start enjoying this for what it is and leave the comparisons behind.
What I need is champagne.
I grab the bottle, pour myself a glass, and sip what has to be excessively expensive alcohol. And all the while, Matthew’s touch haunts me like a ghost.
The memory of his lips on my neck.
The tingle from where his firm hands spread my thighs.
The more I drink, the more he fills my head. Not only sexually, but how he rescued me, too. The way he cradled me in the back of his car. The cadence in his words as he promised to look after me.
I push to my feet, wobble with the sudden shot vertical, then place my glass on the floor and grab a towel.
In less than two minutes I’m cocooned in a plush hotel robe, the champagne bottle in my hand along with the glasses as I pad to the end of the hall and find Matthew on the sofa.
He’s hunched forward, elbows on knees, his back to me as he talks on his cell in snarled tones. “Tell him this is unacceptable. We had an agreement.”
I wait there, not wanting to interrupt, not willing to get in the way of his work.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he snaps. “I think you know me well enough to understand I’m livid right now.”
I stiffen at his vehemence, never having heard it before, and the glasses clink in my hand.
“I’ve gotta go.” He straightens. “Layla is out of the bath.”
I wince, wishing I’d been more discreet even though I refuse to be a snoop.
“She’s doing well.” Matthew glances at me over his shoulder, his annoyance nowhere in sight as he takes me in with appreciation. “The swelling is getting worse on her cheek, and there are marks on her arm, too. But she’s strong.”
My stomach warms with the compliment. With resurging lust and need, too.
I approach, placing the bottle and glasses on the table in front of him, remaining a foot away. I take him in while he leans back, relaxing into the sofa like a king atop his throne, one arm stretching along the headrest, an ankle crossing over his knee.
“Handle the situation, Bishop. Thoroughly.” He rakes his gaze down the length of me, his eyes hungry. “I’ll be ready to fly out at five.” He disconnects the call and places the device on the far cushion. “You’re flushed.”
“It’s the champagne,” I lie.
It’s definitely him. All him.
He leans forward, reaching out to grab the front of my robe to pull me closer. “I promised myself I’d give you space.” He drags me down onto his lap, his hands fisting my lapels. “You’re turning me into a liar.”
I grin at our similarities and settle against his thighs, my palms finding his silk-covered pecs. “I don’t want space.”
“No, but you need it.” His lips brush mine, once, twice, the kisses commanding but oh, so gentle. “Yesterday, you wanted nothing to do with me.” He lowers his hands to seize my hips and guides me to move onto the cushion beside him.
“That’s not true. I’ve wanted more from you since the moment we met. It’s the complications that kept me away.”
“And have those secretive complications changed since you were mugged?” He stands and stalks to the kitchen to grab a drinking glass from a cupboard, then fills it with water from the fridge. “I think I can answer for you in saying they haven’t. The only difference from last night to today is a chemical imbalance brought on by shock.” He returns, holding the chilled water out to me. “Drink. You can’t live on alcohol alone.”
Goddamnit, he’s charming.
Big and broad and conniving. Yet sweet enough to cause cavities.
“Thank you.” I stare up at him as I take his offering.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe the fixation gnawing at my insides is only due to the scare I received. But even if it is, what does it matter? There’s no future between us. There’s only now, and I want to take advantage of our limited time.
“In answer to your question, no, the issues keeping me from being able to see you again haven’t changed.” I take a sip from the glass, not realizing how much I needed water until my throat throbs with the cool relief. “This is all we have. And I’m willing to take advantage of every minute if you are.”
He moves to the armchair opposite me—the farthest seat in the living room—and sinks into the cream leather. “Minutes aren’t what I’m after. A seized night every other Wednesday whenever I’m lucky to catch you at Perfezione won’t be enough. I want more from you. Everything else is merely a provocation that won’t satisfy.”
I school my expression, not having anticipated the rejection. “Does that mean you want me to go back to my own room?”
“No.” He scowls. “What I’m saying is that touching you—tasting you—only works as a taunt when I know I can’t have everything. And I’m too old to torment myself that way.”
Everything he says is a compliment.
I’m not sure if he’s even aware of what he’s doing. But his words act as a confidence booster. He tells me all the things I’ve dreamed of hearing. One after another, each perfectly constructed sentence making me crave him all the more.
“How old are you?” I ask, fighting the need to bite the inside of my mouth.
“Thirty-three. Old enough to no longer be satisfied with casual sex.” He kicks his ankle back over his knee. Suave. Sophisticated. “What I want is a wife, amore mio. And children. Both of which I can easily picture with you.”
“Excuse me?” I sputter, needing another sip of water to stop myself from choking.
“You heard me.” He grins. “But my point is that fucking you isn’t my only aim. Getting to know you is.”
I swallow. Clear my throat. Swallow again.
Even if this didn’t have to be temporary, I can’t give him what he wants.
Dragging him into my world isn’t an option. I already forced one man into the darkness that consumes my family. I refuse to do it again.
“Come back to D.C. with me tonight.” He remains composed through the gentle demand. “Let us get to know one another. You’ll have access to my jet to return home whenever you like. You’ll be safe at all times.”
My pulse increases as a lifetime of emotions batter down on me.
I can’t withstand the yearning. The hope. There’s happiness, and excitement, too. But they’re all washed away with the tidal wave of guilt, heartache, and longing.
I’m not meant for happy things.
“I’m sorry, I can’t.” I place my water on the table, using the movement as an excuse to drag my gaze from his.
“Why?”
It’s a simple question. If only the answer wasn’t entirely complex and multi-layered.
There’s my family. My lifestyle. The dangers and threats. Not to mention why I’m in Denver in the first place. But I can’t tell him any of that. He can’t know who I am.