“Marcus.” My voice is thick. “We’re working together now. I’m going home to prepare for Monday.”
He reaches across the center console, pulling me to him. “We have plenty of time to prepare.”
Locked in his arms, I keep my eyes on his chest, my palms on his shoulders. Still, I don’t push away. Dipping his head, his lips start a burning line from my cheek to my ear. “Just stay,” he whispers, sending chills across my arms.
It’s crazy how quickly I respond to this man. I’ve always had a healthy sex life, but Marcus is raising the bar on normal. He follows the line down the side of my neck, and I have to bite back a moan when the scruff of his beard touches me. He holds my lower back, pulling me closer until I gently catch his cheeks.
O
ur eyes meet, and I force the words out. “I really have to get home.”
I know the lust I see in his eyes is reflected in mine, but he doesn’t fight me. He releases me at once. “Whatever you say.”
I hate the disappointment surging in my chest. Turning, he opens his door and steps out. He’s around to hold my door as I do the same. We walk to my car a few spaces down, stopping when we get to it.
“See you Monday.” I attempt a smile.
Irritation flashes in his eyes, and faster than I can think, he catches my face and claims my mouth. It’s frustrated and demanding, his lips pushing mine apart, his tongue finding mine. A noise squeaks from my chest, and our mouths move together. I clutch his shoulders to keep my legs from giving out. Gripping my ass, he pulls me hard against his body. I can’t breathe, and after what feels like a little eternity, he eases up, finishing with three swift nips. My lips chase his after each one.
As if nothing happened, he steps back and casually opens my car door. “See you Monday.”
“Goodnight,” I manage, dazed.
He closes the door with a low thunk and steps back as I pull away. Before I turn the wheel, I take a moment to look at him standing there, one hand in his pocket. My lips throb from that goodnight kiss, and shit if I’m not second-guessing everything again.
Continuing my departure, I softly whisper, “Well played, Mr. Merritt.”
Self-preservation is on my mind as I enter Sylvia’s dim-lit condo. I don’t know what Marcus is doing to me, but I know how it will end. It always ends the same way.
Marcus, his kiss, everything about him is dangerous, and I have to find the control lever. From the start, he’s damaged my equilibrium. I can’t seem to get the upper hand, and I can’t make my damn body cooperate. Every touch, and I’m fighting my inner responses.
A light coming from the third bedroom distracts my emotional battle. Dropping my clutch on the counter and slipping out of my denim jacket, I walk back to find Sylvia sitting on the queen-sized bed staring at the closet. She’s dressed in a beige cotton robe and her hair is down. Clearly, she was preparing for bed when she came in here, only I can’t tell what she’s doing or why she’s staring at the dark, walk-in closet. My heart beats faster when I see her lost expression.
“Mom?” I approach her as I would an injured animal. “Are you okay?”
She blinks up at me and smiles. I remember how to breathe. “How was your dinner, darling? I expected you to be later.”
Sitting beside her on the bed, I lift her hand into mine. “Fine. Just chatting about Chicago life. What did you do while I was gone?”
“I watched Downton Abbey.” Her eyes return to the closet then she stands and goes inside it.
Standing, I follow her and reach inside to flip on the light. Dozens of suits hang on an L-shaped bar, and I know at once whose they are. “What are you doing, dearest?”
“It’s time I got rid of these,” she says softly. “When it happened, I couldn’t begin to think of packing your father’s clothes. Now it seems silly to hang onto them.”
Stepping further into the small closet, my senses are assaulted with the scent of my father. Stomach churning, I hold her waist, standing slightly behind her as I face the charcoal, tweed, and grey sleeves of the neatly lined coats.
“It’s been eight years,” I whisper, placing my chin on the top of her shoulder. “They still smell like him.”
“Do they?” Her voice is soft, distant. I watch as she lifts a sleeve and holds it to her nose.
The pain of her action tightens in my throat, and I want to cry. I want to run away and not be a part of anything that could hurt her. She feels me hiccup a breath and turns her head.
“Do you miss him?” Her voice is soft, gentle like always.
Words escape me. It’s a question I never ask myself, and I don’t know how to answer it. “Do you?”
For a moment, silence fills the small space. Silence and the overpowering memory of my father. “Living with him was hard.”