9. Denver
Chapter 9
Denver
“ Y ou can’t just show up like this.”
“I told you that I would.”
“You say a lot of things you don’t mean,” I snap, throwing my beach bag on the bed.
Ranger looks around the room, his gaze moving between the sofa, the small kitchen, and the television. He leans into the bedroom, his fingers tapping the wall, and finally faces me.
I stand behind the sofa, hands tucked into the back pockets of my jean shorts, toes clenched painfully in my sandals. I have to keep my distance. My body feels flammable, and he is an open flame. I don’t want him to burn me up, to reduce me to nothing, despite how much I’d enjoy the heat before disappearing for good.
The last three months have been the longest we’ve been apart in six years, and part of me wants to rush into his arms. His limo car had taken us to the hotel, and though we were silent, I’d stolen glances at him for the first time in too long. He looks so handsome, even when he’s angry with me, maybe even especially then. He’s almost forty now, but not a fleck of gray disturbs his black hair. And his eyes, those dark eyes, move across me, igniting a fire that has my oil-doused skin quivering with anticipation and pure, potent desire. He could use that look to bring any woman to their knees, but his focus is me. His focus is always on me.
He drops his bag on the coffee table, takes out a cigarette, and places it between his lips. “Nice room.”
I move to him, snatching the cigarette from his mouth, and he quickly seizes my wrist. Sometimes, I forget how much bigger he is compared to me, compared to most, but it never deters me from getting close. I’d scratch his eyes out, given half the chance.
His gaze shifts across my face and my weak attempt to cover the bruises Adam left behind. Anger flashes through him, a spark of fire in onyx eyes.
My heart flutters, and I whisper, “What?”
“Nothing.” Finger by finger, he releases me, and I go to the patio doors, opening them and throwing the cigarette outside.
Ranger pulls out another, snatching a matchstick against the box to light it. He’s the only person I know who still uses matches, and he told me it was because he likes the smell. I will always associate that smokey richness with him.
He lights the cigarette and shakes out the match, the smoke dancing around him. He then dips his hand into his inside pocket and holds out a phone to me.
I don’t want to know how he knows my phone is broken. Because if someone watched me throw it into the pool, that means they likely also saw that Ethan was in my room. The thought has my heart dropping into my stomach.
When I remain fixed in place, Ranger steps close and curls his fingers into the buttons of my jean shorts. My skin heats, and my breath catches as he tugs me closer, tucking the new phone into my back pocket. White smoke curls over his lips, and he removes the cigarette but not his fingers.
“So I can reach you,” he says quietly, dark eyes searching mine, the smell of expensive cigarette smoke rich between us. I school my expression, my breathing, my entire demeanor, but he can see right through me. He always could. “Say thank you.”
I tense my jaw, and his fingers dip lower into my jeans. Lust tears through me, my body desperate to curl into his touch. “Thank you,” I say quickly and put distance between us.
“You’re welcome.” He inhales the cigarette, the end glowing brightly. He blows out more smoke before speaking again. “You’re coming home.”
“No, I’m not.”
“I didn’t ask , Denver,” he says. “You can’t keep running. The police are asking questions.”
I hesitate, fear gripping my throat. He’s lying. There isn’t a single person he doesn’t have in his pocket. If the police are asking questions, it’s because he wants them to.
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“Regardless of whether you believe me or not, I would think you almost dying would be enough to convince you that home is the safest place for you,” he says. “Would you like to know who hired Adam?” Ranger walks to the patio doors and flicks the barely smoked cigarette outside. “Wyatt’s mother.”
I wince, squeezing my eyes closed as if I could forget that my own mother-in-law wants me dead, but they hang in the air alongside the smoke.
“She thinks I?—”
“She does. So, you’re coming home,” he says, dark gaze darting across my features. “I’m tired of cleaning up your mess.”
“That’s all you’re good for,” I say quietly, my hate clouding my need to survive him.
“You don’t get to pick and choose when my name means something to you,” he says, his voice clipped. “You want me to make this go away? You come home.”
I’ve always been tough, stubborn, and willing to get hurt if it means getting what I want. But when it comes to Ranger, my strength is my downfall because I push his buttons. I hurt him because I can.
“I’d rather go to jail,” I whisper.
His patience snaps. He grips my neck and pushes me against the wall, but it’s a false show of power because his other hand cradles the back of my head to protect it from the impact. He’s never hurt me. Not physically. I’ve seen him commit violence that haunts me, but the monster others see isn’t the person he is with me.
Sometimes I fool myself into thinking I’ve tamed him. Maybe that’s what landed me here in the first place.
“You’re an ungrateful little brat.” He presses me against the wall, his hand loose around my throat, and my fear is tinged with excitement. It sparks in my blood, igniting my veins as he boxes me in, his presence a shadow I’d hide in forever if my cowardice would let me. “He didn’t love you. Get the fuck over it.”
“Stop it,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
My voice pulls him from whatever anger he harbors, and he exhales softly, relaxing the grip around my neck even further. He presses his forehead to mine, his other hand moving to my lower back to pull me closer. “Come home and let me take care of you. I’ll make this all go away.”
I want to push him away, beg him to leave me alone, but his lips press to my cheek, and his whispers in my ear feel like home.
I let my arms circle his neck, and he holds me, and I hate myself. I’ve been so strong for so long, but after a few minutes in his presence, I’m desperate for his approval, for his love.
“I’m scared of what will happen,” I say and squeeze my eyes closed.
“No, you’re scared of who you’ll be. But I know you’ll be great.” He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, my jaw. Small, gentle kisses that echo nothing of the true monster he is. “We can be great together.”
I knew that was coming. I knew he would say it, and part of me wanted to hear it. It would be so much easier to give in to him.
“Please, Ranger, don’t.” But he kisses me, and I can’t fight him.
His lips against mine make my knees dip. The kiss isn’t urgent like the last one we shared. It’s slow, kind, soft . Heat follows the leisurely dip of his tongue into my mouth, and he pulls my body flush against his.
This is the Ranger I know. He allows me to see the man behind the monster, the softness beyond weathered stone, and I’ve survived off those glimpses for six years. He’s spoon-fed me kindness, and I’m so starved for it that I’ve always patiently waited, mouth open, ready for whatever he’s willing to give.
I’m not stupid. I know this is how he’s worn me down. But these moments, these soft words and kind caresses, lure me in. And the moment I returned them, he had unleashed a beast that had taken me with a passion that rivaled violence. He hadn’t demanded my body; I’d handed it over willingly.
And his closeness makes me ache for more.
I’d plucked a beautiful, deadly flower and sucked on the poison, and now I’m desperate again to remember its taste. Twice, I’d given in to his beast, and twice, I was sure no oxygen had passed my lips the entire night Ranger devoured me.
“Let me have you again,” he whispers.
No .
I can’t. I won’t. The last time I’d given in, I’d been drunk on the events of that night, filled with a power I shouldn’t have had, and used him to extend the feeling. I shouldn’t have let him go near me.
But…
“You belong with me, Denver.” His mouth is against my ear as he flicks open the button of my shorts. He kisses my shoulder, nibbling gently along my collarbone as he drags down the short zipper. My body thrums with the impulse to grab his hand and grind myself against it, my body aching for a release only he’d been able to give—one laced with danger and regret. “Will you come home?”
Why am I so weak for him? Why can’t I say no?
“I…”
His lips are on mine again, and when his hand dips into my shorts, he growls against my mouth. “Open your legs, Denver.”
“Say the word, Denver.”
The memory shatters the heat. I shove him back and zip my shorts, my heart racing as I cross to the far side of the room. Distance. I need distance from the fucking devil. “No, I can’t.”
I don’t need to look his way to know his rage has bubbled over.
“No more fucking games. Pack your things. We’re leaving.” He gets his belongings and heads for the door.
I want to throw things, hit him, fight him, tell him I’m not his to command. But that isn’t how you work Ranger Luxe.
“Wait.” I rush to him. “Just give me these ten days. Please. Then I promise I’ll come home.”
“No.”
“Ranger, please ,” I say, gripping his shirt. “Ten days. I won’t change my flight. I won’t run. I won’t hide. Ten days, and I’ll come home.” I know what I have to say next, words that will please and weaken him. Words that a small, stupid part of me wants to say. “Ten days, and I’ll come back to you.”
Through the fog of rage, I see a flicker I’d seen the day I’d walked into his house, alone, twenty-one, and desperate for someone to hold onto. I’d lost everything, and he’d given me structure. He’d molded me, built me, and that flicker had always been there—the need for me to love him as he loved me.
If only he knew.
“Ten days, then you come home,” he says. “And you’re mine.” I nod, and he takes my chin in his hand. “Say it.”
“Ten days, and I’m yours.”
His gaze drops to my lips, but he doesn’t kiss me again. Instead, a thud sounds as he drops his bag.
“Then I hope that bed is big enough for me.”
I almost choke as he heads back into the room. “What? You’re staying?”
“For tonight, yes. I wouldn’t leave the island until the hotel was checked anyway.” He loosens his tie, and after he tosses it aside, he opens the top button of his shirt.
“What are you doing?” I press my back into the door, the giddy throb returning to my core. I watch his fingers, thick and strong, as they deftly flick open each button, revealing golden skin beneath.
“Showering.”
He disappears into the bedroom, and I finally breathe.