Love the Way You Lie (Stripped 1)

Oh, but this isn’t like the roof. It isn’t uneven, with rusted metal bars jutting up from the concrete. It isn’t covered in tiny pebbles, pieces of the structure itself crumbling away under the elements. Instead there is smooth marble—almost unbreakable, this floor. The wind has swept away any leaves. The rain has washed away any dirt. It almost gleams. Not like the roof at all.

I can’t see him clearly. It is still too dark for that, but I can almost swear he’s blushing. I’m surprised he even knows how to. It’s not even a color, it’s a feeling. Maybe it can only ever be something to feel, his generosity. His quiet acceptance of who and what I am.

My chest is too full, and my eyes are too wet. I consider dropping to my knees to thank him. I could make it so good.

Instead I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek. The growth of whiskers is scratchy against my lips, his skin warm under that.

“Thank you.”

Then I leave him by the door, to watch me and wait as I dance like I’m alone. I start off slowly, plié, grand plié. And this time when I stretch my body in a grand arabesque, I am not wringing myself clean of unwanted hands—I am reaching. For him. For the sky beyond the painted ceiling and through the open window frames. I am reaching for a time and a place when I won’t have to hide anymore.

My skin is slick with sweat by the time I have finished. Even then I don’t want to be finished, but the tops of the trees are pink with pre-dawn light. I should go back.

I don’t want to.

He meets me in the middle of the ballroom.

“I have time for one more dance,” I tell him, suggestive.

“I can’t dance.”

That makes me laugh. “That isn’t what I meant.”

He doesn’t smile. His face is more severe than ever—a rejection. “I

know what you meant.”

I frown, confused. “Kip?”

His face is like a stone wall. I wait for the branches to rise up, guarding their fortress. I wait for the sting of the thorns. He wants to hate me. He doesn’t want to get close.

This time the brambles don’t come.

This time he bends his head. I am too shocked to tilt my head. Too surprised to kiss him back. I stand there, passive, letting his lips press against mine, feeling his tongue slide along my lower lip. I have enough frame of mind to open, and he groans softly, taking the invitation and demanding more.

His hands curve around my hips, cupping my ass. I’m sweaty, but he doesn’t seem to mind. No, he presses me flush against him, taking each of my panting breaths into his mouth, sipping the salt from my skin.

I rub my body against him, feeling his erection thick and stone hard in his jeans. I rock my hips against it, promising relief.

All at once he releases me. He turns away. I stare at the tall, broad line of his shoulders—moving up and down with his heavy, aroused breathing.

What the hell? Why did he stop?

Hesitantly I place a hand on his arm. He pulls away.

Dread fills me. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says. But I can hear the lie in his voice.

“Kip?” I hate how timid I sound, how afraid. I never let my father or Byron see me like this. With them I always put up a strong front. They might hurt me and humiliate me, but they would never see me cry. But with Kip it feels inevitable. He tears down my bravery, leaving only hope.

“I’m not who you think I am.”

* * *

No. I want to rewind the past five seconds and pretend he never said that.

“I’m not just a customer,” he says, and I wish that were a lie. Maybe a random guy at a strip club isn’t good relationship material to other women. But to me he’s everything I could want. I hadn’t worked out how we might be together beyond this night or the next. But I’d hoped.