“Whisky, Shamus is waiting.”
Hank kept looking at me, just that, looking at me, his face close, his eyes staring into mine. I felt my breath turn shal ow as his lazy eyes got that intense look behind them.
“What?” I asked.
His hand ran up my side.
“Just thinking of you sleepin’ in my bed,” he said. “It’s a good thought.”
My throat closed and feelings of panic and happiness surged through me. It was strangely thril ing and frightening at the same time. I swal owed to open my throat, then I put my arms around him and pressed my face in his neck.
“Hank,” I whispered against his skin. “What I have to say at breakfast I know you aren’t going to like. Please, for me, or for the person you think I am right now, don’t –” He interrupted me.
“Are you tel in’ me you’re a different person?” I shook my head, pul ed away from his neck and looked into his eyes. “But once you hear what I have to say, you might think I am.”
He stared at me a beat, then, al of a sudden, he pul ed me completely out from under the covers and slid my na**d body across his lap. He yanked the covers over me, wrapping them around me to keep me warm and then his hands went into my hair on either side of my head and held me, facing him.
“Sweetheart, I’m thirty-five years old and I’ve had a f**k of a lot more lovers than you counted on your one hand last night. I’ve come to the point, with women, that I know what I want when I see it and I haven’t seen anything in a long time that interests me as much as you.”
Holy cow.
I was trying to process that (and struggling with it) when he continued.
“Not only that, but I’ve seen a lot of shit in my job and I deal, day to day, with the filthy crust eating away at the edge of good civilization. I know good people, I know bad people, I know good people who do bad things and bad people who do good.”
I stared at him, wide-eyed, fascinated and speechless as his face dipped closer to mine.
“I know what kind of person you are and nothing you say over breakfast is gonna change the fact that, while I’m runnin’, I’m gonna think about your f**king fantastic body na**d and asleep in my bed.”
A shiver slid through me.
“Wow,” I whispered.
“So you can stop worrying,” he finished.
I nodded.
He watched me for a beat and then his hands went from my head, to my shoulders and then around my back.
“One more thing, Roxanne.”
I nodded again, stil speechless, stil processing and, even though I nodded, I was not entirely sure I could take
“one more thing”.
“I meant what I said last night, about you and me. I know you’re scared –”
“I’m not scared,” I lied, automatical y and in self-defense.
His arms tightened. “Quiet,” he ordered.
I shut up.
“You think we’re going too fast.”
“That, I’l agree with,” I broke in again.
He shook his head and smiled. “What you need to get is that it’s done. The minute I slid inside you last night, it was done.”
That got a bel y quiver.
“You said that last night,” I reminded him.
“I have to know you get it.”
“Why?”
“‘Cause whatever it is you’re gonna tel me in a couple of hours is gonna make me involved.”
“I’m not sure it means that.”
“I am.”
“Whisky –”
“I’m already involved.”
“I don’t think so.”
He frowned. “You don’t get it.”
“You have to let me sort it out myself.”
“Been there, done that… I was a bystander the other times and it sure as f**k isn’t gonna happen with you and me.”
He was talking about Indy and Jet and al their problems.
“You’re being very nice but I have to take care of this my way.”
“I’m not being nice, I’m protecting what’s mine.” My body jerked in shock at his words, I blinked and my back straightened. “I’m not yours,” I said.
“You’re welcome to think that but it doesn’t change the fact that you are.”
This was familiar, too familiar, annoyingly familiar.
Men!
“I’m not yours!” I said and my voice was so much louder, Shamus gave a woof.
“I get it, Roxie, you’re tryin’ to be independent and strong
–”
Oh no, now he was patronizing me. I wasn’t a big fan of being patronized. “Don’t you dare patronize me, Hank Nightingale. I am independent,” I said, not claiming to be strong. I knew I wasn’t that. “And I’m sick to death of men who think they can…”
I stopped. I didn’t want to go too far, too soon.
“What?” Hank asked. When I didn’t answer he pushed.
“Men who think they can what?”
I scowled at him and burst out in a flurry of (loud) words,
“Possess me! Trap me! Make me be where I don’t want to be or go where I don’t want to go or feel what I don’t want to feel!”
After I was done talking, he twisted, my back hit the bed and before I knew it, he was on top of me, staring down at me, his eyes intense.
“Belonging to me doesn’t mean I’l make you do anything, it just means I consider you mine for as long as this lasts. It means I protect you, it means I take care of you.
For another man, it might mean something different.” His eyes changed, they went funny, the intensity strengthening to something that was mesmerizing.
Then he said, “Don’t confuse me with another man.” His words dealt my defenses a destructive blow.
Doggedly, I carried on, trying to be philosophical, trying to hold up the ragged remains of what was left of the shield I had around me, protecting me from Hank.
“They say, if you care about something, you have to set it free and if it comes back to you, it was meant to be.”
“They’re ful of shit.”
Obviously, I failed spectacularly at being philosophical.
I gave up on that and went for annoyed. “Hank!” I snapped.
He smiled, effectively breaking the moment, and gave me a light kiss.
“We’l talk about it over breakfast. I’l promise to listen to you and you have to promise to listen to me. We’l figure it out.”
If I could have put my hands on my hips, I would have.