He and Blake start walking away, and I watch their departure, my gaze locked on Eric. He’s all loose-legged swagger and confidence, a machine to many, perhaps to the military, who trained the savant in him, but he’s also human. Nothing changes that fact. And humans get hurt. It’s not a good thought, and the instant the two of them disappear, I hunt down my bags, load up with as many as I can carry, and head toward Eric’s bedroom. It takes me two trips to get them all where I want them, inside the master bathroom but once I’m there, I eye the closet in the back of the room and decide that’s my spot. I move everything there and sit down on the floor of the giant square room. I start digging until I find the iPhone box. I open it and find it’s barely charged. It dies the minute I try to use it. Impatient for my messages, I’m thankful there’s a charger and even a plug in the closet. I set the phone up to charge and then start pulling out the contents of the bags.
I find a bag of toiletries and another with a gown and robe. Another with jeans and T-shirts and even a couple of dresses, all with insane price tags that I know Eric covered for me. I don’t want his money. I don’t want him to ever think I care about that part of his life. I care about him. God, I really do. I glance down and find that my phone has now come to life and it shows no missed calls, but that might be because it’s new. Or no one cared enough to call me after my attack.
No one being my mother, but of course, she may not even know about it.
Do I tell her?
I check my messages and find a call not from her, but from my stepfather. I suck in air and let it out. Why is he calling me? I punch the message and let it play on speaker: Listen to me, Harper. I’m here in the city for you. If anything happens to you, your mother will never forgive me and I love her too much to see her suffer you as a loss. Eric is not a good person. He’s dangerous and anything you think you know about what’s going on, you don’t. Come to my hotel. The Ritz, room 1101. Find a way. I’ll be here for twenty-four hours. Come sooner than later. I worry for you every moment you’re with him. The call goes dead and I look up to find Eric leaning against the doorway, his sleeves rolled up, his tattoos exposed. He’s wholly male, and he’s lethal in every possible way. Of that, I have no doubt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Harper
Eric’s still standing in the doorway of the closet, staring at me while I’m on the floor, my phone in my hand, that message his father left me is in the air between us. I stand up and while Eric still leans on the doorframe, his body seemingly relaxes, his stance just as relaxed, and his blue eyes are sharp, hard. Intelligent. No. Genius. “What do you want to say to me?” he asks.
“That I hate the Kingston family.” His eyes flicker ever so slightly, a hint of torment in their depths as I add, “That I was wrong when I said you’re one of them.” I cross to stand in front of him, the earthy male scent of him teasing my nostrils and somehow it already represents strength and honesty to me. He straightens, towering over me, and neither of us touch each other, but I want to touch him, and I want him to touch me. I think he wants to touch me, too, but he senses my unease, and he’s reacting to it. “You were wrong,” I continue, “when you said you were one of them. You aren’t one of them. You aren’t your father.”
“I heard every word of that message.”
“I know. And what he said means nothing to me. I’m with you. I’ve always been with you.” I offer him the phone. “If you want to you can listen to it again.”
He doesn’t immediately take it. He simply stares at me. Seconds tick by and I look down at his watch—black leather, a black face, red hands—and I can almost hear the tick before my gaze lifts to Eric’s again. And suddenly he’s pulling me to him, his hand sliding under my hair, settling on my neck and then I’m flat against his hard body, our legs aligned, our hips melded together and I can feel the thick pulse of his erection.
“Did you believe what he said to you?”
That he has to ask this cuts me and my jaw hardens. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.” I try to shove away from him but he holds onto me, an unmoving wall that confines me. I don’t want to feel confined anymore and that’s what this family has done to me. “Let go, Eric.”
“Never,” he murmurs, dragging my mouth to his. “That’s what you don’t understand. I’m not letting go.”
“You did let go. And now, asking that question was pushing me away, which is the same thing.”
“Just say what I want to hear,” he orders.
“I told you that I didn’t believe what he said to me.”
“Why?”
“Why?”
“Yes. That’s what I want to hear. Why didn’t you believe him?”
“Because I know you, beyond time and reason. Because I know them because of time and reason. And you should believe me for the same reasons.”
“I do believe you,” he says, no hesitation. “I’m just making sure you do, too.”
“I
don’t know what that means.”
“You should,” he says, his mouth slanting over mine, his tongue pressing past my lips, the answer I seek, the understanding I need, in this kiss. I sense this. I know this. He’s telling me something I don’t understand but I want to. I lean into him, meeting him stroke for stroke, my hand on his chest, over his thundering heart. Thundering with this moment, because of me, but I’m not sure if that’s arousal or anger.
Anger.
He’s angry, but as his hand slides up my back, and he molds my chest to his chest, I know that anger isn’t at me. He’s angry at his father. He’s furious at him and somehow, someway, I know that he isn’t punishing me with his kisses, but rather escaping that message. He didn’t listen to it again because, despite his bravado about being a different person now, his father does get to him.
Knowing this, understanding now that he couldn’t listen to that message again without taking the edge off, I’m without any reserve or inhibitions. Everything but this man falls away. I don’t just kiss him, I devour him, my hands sliding all over his body and in a haze of lust, we’re naked, and he’s pressing inside me, my back against the wall, his thick cock thrusting, pumping. He devours me in every possible way, but he isn’t alone. I’m right there with him, living the moment, feeling the passion. My hands cling to his arms. His hands caress my breasts, his eyes raking over my puckered nipples.
Thrust.