Branded: You Own Me & The Virgin's Night Out (11 page)

They went to the front.

Not a bad idea. Easier to see who was coming in. Right?

Out in the parking lot, she tugged on her arm and Decker let go.

She decided to get a jump on things. Better than way. “Decker, look, about last night—”

“Lizzie…”

“No, just let me finish,” she said, linking her hands behind her back as she started to pace.

Finish…finish? I don’t even know how to start.
She spun back around and started toward him.

Only to come to a dead stop.

Decker had his hand up.

His right palm.

It faced her and she saw, then, something she’d never seen.

“It’s a promise,” he said, his voice hoarse. “And a fact. It’s been a fact pretty much from that first day when you refused to let me chase you off.”

Stunned, she just stared at the tattoo.

You own me

His hand curled into a fist and he slowly lowered it to his side and now, with nothing between them, she found herself staring into his eyes. Her heart thudded so hard, it was a miracle he couldn’t hear it.

“Lizzie.”

Shaking her head, she backed away.

He caught her, his hands closing around her upper arms. “Don’t,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her forehead. “You ran away from me once—twice. I get it, I understand it. But don’t run away from me now.”

“You
lied
to me. You made a fool of me,” she said, her voice

thick. “What…what is this? Am I too stupid to take care of myself on that site and you thought it would go better if you were on there, too?”

“No.” He kissed her, brushing his lips over her eyes, her cheeks,

her mouth. She went to bite him—hard—and he let her. “No,” he said again, sliding one arm around her. “I did it for the same reason I came to your house that night when you saw me with Jeannette. I did it because I love you. I always have…I told you hundreds, thousands of times.”

She stiffened in his arms.

“You’ve never told me,” she said, shaking her head.

He let her arms go, then. It was, he realized, now or never.

“I did.” He slid the backpack of his shoulder and went to his knees on the long, rambling deck that wrapped around most of Rush. People were looking at them oddly, but he didn’t care. Unzipping the backpack, he emptied it and envelopes spilled out around her feet.

He grabbed one at random. It didn’t matter which one it was because they all told the same story.

He held it out to her.

For the longest time she didn’t move—she barely even seemed to breathe. Then she reached out and closed her fingers around the letter.

As she started to read, he just stayed where he was.

She hadn’t realized it, but he would have gone to his knees for her at any time in the past twelve years. It didn’t faze him at all to be there now.

Her eyes raced over the sheet of paper and it seemed that tears gleamed in the depths of that warm brown gaze.

“What is this?” she whispered.

“The letters,” he said. “Every week, you wrote. I always wrote back. The letters you got were the ones that had what you needed to hear…you wanted a friend, so I said what a friend would say.” He lifted a letter, eyed the date on the envelope. He’d dated each one, on the back. This one was just a few weeks before he was released. Without opening it, he held it out.

She took it with no hesitation this time.

Dear Lizzie

I have a parole meeting coming up. If they listen, I could see you soon. If not, well, we both know what that means. I’m just here another year.

A part of me hopes I’ll just stay here. As much as I need to see you, as much as I want to walk around someplace besides these walls, everything I was hoping for is just gone.

I held on to one thing.

You never really dated anybody the whole time I was here. I put too much stock in that, because part of me let myself believe that you were waiting for me.

Just like I’ve been waiting for you.

I guess it would have helped to tell you. I should have sent these letters, even just one. Could have tried to tell you the truth, tell you that I love you.

But I didn’t.

If I get out, it’s going to be to find you with this Noel guy.

If he makes you happy, I’ll be happy for you.

That’s a promise.

Here’s another.

You own me.

Love, Decker

Clutching that letter in her hand, along with the first one, Elizabeth bent down, grabbed another, half tore the envelope to get it out. She saw the date, four years ago, before she met Noel. When they were still just watching the calendar, because he still had so much time to go.

Dear Lizzie

Christmas…

snowing outside…

I miss you.

Next time…don’t cry.

No regrets, Lizzie. Not for me.

I’d do it all over again if it kept you safe.

You own me.

Love, Decker.

She grabbed another.

You own me.

Love, Decker

Another.

You own me

Trembling, hands full of letters, she went to her knees and looked up, met those blue eyes she’d thought she knew. And she
did
know them. There were just…truths, she realized.

Truths he’d hidden. The same way she had.

“Why?” she whispered.

“I couldn’t keep quiet anymore,” he said, not understanding. He reached out.

She cringed away. “No.
Why
do you love me? How
can
you? It’s my fault you went to jail. It’s
my
fault you were there that night—that I

even ended up in trouble with Hamilton.”

His eyes narrowed and fire flashed in them.

But just like that, the look faded and he reached out.

Close by, somebody said something and Decker shot a look over her shoulder—it was that deadly, dangerous look that would make so many stumble over their feet to get away—and then, eyes softening, he looked back at her.

“No.” He rubbed his lips over hers. “Lizzie, what happened to Hamilton wasn’t your fault. It happened because he tried to rape you—he
hurt
you and that’s the one thing I would do anything to stop. You know that. He hurt you…he was hurting you when I came in there and I lost it. It’s
my
fault I lost control and killed him. But it’s
his
fault he ever put his hands on you like that. None of it is your fault.”

“I only went out with him because I was mad at you. I saw you with Jeanette and I
hated
it.”

“And I had sex with Jeannette because you were out of my league, but every time I saw you, I died a little inside because I wanted you so much. I couldn’t touch anybody without seeing you.” He brushed the tears away from her cheeks.

And then he stole her breath as he brushed her mouth with his. “Lizzie, we were kids. I was a stupid fool who couldn’t control his temper…or other things. You trusted the wrong guy. But nobody is to blame for what Hamilton did except him.”

His hand came up to grip her hip, one thumb rubbing up and down. She felt it through the thin layer of the dress she’d pulled on, felt the heat of his body reaching out to touch hers.

“And all of that is in the past. It’s done. What matters is now. Lizzie, I love you. You’ve owned me, heart and soul, from the beginning.”

Now he pulled back and blue eyes caught her, held her captive.

She reached down, caught his hand—his right one—and tugged it from her hip.

Lifting it up, she studied the tattoo there. It was faded, probably from all the work he did with his hands.

“Chuck Oleander,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Why did you go with that name?”

His hand remained passive in hers. “It’s mine…sort of. Decker Calhoun, all mixed up. An anagram. Besides, you don’t mind

oleander…dangerous things don’t bother you much.”

If she’d let herself think about it, would she have guessed?

She really didn’t know.

“You told me you’d tell me what this was for,” she murmured.

Now his hand closed into a fist. “I already did. It’s for you. You own me.”

She swallowed and then tapped on his fingers until slowly, he uncurled them. She leaned in, pressed a soft, open kiss to his palm.

“Do you know why I came over that day?”

A hood fell over his eyes. “No. But we need to—”

Reaching down, she picked up another letter, studied the date. She’d read these, every single one.

He’d given her these secrets. It was time she give him the other one she’d kept tucked deep inside. “I came over there because I had something I wanted to tell you.”

Now she looked up at him. “I was nervous. Scared. I really didn’t know how I was going to tell you, but you…you were leaving soon, and I didn’t want you to leave for Alabama without me telling you.”

Her eyes were intent. Locked on his.

His heart thudded in his chest, hard and fast, and Decker couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever had this much trouble breathing. His tongue felt too thick inside his mouth and he had a hard time asking, but he finally managed to get the words out.

“Tell me what?”

He didn’t remember when he’d done it, but at some point, he’d buried a fist in her hair. And he’d pulled her closer, too. So close that when she spoke again, her lips were pressed to his.

“My secret,” she said. “I hid it, ignored it, tried to pretend it didn’t exist for a long time.”

Her tongue flicked out, stroked his lip.

Heat exploded through him, but he grabbed a hold of it, lashed it

down.

Because this mattered—in that very moment—this mattered more than the need that threatened to eat him alive any time he was near her.

“What secret?”

Now a smile bloomed over her lips. “That I love you. I loved you then…I loved you when you held me while I was crying and shaking on the floor, and I loved you when you stood in that courtroom and then told me that you didn’t have any regrets. I loved you every day you were gone and I love you now.”

“That’s…” He blew out a ragged breath. His head was spinning. Wow. “That’s a big secret.”

“Yeah. Feels kind of good to let it out.” She slid her hand inside his, teased the faded tattoo there. She’d wasted years with somebody who hadn’t really loved her…all because she’d needed to belong with somebody.

But somebody had been there all along.

“I should have figured it out, you know. When I saw this. I should have known,” she murmured. “You own me, too. We belong together.”

“Hmmm. Lizzie?” His mouth caught hers, a hard, deep, drugging kiss.

“What?” She was panting when he lifted his head.

“I’ll take you back inside now, if you really want to go. But I’d rather take you home.”

“You can take me anywhere you want.”
Absolutely anywhere…
she thought. Then she looked down at the letters. “As soon as you help me get all these letters. I’ve got years of reading to catch up on.”

Enjoy this sample from

By Shiloh Walker

To be released in May 2015

Ressa was going to crack that baby open and drink the whole—

“That was smooth.”

She practically came right out of her skin. Whirling around, she glared at Trey. He stood less than two feet away.

“You . . .” Heaving out a breath, she pressed a hand to her racing heart and then looked past him into the hotel restaurant. Max had settled into her seat and Baron was shouldering his way deeper into the crush.

Nobody looked their way. At all.

“Mr. Barnes—”

“It’s Trey,” he said, his voice mild.

Narrowing her eyes, she continued to speak. “Unless you needed something, I’d like to go on up to my room. My panel is at eight thirty in the morning. I don’t know who thought that was a good idea, but I need some sleep if I’m going to be functional.”

“Okay.” He shrugged. “I just wanted to tell you thanks for the coffee.”

As he cut around her, she reached up and pressed her fingers to her temples. “You are a very frustrating man, you know that?”

She watched as he turned around, still walking, backward. “So I’ve been told. You didn’t need to apologize. You didn’t know. We’ll just chalk it all up to an . . . awkward experience.”

Then he headed off down the hall.

She should have just let it go.

Just let it go at that. Really.

“Oh, it’s been an experience. Not really the kind I was shooting for, but yeah. It’s been an experience.”

This time, when he turned around, he didn’t keep walking backward. Instead, he moved toward her, his steps slow, his eyes thoughtful. “Yeah? Exactly what sort of experience were you shooting for?”

Ressa thought about the ring he’d worn, the one he’d taken off and how he’d stumbled and fumbled through trying to explain it.

She thought of the storm of emotion that had been in his voice, in his eyes. It wasn’t just grief—there was a storm of emotion that she couldn’t even begin to understand.

Then she thought about the faint smile that tugged at his lips, that heat she’d seen in his gaze.

Don’t. Just don’t
—her common sense screamed.

“I’ve got wine in my room. I was going to drink the whole bottle. Want to save me from myself?”

“I don’t drink much these days,” he said softly. Then he blew out a breath. The words were laden with things unsaid. Then he shrugged. “But I can maybe keep you company.”

• • •

It took almost twenty minutes to get to her room, thanks to the crush at the elevators. During that twenty minutes, Trey waited for the voice of reason to ruin things.

Waited for that awkwardness that had accompanied the last two dates.

Waited for his gut to start to churn at the thought of sitting down over a drink—it did, every time. He dealt with it, smiled through it and handled the headache after.

Waited for a rush of guilt, for the elevator to get stuck, an earthquake, a meteor strike . . . anything that would signify this was just a bad, awful idea.

But with each minute that passed, he just wanted to be in her room—at this point,
any
room would do, so long as he had some privacy—because he was dying to touch her.

He didn’t know exactly what she was offering.

Part of him thought he did, and he was almost certain he was right, but Trey was a realist. He was also more likely to believe in the negative with some things, because it was easier that way. Disappointment sucked.

He was also fully aware that more than likely, even if she
was
interested in . . . anything, this was the most likely scenario—if she touched him, his brain was going to screw everything up and then he’d look like a basket case in front of a woman he wanted more than he wanted his next breath of air.

His hands were shaking.

To hide it, he shoved them into his back pockets as they waited for their turn to shuffle onto the elevator. Finally, they managed to wedge themselves in and then more people wedged themselves in after that. Trey found himself so close, he could have turned his head and he’d be able to bury his face in her hair. Soft, wild twists of curls . . . what would she do—

“Oh! Sorry!” There was a giggle, a squeal . . . and then like a bunch of dominos, people half fell, half crashed into others as the woman in the front continued to giggle. “Oopsie! Too marny—ah, too many marnis—too many martinis!”

A couple of snorts, a couple of snickers and more than a few curses. Trey barely heard any of them. Ressa had ended up crushed against his chest and he was pinned to the wall. Her hip was pressed snug to his crotch and even as he tried to ease her away, her gaze shifted, lifted . . .

His cock started to pulse, throb.

Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

Her hand fisted in the material of his shirt as she licked the full, ripe curve of her lower lip. If he didn’t at least taste that mouth—

The elevator dinged and bodies spilled out. As the person next to them escaped the press, Ressa eased back. Dusky color rode along her cheekbones as she slid her eyes up to meet his.

Tearing his gaze away, he looked at the lights flickering above the elevator door.

It hit her floor and as she turned away, she slid her hand down, caught his.

Sweat beaded at the nape of his neck and he had one brief moment of lucidity.

Trey Barnes was a man who liked order. He liked to be in control.

But he had absolutely no idea what in the hell he was doing.

And he was absolutely fine with that.

Her heart was still racing.

Despite the fact that they’d been packed into that elevator like sardines in a can, for one brief moment, it had just been the two of them. Voices had faded away. The press of too many bodies and a woman’s drunken laugh. Everything faded.

The only press she’d felt was his . . . the press of his body to hers, his arm under her breasts as he steadied her, his cock against her hip, pulsing in a way that her core tightening in response.

The only voice she’d heard had been an internal one that whispered,
I need to touch him. So bad. I need . . .

No, as she swiped her key through the card reader, her hands were sweating, almost shaking.

And the damn key card wouldn’t work.

“Figures,” she whispered, her voice hitching.

A warm hand came around, took the key. “Let me see,” he murmured, his voice way too close to her ear.

Eyes closed, she stood there, struck dumb from the want ravaging inside her. The door clicked and she opened her eyes as he came around her to turn the handle, push it open. Then he turned his head, stared at her.

Waiting. On her, she knew.

Do or die,
she thought, a little desperately.

Kind of extreme, maybe. But it felt apt. Because in that moment, she knew if she didn’t take him inside . . . and then just take him—let them take each other—some little piece inside of her would feel like it had died.

She slid past him, brushing up against his body as she did so. She felt his ragged intake of air and that hot, hungry need inside trembled, swelled.

She didn’t turn on the light.

As the door clicked shut behind her, she kicked off the spike heels and then turned to look at him.

Abruptly, a line from the book Lynnette had been reading danced through her mind.

With need and want a vicious tangle . . .

Yes, this was a tangle, one that was entirely too twisted, considering how short a time she’d known him. Hours, really. Just a handful of hours when you added it all up.

None of that mattered.

She moved toward him.

He met her halfway and as his arms came around her, everything inside her breathed out a sigh of delight . . . even as the need inside her demanded for
more
.

The curls he tangled around his hand were every bit as wild, as soft, as crazy as he’d thought they’d be.

And her mouth was pure, silken sin.

Spinning her around, he pressed her to the wall and caught her hips in his hands, boosted her up. Her dress caught, stopped him from spreading her open and he snarled, shoved it up—only to stop, sanity trying to intrude.

You should pull back. Pull back now before this just goes to hell—

Pull back?

Ressa hooked one leg around his and rolled her hips.

Rolled her hips against him and his cock throbbed, pulsated behind the barrier of his jeans. Desperate, he shoved the skirt of her dress the rest of the way up and cupped the lush curve of her hips, fingers digging into the silken flesh. With a groan, she wrapped her legs around his hips and started to rock, rubbing herself up and down.

His eyes all but rolled into the back of his head.

She was already wet—he could feel her, through something silky and thin.

Tearing his mouth from hers, he braced one hand on the wall, eased back.

Ressa continued to roll her hips against his and he could hear the shuddery, shaking breaths as they escaped, felt his own echo within his chest as he looked down. He was still completely dressed. So was she—but her dress had been pushed up to her waist and a pair of panties painted a murder-red swath across her hips.

And still she moved against him, like that contact was vital.

To him, it was.

But . . .

For more on
BUSTED
,
visit Shiloh’s site at

www.shilohwalker.com