Chapter Sixteen
Annalise
It was official. I wouldn’t kick Riley out of bed for eating crackers. Especially when he fed them to me between sips of wine.
He’d tucked me in and gone in search of food, just like he had when we’d exhausted ourselves on my futon all those years ago, making love until we were half-starved and barely able to stay awake.
Curling into my pillow, I drifted in a light sleep, pleasantly sore between my legs and caught in a dream of me and Riley.
Together.
Happy.
It had to be a dream. After so many years I’d never dared hope it could be real.
Then he was back, coming through the door of my bedroom carrying a tray with food and a bottle of wine. I let him feed me, raising crackers layered with cheese to my lips, giving me sips of red wine.
Our stomachs full, he set the tray on the desk in the sitting room and came back, sliding beneath the sheets and pulling me into his arms. He made love to me with a patience I didn't remember.
He was slow. So slow and so careful. He touched me everywhere, as if committing to memory every inch of my skin.
Treasuring me.
Savoring me.
I wanted to return the favor, to stroke and touch and kiss, but he held me back whispering only, "Let me. Please, Lise. Let me."
I did as he asked, trembling and shaking beneath him as he set every nerve in my body on fire. When he finally filled me, made me complete, tears slid down my cheeks even as orgasm swamped my senses.
We slept tangled in each other's arms, my head on his chest, the thud of his heart beneath my ear reassuring me that he was real.
He was real, and he was mine.
I woke slowly, long after sunrise, to the faint sounds of voices. Mrs. W was serving breakfast. I thought about waking Riley. Getting dressed. Going down the hall to the dining room.
We could do that. Or, we could do something else.
He'd had his way with me the night before.
Now, it was my turn. I slid down his body, leaving butterfly kisses in my wake until I reached my goal.
My lips slid over the head of his cock, and I sucked gently, tasting him, loving the way he filled my mouth as he hardened for me.
I'd only ever done this with Riley. There'd been other men in my life. Eleven years was a long time, and there'd been one before him, too. But no one like Riley. No one who had my heart.
His fingers threaded through my hair, and I knew he was awake.
I’d always loved the way he held my hair when I sucked his cock.
Never using it to control me, to push me.
No, he'd sink his fingers into my long hair, wrap it around his fist, and just hold on.
Though, sometimes, he used it to pull me off.
Without a word, he urged my mouth up, releasing my hair and hooking his hands under my arms to haul me up the bed, flipping me over and settling between my spread legs.
His hand dropped between them, fingertips seeking, finding me wet. Ready. His lips took mine as he sank inside. We rocked together, not rushing, feeling everything.
I didn't last long. Not with Riley's mouth moving on mine, possessive and claiming. His body inside me, driving me higher with each thrust of his cock. The pleasure broke over me like a wave, sweet and sharp, stealing my breath. Riley breathed my name as he followed.
As he had the night before, as soon as we had our breath back he rolled, pulling me on top of him, wrapping his arms around me.
I needed to go to the bathroom to clean up, but I didn't want to move.
I lay there, my head on his chest, listening to his heart, tracing lines on his skin with my fingertip.
I hadn't had time to study all the changes in his body. He'd been in good shape before. No, not in good shape. Ripped. His body had always been a work of art, but now there was something different.
He was harder. And damaged. Scars decorated the skin stretched tightly over his muscles. I traced my finger over the curve of raised white tissue on his bicep and said, "What happened here?"
"Shrapnel. Piece of metal from a car accident." His voice was lazy, half-asleep.
"You were in a car accident?" I asked, stroking my fingers up to his shoulder to outline another scar, this one a lumpy circle.
"Not me," he said. "Client. Confidential."
I let out a low hum of understanding. Most of his work was confidential. I'd known the Sinclairs long enough to know the drill. They didn't keep clients by talking. I traced the circular scar on his shoulder again and asked, “This one?"
Still in that sleepy voice, he answered, “Bullet. Small caliber. No big deal."
I stifled a laugh. Getting shot was a very big deal from my point of view, but I could see how someone doing Riley's job might have to get used to it. I’d think more about that later. I wasn't ready to deal with reality. Not yet.
I liked cuddling with him, drowsy and warm and safe.
I trailed my fingers back down his arm, stroking them over his.
He'd always had such strong hands. Unbidden, my body shivered at the thought of what he did with those strong hands.
The way he'd hauled me up the bed and settled on top of me. The way they cupped my breasts.
I played with his fingers, that callus on the web of his thumb scratching me. Such an odd place to have a callus. "What's this one?"
I ran my fingertips over the thickened skin as he said, "From shooting. Training after Rangers. You shoot so much you get a callus.”
His answer settled in my brain just a little bit off. I believed him, but his words felt wrong.
He felt wrong.
I don't know what it was that tipped me off. Was there a new tension in his muscles? Did he start to speak and then think better of it?
Absently, I rubbed at the callus on the base of his thumb, my sleepy mind working.
We lay there in silence for a full minute before I realized what it was.
The scar on his shoulder, the one on his bicep—those were new.
The callus on his thumb was not.
A chill spread through my chest. Before I decided to move, I was rolling away, mumbling under my breath, “Bathroom. I'll be right back."
I heard the rustle of sheets and Riley's voice, oddly urgent. "Lise, wait."
"Be right back," I said again, shutting the bathroom door behind me. Quietly, carefully, I turned the lock.
Putting my brain on hold, afraid to think too much, I turned on the water in the shower, using the toilet while I waited for it to warm up.
Something inside me was frozen, and I had the sinking feeling that if I let myself stop and think, I would shatter.
I heard Riley's voice through the door, the knob rattling under his hand. "Lise, let me in."
My voice cracked as I said, "I'll be out in a minute."
I stepped into the steaming water of the shower, letting it rinse me clean, knowing Riley could pick the lock if he wanted to.
He didn't.
I washed my hair, combed the conditioner through it, rinsed, every movement stiff and jerky. I got out, mechanically putting my hair in a towel, smoothing on lotion. I didn't want to think, and I couldn't stop myself. Tears threatened as I pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Braided my hair.
The truth took shape in my mind, against my will.
I didn't want the truth.
I wanted to be happy just a little bit longer.
But I was done with running, and I couldn't run from this.
College Riley, my Riley, had been a history major who'd taken a few years after high school to backpack through Europe. That Riley had no reason to train with a weapon. I'd never even seen him with a gun. But he'd had that callus in college.
Memory rushed in, vivid and excruciating. Sitting beside him in the hospital, holding his hand, rubbing my thumb over that callus and praying he'd wake up.
A callus he'd had because he’d trained to shoot for so many hours he bore a permanent mark. I stood there, my hand on the doorknob, wracking my brain for any reason, any excuse that would explain why a history major would've put in hundreds of hours training to use a weapon.
I was jamming the wrong puzzle piece into the picture in my head.
My gut knew the truth. I just needed Riley to confirm it.
I opened the bathroom door to find Riley, fully dressed, sitting on the edge of the unmade bed.
Waiting.
His hazel eyes were cautious. Careful.
"You okay?" he asked, scanning me from head to toe, eyes sharpened with concern.
I shook my head and swallowed hard. "I don't think I am," I said, slowly.
Feeling sick, I said, “You had that callus in college.
If it's from shooting, from training to shoot a gun, when did you get it? In high school? When you were backpacking through Europe? Were you in the Rangers in junior high?”
I heard the thin edge of hysteria creep into my voice. Riley's eyes widened in alarm. "Lise, it's not a big deal. I can explain—"
I couldn't look at him. "You weren't a college student, were you?" The question sounded absurd the second it left my mouth. He’d been in my classes for months before he talked to me.
"I was enrolled at Emory," he said, carefully.
Frustration slapped into me, and I cried out, “Don't lie to me. You're lying to me right now, and you were lying to me then. Who are you?"
"I'm Riley Flynn. You know who I am." He rose to his feet and took a step toward me.
I backed up, smacking into the door frame. I still couldn't look at him. My eyes skidded around the room, falling on the flip-flops I'd discarded the day before. I crossed the carpet and shoved them on my feet. "I don't know anything. I don't know who you are."
"Lise, calm down. I'll explain everything if you just—”
I whirled and dashed for the door, Riley right behind me. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks.
I didn't want to be alone with him. I wanted to go back to before when Riley was Riley and not a liar. When I was happy. For one goddamn fucking second I was happy, and now it was all gone.