Translucent (11 page)

“Blake, wake up. We’re here.” Madden’s low voice pulls me from my half-asleep state as he kills the car engine. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you inside.”

Slowly, I open my heavy eyes and take a look around at my surroundings. My gaze doesn’t make it past his handsome face, concern and compassion both etched across it.

I smile slightly at him, still uncertain who this man really is and why he’s taken such an interest in me. After my disappearing act tonight, I was sure he’d want to drop me back off where he found me as soon as humanly possible. Why he brought me to his home, I’m not sure.

“Sorry,” I mumble, staring straight into his piercing blue eyes.

He doesn’t give me the opportunity to say what I’m exactly sorry for. “Shh, no need to apologize. We can talk later, when you’re rested and feeling up to it. Now, let’s get inside. You good to walk?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I answer softly before opening the car door and climbing out.

He follows suit and is by my side in the blink of an eye, his hand once again guiding me with slight pressure at the small of my back. Peering up at the home, it’s difficult to get a clear picture due to the late hour, but I can tell it’s a cream-colored, two-story stucco home with a terracotta roof. Very California-esque. We enter through the back door, the one closest to the driveway, and walk directly into a modern kitchen with top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances.

“Welcome to my place. Please, make yourself at home,” he says once we are both inside. “Why don’t you sit at the island, and I’ll grab us a few drinks and snacks to take upstairs? Anything you like? Don’t like?”

Cautiously, I take a seat on one of the stools and watch him move comfortably around the kitchen. “I’m good with whatever. I’m easy to please.”

“You trust my selections?” he teases, looking over his shoulder and flashing me a playful grin.

Smiling back at him, thankful for his attempt to lighten the mood, I nod. The entire scene playing out before me is surreal in so many ways. I’m not even sure what to make of it anymore, so I’m going with what feels right. At lunch today, I was concerned about sharing an intimate dinner—a ‘date’ as he labeled it—with this astounding, yet extremely intimidating man; now, as midnight approaches, I’m sitting in his kitchen as he makes snacks for me after I had a mental breakdown and ran away from him at a charity gala. I know how to make a lasting impression, if nothing else.

“Come on, let’s go upstairs,” he commands, carrying a wooden tray loaded with an assortment of food and beverages.

I follow him up the stairs into what I assume is his bedroom, and as I wait for instruction on what to do next, I assess the area. It’s a good-sized room with all of the standard furniture and dressings—a king-sized platform bed draped in solid charcoal linens, with a nightstand on each side, a matching dresser and armoire, the windows covered with custom-made shutters, and a large flat-screen television hanging on the wall opposite from the bed. Clean and contemporary.

I’m slightly uncomfortable, not because I’m afraid he’s going to force himself on me or anything, but simply because I’m standing in his bedroom—his sanctuary—in an evening gown, wondering what in the world I’m doing here, or what happens next in this bizarre night.
What in the hell am I doing here?
Tuning into my thoughts, he walks over to his dresser and pulls out a white t-shirt and a pair of plaid boxers and offers them to me.

“The bathroom is right over there,” he explains as he points to the opposite side of the room. “Take a shower and put these on. You’ll feel better; I promise. Towels and facecloths are in the linen closet, and help yourself to anything else you need. I’ll shower and change in the guest bathroom and meet you back in here.”

“Thank you, but I can use the guest quarters,” I argue. “You use your own stuff.”

“Blake, get your ass in my bathroom before I carry you in there and strip you myself,” he warns.

Tentatively accepting the clothes from his outstretched hand, I scamper into his bathroom, shutting and locking the door behind me with an exhausted sigh. The bathroom is a direct extension of the bedroom—minimal decoration, tidy and neat. I walk over to the mirror slowly and wince as I see the fatigued image reflecting back at me. I look like shit; no wonder he insisted I take a shower. My once purposely-messy updo is now nothing short of a bird’s nest, and faint black streaks under my eyes exist where the few tears I tried to hold back escaped anyway.

Still in disbelief of what I’m about to do, I wriggle out of my fancy dress and turn the shower on its hottest setting. After hastily removing all of the bobby pins from my hair, I grab a towel and washcloth from the narrow closet and step under the hot, forceful spray. Not wanting to take a long time, I hurriedly scrub my body from head to toe, taking only a few moments to revel in the scent of Madden’s orange juniper shampoo and body wash.

Turning off the water and emerging from the oversized, subway-tiled shower, I dry off just as speedily, forgetting about the scabbed over wounds on each side of my ribcage. I don’t want to put on the same thong panties I was wearing, and the dress didn’t allow for a bra, so I slip into his v-neck undershirt and boxers without any underclothes. The thought of his clothes rubbing against my most intimate body parts turns me on more than a little, but I force myself to stay focused and resolute about not having sex with him—not like this anyway.

I use the only comb I can find to pick through the tangles of my hair, and then spread toothpaste across my finger for a makeshift toothbrush, figuring something is better than nothing. Taking one last look at myself in the mirror before reemerging into his room, I concede it’s definitely an improvement, and more than that, I do feel one hundred times better.

Madden is lounging on his bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his back resting against the headboard, surrounded by the food he brought up and watching SportsCenter on TV when I step out of the bathroom. Shirtless with only pajama pants on, I’m now positive he can hear my thoughts, and he’s testing the vow I made to myself about not sleeping with him. He looks up at me and flashes his most charming smile, causing all kinds of alarms to go off in my head. I need to stay physically as far away from him as I can.

“Do you feel better?” he asks as his eyes sweep the length of my body, taking in every inch of my frail frame. More alarms sound as the fire begins to spread.

“I do, thank you,” I reply, standing frozen under the threshold. I’m trying not to gawk at him, but it’s damn near impossible. His torso isn’t overly muscular, but his pecs are defined, and even from across the room, the ripples in his abs are visible. A light patch of sandy hair dusts the center of his chest, and a darker trail extends from his belly button down into his pajama bottoms.

“Come over here and eat something,” he commands, patting the bed next to him. “As much as I’d like to, I’m not going to attack you.”

I do as he requests, still hesitant to get too close; however, he doesn’t give me the option once I’m on the bed, as he somehow picks me up and sets me in his lap so that I’m facing him, my legs astride his. I know I should be petrified, but I’m not; I’m enthralled by the way he makes me feel and forget to think. When I’m near him, he makes me feel safe in some strange, inexplicable way. Cupping my freshly-washed face in his gentle but strong hands, he stares into the depths of my eyes as if he’s trying to read all my deep, dark secrets, things I hope he’ll never know.

“Blake,” he says my name, more as a breath than a word. “When this happens between us—and it
is
inevitably going to happen—I want you to be one-hundred-and-ten percent definite about it…about me. I will prove my trustworthiness to you, no matter what it takes, and once you surrender, I will take care of you completely. I want you to be mine, but for now, slow and steady, sweet girl.”

B
EFORE
MY
BRAIN
CAN
EVEN
compute words like
trustworthiness,
surrender, or mine,
his lips tenderly brush against mine, causing me to completely lose my train of thought. Drawing back slightly to look at me again, still holding my face in his hands, I whimper at his retreat. I’m frustrated with the tease of a kiss, a mere hint at the taste of him I now realize I crave so badly. One corner of his mouth curls up in a lopsided smirk, and his eyes gleam with a mischievous twinkle, my muffled cry confirming what he apparently already knew. As I swipe my tongue across my bottom lip to soothe the trail of tingles he left in his wake, his gaze darts down to my mouth and a low, carnal growl escapes from the back of his throat.

Time stops as he brings his soft lips back to mine. Patient yet purposeful, he kisses me as I’ve always dreamt about being kissed. Completely in tune with one another, our mouths part simultaneously, and as we breathe together as one, our tongues meet for the first time. His hands smoothly glide around the back of my neck and up into my wet hair, while mine splay widely across his bare, chiseled chest, our mouths moving in synchronized motions like each was made to compliment the other. The kiss comes to a natural, gradual end, and he presses his forehead to mine, murmuring, “Sweet, sweet girl.”

I smile blissfully at him, and he presses his lips to mine once more, gentle but quick, before grabbing onto my sides and lifting me off of him. Grimacing slightly as his fingers dig into the scabs, I hope he doesn’t notice my discomfort, but no such luck.

“Did I hurt you? I’m sorry,” he apologizes with a concerned look.

“I’m okay; I promise,” I assure him, twisting my torso a bit to prevent him from patting the area again. Changing the subject quickly, I ask, “What did you bring to munch on?”

Looking down at the spread of finger foods scattered on top of the comforter, he chuckles lightly. “Just whatever I could find. There’s some deli meat, cheeses, and crackers, as well as some grapes and strawberries.”

“I’m really not that hungry—”

He cuts me off before I finish the thought. “All you’ve had to eat tonight is a few shrimp and crab puffs. You’re going to eat something before you go to sleep,” he insists as he grabs a grape from the plate. Bringing the small green fruit up to my lips, he lifts his eyebrows playfully. “Open. Now.”

Obligingly, my lips part for him, and he places the grape on my tongue, our blue eyes locked on each other. His finger lingers a second longer than needed, and I have to cognitively stop myself from the instinctive urge to suck lightly on it. I haven’t been fed by anyone since I was a small child, and fuck if it isn’t the most sensual thing I’ve experienced in my adult life, maybe even more than his kiss.

He then tops a cracker with prosciutto and cheese, and proceeds to feed it to me too. For nearly fifteen minutes, he hand-feeds me the small meal, intermittingly eating some of it himself as well. When the food is nearly all eaten, I stifle a yawn, not wanting to seem rude or ungracious for his hospitality, but the late hour is catching up with me. I also know once I go to sleep, this illusory world I’m living in tonight will disappear, and tomorrow morning, I’ll most likely wake up in my bed realizing it was all indeed a fairytale dream. Madden Decker, a sexy and successful businessman, demands I accompany him to a ritzy gala, even offers to buy me a dress, and then, when I neurotically flee the party, he brings me to his home, where he kisses and feeds me, never asking what in the hell happened, or what my fucking problem is?
Me?
Perhaps I haven’t left the psych ward at all.

“Time for you to sleep,” he announces, climbing off the bed. “You’re staying in here; I’ll be in the guestroom down the hall if you need anything.”

“No, I can’t—”

“Blake, stop arguing with me,” he reprimands. Lifting the tray of food off the bed, he places it on the nightstand and turns back to look at me. “Lie down now.”

Shimmying my body down so my head rests on the fluffy pillow, I stare up at him through my thick lashes. He makes me feel something I’ve never experienced before, but I’m not quite sure what it is. He pulls the covers up to my shoulders and places several feather-light kisses on my forehead. “Good night, beautiful. Sweet dreams for my sweet girl.”

As he saunters out of the room carrying the tray of empty plates, I admire his broad, muscular back and the sexy way his pajama pants hang just right on his hips, framing his perfect ass. I’m pretty sure if I asked him to stay with me tonight, he would, but I don’t trust him that much yet, and I sure as hell don’t trust me. Closing my eyes, sleep consumes me as I pray for an uneventful night.