Chapter 27
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hallie
I wake in a tangle of sheets pulled tight to my chin. Eyes still closed, my first conscious inhalation is full of warm spice. A scent that evokes thoughts of steaming-hot showers and water droplets waiting to be licked from a freshly washed chest.
Reaching out a hand, I search the king-sized bed for the source of the mouthwatering scent and brush warm skin. Finally opening my eyes, I find that we’re facing one another in the bed, even though there’s now space between us. Marcus doesn’t stir beneath my soft touch, nor does he wake as I scoot closer to him. I stop a few inches out, hesitant to wake him by getting too close. I’m content watching him in the early morning light that’s filtering into the room. His face is peaceful in sleep. With eyelashes I can’t help but be envious of and a mouth that brings me so much pleasure, he just might be my favorite thing to wake up to. More so than coffee, than the smell of bacon, than a crisp, clear Edinburgh day.
A new favorite thing to top the list.
It’s this thought that loosens my control, and before I can stop it, my fingertips are reaching for him. This man that I so very much want to be mine.
I want to touch him—for him to be touching me—all the damn time.
With a single arm curled under his head in sleep, it’s the other I reach for, the pads of my fingers ever so gently stroking through the dark hair of his forearms and along the smooth skin beneath. Following the strong bones of his wrist, I move on to the top of his hand, tracing along the tendons toward each knuckle. Focused as I am on this minuscule amount of contact, I don’t notice he’s awake until his hand comes alive beneath mine, his fingers tangling with my own.
His movement surprises me, and my breath catches. Cheeks warming, I flick my gaze up, taking in the satisfied little smile on his lips.
Talk about being caught red-handed.
“Good morning, Hallie,” he says, voice low and gravelly with sleep.
“Morning.” I barely get the word out before he’s tugging me closer into the warmth of his arms, sheets rustling around us. Locked away here, we’re in a little cocoon of our own, and I love it.
“Can’t keep your hands off me, can you?” he asks playfully.
And while having him call out this need of mine causes a tiny squirm of embarrassment…I breathe in deep and let it go. He’s only teasing.
“Well, I’d prefer not to, but I can try to keep my hands to myself if you’d like?” I tease back, swallowing past my remaining nerves. Bantering with emotional honesty is new.
“That’s not what I want at all,” he says, placing both my palms on his chest, giving me permission to roam freely. His own hands move to cup my ass, rolling and lifting me until I’m astride him. With my thighs split wide over his lower abdomen, Marcus keeps a hold of me, stroking his thumbs back and forward over my hips.
“You touch me as much as you like,” he says, closing his eyes once more.
Permission granted, I don’t miss a beat, running my fingertips along the indents of his abs, up the silken skin of his sides, and back over the hard planes of his muscular chest. His face remains at ease the entire time, calm and relaxed at my touch. With his eyes closed, he’s unable to see my enjoyment or the shift I begin to feel as my panty-clad sex slowly moves against him. But I get his attention instantly as my touch turns from the soft pads of fingers to the delectable drag of nails. His hips buck and lift as I leave thin white lines along his pecs, his nipples tightening along with his grip on my hips.
“Hallie,” Marcus growls out, his throat arching, even as his eyes remain shut. His hips thrust a second time, and I grind back against him.
“Hmm?” I hum back, continuing my exploration, wondering, albeit briefly, if I can use these gentle scratches to write my name. And then, before I can think better of it, I start.
With the nail of a single index finger, I begin to trace H-A-L-L-I-E across his chest.
The letters form and fade without leaving a single lasting mark on his skin, but in the process, it’s there for me to see.
Mine, mine, mine.
My body’s hot, my panties wet where they slide against my now-slick skin.
With the last letter drawn, Marcus’s eyes spring open, his large body flipping us to come back down over me. His breathing is rough, matching my rapidly beating pulse.
“You are trouble,” he says with a flex of his hips, pressing his erection against where I’m suddenly desperate for him. The sweatpants he’s wearing do nothing to hide his thickness. And all I want is to pull the front of them down, releasing his cock, so that as I move my panties to the side, we can join once more.
But he’s quicker than I am, snatching my hand from where it’s about to grab for his waistband. He presses my wrist onto the mattress beside my hip, and I give a moan of discontent. Quickly as I can, I try and use my other hand to achieve my goal, but Marcus catches me again, this time laughing as he presses both my hands down into the mattress by my sides as I buck my hips, struggling to get closer.
“Dirty girl. Desperate for it, huh?” he asks with raised brows and a smile I’d like to kiss off his damn face.
I feel myself blush scarlet. “Maybe,” I reply in a voice that barely conceals the undertones of yes, please .
“Well, we don’t have time for that this morning. We need to get you back to your room before Erica notices you’re gone. We can play all you want when we get home,” he says with a swift kiss to my lips before jumping to his feet. “You can join me in the shower if you calm down enough to look at me without falling to your knees. Okay?”
I don’t bother with an answer. Instead, I throw a pillow at his retreating back.
Asshole.
Falling back into the bedding as the bathroom door closes, I bask in the moment, listening as Marcus brushes his teeth, the water running as the shower turns on. They’re comforting sounds. Sounds of domesticity I’ve never shared with another person before. But sounds that I could get used to.
Deciding I better join him before I lose the chance, I sit and reach for my phone next to the bed. I check for the time, feeling ill as it’s only six a.m., way too early for any Vegas wake-up call. You should be allowed to get home at this time, but not get up.
It’s when I place my phone back on the nightstand that Marcus’s phone lights up, and I don’t have a chance to look away before two texts flash up on the screen consecutively.
Johnathan Cairns: You’re a fool, Marcus. I asked for one simple thing.
Johnathan Cairns: One conversation with my daughter, and the money’s yours.
The oxygen in my body leaves me in a single, heavy exhale.
I’m empty and still staring at the screen as it goes dark. Blinking, hands icy, heart racing, I reach the index finger I’d so recently used to write my name over Marcus’s heart to bring light back to his phone’s screen.
The texts are still there.
And so I read them again.
You’re a fool, Marcus. I asked for one simple thing.
One conversation with my daughter, and the money’s yours.
I didn’t imagine it.
I close my eyes. Open them.
You’re a fool.
Words written just for me.
Ice continues to trickle into my fingers even as my insides start to heat, the embers of long-ago hurt being stoked to flame once more. This whole scenario feels horribly, achingly familiar, causing all my unease from last night to creep up and around me, smothering me completely.
I should’ve known better.
I move from the bed swiftly, my poor heart too open, too vulnerable to even try and be the bigger person. To try and talk this out.
Everything that’s been between us, —every touch, each conniving word—is in the hope of getting me to talk to my father. For money. Of course.
Stripping his T-shirt from my body, I scramble into my crumpled dress, nausea rising with the feel of the fabric rubbing against my naked skin. In the basic and most complex of ways, I feel unclean. When I was younger, I’d have swimming lessons, and afterward, I’d shower and get changed. But all the while, I’d feel uncomfortable—a mix of anxiety as I hurriedly tried to dress without anyone seeing me and feeling unclean as I pulled dry clothes onto my still-damp body, the smell of chlorine still permeating my skin. It’s the same feeling now as I smell him on my skin, as I feel the gusset of my panties still wet with my recent desire between my thighs. But I have to push it down, to ignore it, and keep moving.
Because I also want to rage and scream. Want to leave without a single word.
I do neither.
Instead, I remind myself why I’m here and that it’s time to return to the status quo.
Sell the house, attend the wedding, leave.
I look to the bathroom, and my heart aches, even as my resolve strengthens. And I surrender completely, my fight or flight taking over and every defense mechanism I have clicking back in place. I take a few deep breaths, inhaling and exhaling as I remind myself that I can do this, even as my sweaty palm struggles to get a grip on the handle for the bathroom door. I wipe them on my dress and try again.
“Marcus, I’ve gotta go. Erica’s calling me!” I call once I have it open just a crack. I don’t want to see him. I just need him to hear me.
I don’t wait around for an answer, taking my shoes and purse in hand, not stopping as I pick up my phone and room key. I look at the bed briefly, the rumpled sheets and the perfection that I found there, and I only ache more.
Leaving my bra to whatever fate has in store for it, I close the hotel room door behind me.
And then I run.
With my heart in my throat, I make it to the elevator, but instead of heading back to the room I’m sharing with Erica, I head down to the lobby. Alone in the mirror-lined box, every stupid decision I’ve made reflects back at me under both harsh and critical lighting, so I squeeze my eyes closed. I squeeze them tight, but the lack of vision only seems to push out the release of sound as a sob escapes my lips. I hate it. Hate the desperation of it. Somehow, I manage to not let tears fall yet. But I try and fail to stop myself from thinking about the last time I’d felt this way, the morning after Marcus and I’d had sex for the first time. The irony in last night being the first time we’d actually slept together isn’t lost on me.
I shouldn’t have trusted us, shouldn’t have trusted him.
I give myself until the first floor to pull it together, to get my shoes on and my hair up. But I flat out refuse to look at my reflection again. To think last night, I’d been concerned about the staff’s opinion of me heading to a hotel room for sex. Having anyone see me like this is so much fucking worse. The fact that no one’s joined me in the elevator so far is a blessing I didn’t count on. And with that in mind, I pull my shoulders back, and as the elevator doors open, I step out into the hotel’s lobby.
I walk tall, confident, and in an absolute daze. In a secluded corner, I take a seat on an uncomfortable-looking armchair before making a new plan and booking myself on a stupidly expensive flight. Somehow, I make my way to the ground-floor restrooms, taking note of a coffee shop where I’ll pick up a latte for Erica before I head up to our room.
And it’s only once I’m safely alone inside a cubicle, the door locked, that I let myself break, and the tears finally come.
I just want to go home.
The crack in my heart splinters a little further because I’m still no closer to figuring out where that is. But at least I now know for certain where it’s not.