Chapter Four
Chloe
I feel the sun on my skin before I see it, a warmth I’m not used to. Not like this. It’s gentle and seductive, nothing like the harsh glare that bounces off the city’s glass and steel.
Slowly, I open my eyes to find myself in a room bathed in soft golden light. Rays of sunlight stream through an open window, dancing on the walls, simple white curtains swaying gently with the breeze.
But it’s not just the room, even the air smells different here.
Clean and salty, like the ocean. It’s a scent that instantly soothes.
Even living in the wealthier part of New York City doesn’t always free you from the constant blend of exhaust fumes and distant, unknown smells.
But here, the air is so clean. And it’s so quiet.
I’m not fully convinced this is not a dream as I sit up in bed.
Everything about this room is the opposite of my bedroom back home.
It’s simple with walls painted a soft calming white to provide a blank canvas for the sunlight.
There are a few pieces of furniture in the room.
A queen bed, a small wooden nightstand, and a dresser in one corner of the room.
The floor is covered with a slightly faded blue rug that felt soft beneath my feet last night when I walked in.
With a sigh, I shove back the covers and climb out of bed, then follow the sounds of crashing waves to the window. I don’t see much of the ocean from this room, and I wonder if it’s a coincidence or a deliberate decision on Elliott’s part—to shield me from the water that nearly took me.
Speaking of which…
Last night happened, right? It wasn’t just a dream.
The kissing and the touching. The wanton way I behaved, begging him to do things to me I’ve never even dared dream of.
Everything that I have done since I was rescued has been out of character for me.
A day ago, I would have blushed at the thought of sitting on the man’s lap, his hands touching me as I’ve never been touched before. Begging for more…
And he, my handsome Elliott, gave me more.
Way more than I ever expected. I trail a hand over my body, touching my breasts over the T-shirt he let me borrow, sighing at the pleasure I feel as my mind travels back to last night.
Those large, calloused hands touching me, his mouth teasing my body, kissing and licking me…
This is not what I came here for. I admit that what I sought was escape, a few days away from my parents and the man they kept shoving at me. I just wanted a little time to think, to figure out how I could get out of that engagement. But now, things have changed.
I want something else.
I turn toward the door when I catch a sound coming from downstairs. The guilt from lying to Elliott threatens to choke me, but I swallow it down. It’s not in character for me to take advantage of someone’s kindness, but I’m afraid of the alternative.
I don’t let myself think of it as using him.
I just want to be near him—want more of what last night gave me.
That’s not nothing. That’s not a scheme.
It solidifies as I dry off and wrap myself in a robe, tying it a little loose around me.
I’m about to dive into uncharted waters, and for once, I’m not afraid.
With a little apprehension, I make my way downstairs to seek out the man I intend to seduce.
“You’re up,” he says when I walk into the kitchen where he’s preparing breakfast. He looks so darn handsome in the morning, with his messy hair and beard.
I feel a shiver run down my spine when his green-hazel eyes find mine.
I don’t miss the way they move over my body before quickly turning back to the tomatoes he’s chopping.
“I heard you moving around, so I thought I’d get started on breakfast.”
“You were waiting on me?” I ask as a fresh wave of guilt rolls in. Christ.
“I don’t know how you like your coffee, or if you drink it at all.”
“I don’t…I mean, I don’t know if I like coffee,” I say tentatively, walking to the counter and grabbing his steaming cup, then taking a small sip of it. I wince at the bitter taste of the dark liquid. “Yeah, no. I definitely don’t like coffee.”
“How about some hot chocolate?”
I nod and sit back to watch him prepare it, and something about it feels so familiar and calming.
I indulge in a little fantasy and imagine mornings like this: waking to the sound of the ocean, feeling the sun on my skin, and smelling the food prepared by a man whose muscles shift with every move.
I could sit by one of those large windows and paint and paint and paint…
“How long have you lived in Eden Cove?” I ask, pulling my mind back to the present.
“My entire life—I was born here.”
“Thanks,” I say when he hands me a mug of hot chocolate with whipped cream. I cup it with both hands and dare a sip. It scalds my tongue, but the sweetness makes up for it. A moan slips out as it warms me from the inside out. I lick the excess cream from my lips. “This is so good.”
When he doesn’t respond, I open my eyes to find his eyes locked on my lips. I lick them again, and his eyes darken dangerously. I hold my breath, certain he’s going to round the counter and kiss me, but he turns away.
Darn it.
Patience, I tell myself. Patience.
“I did a bit of research last night, about your memory loss,” Elliott says, chopping the tomatoes again.
For one horrifying moment, I’m afraid he’s going to suggest meeting a psychiatrist or something.
I could fool this man or maybe even the doctor who was clearly tired from a long shift, but I’m not sure I’d be able to fool a professional with my tears.
“What were you looking for?” I ask, sipping my hot chocolate.
“Anything and everything I could about your condition. I learned that people who’ve been in your position are likely to forget personal details and events from their past life, but they can retain memories of skills and habits.”
“Really?”
“Yes, I read that gentle prompting and focusing on sensory details can help trigger memories.”
My brows knit in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“How about putting it into practice,” he says, turning off the stove. I watch, my heart in my throat, as he rounds the counter and approaches me. “Close your eyes.”
“W-what?”
“Trust me,” he says softly. “Close your eyes, and I’ll ask you a few simple questions.”
I place my cup gently on the counter and turn to face him fully, then I close my eyes. “Okay, what now?”
“I want you to let your mind wander. Don’t force anything, just let the images come to you.
” He’s close. So much closer than he was before, and it makes my heart start racing.
“I want you to think about the feeling of the sun on your skin, the scent of the ocean, and the sound of laughter. What is your favorite color?”
“Green.” Like the outer ring of your eyes.
“What did we have for dinner last night?”
He’s so much closer now. Close enough that I can smell him. The exotic woodsy scent of his cologne is messing with my mind. “Salmon and vegetables. It was delicious.”
“Good,” he rasps, his voice a few notches deeper than before. It’s odd—he’s not touching me, but he’s close enough that it feels like he is. “What smells remind you of a happy time?”
“Paint,” I whisper, my breath shuddering when I feel his touch over my jaw, gentle and almost featherlike.
It still sends heat spreading through my core.
My nipples harden, aching painfully with need for his touch.
I want to open my eyes and meet his, see what he’s thinking, but I’m afraid that in doing so, I’ll break the spell.
“What kind of paint?”
“Gouache, watercolor, and acrylic—but sometimes, I like using oil-based paint, even if it takes the longest to dry.”
I shiver when his hand cups my face. “Good, you’re doing so good. Now tell me, what’s your favorite song?”
It’s at the tip of my tongue, the urge to open up and tell this man everything is strong, but it’s dangerous.
I’ve already told him too much. What happens when he finds out I’m lying to him about losing my memory.
He’ll kick me out, and I’ll have to go back to Royce Simpson and his endless bragging.
It doesn’t occur to me that I’m working myself into a panic attack until Elliott’s worried voice slips through my mind. “Hey, it’s okay. That’s enough. Breathe now. Breathe for me, kitten.”
My eyes snap open, and he must interpret my distress as a result of our little experiment. And it is, just not in the way he thinks. “I’m okay,” I breathe, letting out a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry. I can’t remember much. I…”
“No, that was more than enough.” His hands are gentle on my face, caressing my face in a way that’s meant to soothe, but all it does is make me ache all over. “I shouldn’t have pushed you. The doctor told me to be patient with you.”
“You are,” I whisper, leaning forward, a slight movement that brings him even closer to mine. “And last night, you were so kind and patient with me. I slept better because you were there.”
I shift a little on my seat which opens my robe, revealing my breasts and pebbled nipples. I don’t rush to close it even as my cheeks flush with heat. And when his eyes drop down, I read desire in his face.
“Chloe,” the name is choked out, and I can almost see the man fighting with himself.
“It helped when you touched me last night,” I push, sawing at the band of control he’s grasping tightly on to. “I didn’t dream about anything dark after you touched me. It helped.”
“Chloe!”
When his eyes lift to mine, they’re dark and dangerous. Heated. A little more, and he’ll snap, I can tell. “Please, Elliott. I need you.”
He moves, fast as a snake and with no warning.
His mouth crashes against mine hard. I gasp, which turns into a low moan as my lips part for his.
He moves like a fevered animal, yanking the robe off my shoulders and leaving me completely naked on the kitchen stool.
His hands are everywhere, fondling my breasts and squeezing my thigh.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders, moaning into the kiss and moving so that my nipples rub against his shirt.
“Fuck me, kitten,” he rasps into the kiss, feeding on my lips with deep hungry groans. “Your lips taste so fucking good.”
“Don’t stop,” I whine, hands pulling at his shoulders as I arch into him.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he says hoarsely, fanning the heat burning at the base of my belly.
I ache, every inch of my body trembles for him, and when his hand drops to the wet spot between my thighs, I cry out.
“You’re wet. Fuck me!” His curse is low, blowing against my lips as his hand dips toward my core.
I bury my nails into his shoulder as he rubs his thumb against my aching clit in slow strokes. His eyes find mine, heated. Dark and dangerous.
It should terrify me.
Here I am, in a little house by the beach with a stranger. In here, he could do things to me, and no one would ever know. Christ, the thought alone is enough to make my core flood with need.
“Oh God,” I cry out, throwing my head back as his thumb moves faster on my clit, stroking the swollen bud until I see stars shoot behind my eyelids. “Oh God, yes. Elliott…”
“Tell me, baby, how does that feel?”
“G-good,” I pant, burying my face in his neck as I push against the fingers circling my entrance. “Feels so good.” I gasp when his thumb increases pressure, moving faster and harder, pushing me into an orgasm I wasn’t prepared for.
I cry out his name, fingers tightening on his shoulder as pleasure bursts through me, starting from my core and spreading to the tip of my toes.
I grip him hard, bucking on the stool as tremor after tremor racks my body.
He holds me against him, kissing my throat and cheeks, his lips gentle against my skin. Soothing.
And then he panics.
I feel it, the way his muscles tense against me.
When he pulls back, I see the horror reflected in his eyes before it changes to blankness.
“I’m sorry,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he leans down to grab my robe.
Gently, he wraps it around my shoulders and looks away.
I watch his jaw clench and eyes darken with something akin to shame, maybe guilt.
“Elliott.”
“I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.”
Without another word, he turns and hightails it out of the room without a backward glance. I slide into my robe and tie the belt before picking up my hot chocolate, which has cooled considerably.
My body still aches from where he touched me. I understand why he left—he thinks he’s done something wrong, taken something from a woman he’s supposed to be protecting. The thought of him carrying that guilt on my account makes my chest ache more than my body does.
He’s not taking advantage of me. If anything, it’s the other way around. And I don’t know how to fix that without telling him the truth. No matter how much I want him—and I do, I want him more than I’ve wanted anything—what I want more is for him not to feel guilty. Not because of me.