Taboo: A Dark Romance Boxset (Stud Ranch 1)

I swallow, lost in the intensity of his hazel eyes. “Did it?”

He shakes his head. “Not for a single goddamned second.”

My throat feels thick and I swallow again. I see goosebumps rise on his arm where his suitcoat has ridden up. He’s got to be freezing. God knows how long he was standing in that rain with no umbrella.

“Come on.” I undo my seatbelt. “Let’s get you upstairs and into something dry.”

I get out of the car and he joins me. I follow beside him as he walks toward the elevator. He grabs my hand this time. In spite of how chilled he must be, his hand is warm. I’m cold too and like always, he’s the one warming me up.

“Your shoes.” He looks down in dismay at my bare feet when he pushes the button for the elevator.

“Oh right. I kind of forgot them.”

“Christ, you must be freezing.” He drops my hand in favor of rubbing my arms up and down for friction. It feels so familiar, him wanting to take care of me. It hurts too though, because all those memories are so wrapped up with the lies he told.

“Dominick,” I bat his hands away, “I’m fine. You don’t have to take care of me.”

“Oh.” He pulls back, eyes cast down, like he thinks maybe I pushed him away because I didn’t want his hands on me.

The elevator pings and I step on. “Which floor?”

He follows me on, running a hand through his hair that has just started to dry. “Tenth.”

We’re silent again during the elevator ride. I don’t know about him, but I’m furiously trying not to think about another certain elevator trip—and then, thank God, we’re at his floor. His apartment is just a few doors down. He unlocks it and leads the way inside.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. Something like the furniture he had when we all lived together? Instead, the apartment is an odd mishmash of styles. A bright Jackson Pollock-like painting full of all kinds of mad color splashes takes up almost one entire wall. On another wall is a framed Rosie the Riveter print. The furniture runs the gamut from a comfortable-looking overstuffed espresso colored couch with electric blue throw pillows to a black cubist loveseat to a beanbag in the corner.

I look over to Dominick, one eyebrow raised.

He shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I’m trying to figure out my own style. It’s the first time I’ve ever lived on my own before.” Then he hurries into the living room and starts straightening some magazines on the coffee table, piling up dirty plates, and grabbing up some discarded clothing and socks that are strewn around the room. “Sorry,” he mutters. “Wasn’t expecting company.”

“It’s fine.” I put out a hand to stop him, but he just continues rushing around.

“One second,” he says, dropping all the dirty dishes into the sink and disappearing into a back room with the laundry.

I bounce up and down on my toes, then rub at my elbow, feeling awkward now that I’m actually here.

God, what did I think we could actually accomplish by this? Yes, I still have feelings for him, but it doesn’t change the past. With how badly I was hurt. The scars he and his father inflicted… I mean, he’s the spitting image of Paul. Even if Dominick didn’t— I mean there’s just no way…is there? Every time I look at him, I’d be reminded of all that happened and—

“Here,” Dominick comes back into the room, his soaked suit exchanged for soft sleep pants and one of his characteristic dark blue Henleys. “I thought you could get dry and change into this.” He holds out a terrycloth robe and a towel for me.

I’m too busy staring at how the fabric of his shirt clings to his chest, outlining every one of his defined muscles. Well, now at least I know he wasn’t so grief-stricken by my absence that he let himself go.

And just who else has been enjoying those muscles while I’ve been gone? It’s a nasty thought and one that knifes me far deeper than I would like.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to move on from him. For a while I tried dating any guy who was game.

And failing miserably each time. I slept with three other men in the year since I last saw Dominick and they were all terrible.

I mean, they were perfectly nice lovers. They’d all been picked out by my new flock of feminist friends and were kind, respectful guys. They were all the same way in bed. So gentle and respectful that I wanted to scream at them to just grow some balls and fuck me already.

“How many women have you slept with since me?” I ask Dominick. Suddenly I have to know. Screw the rest of it. This is all that matters.