Carnal Urges, page 17
He’s nudging my lips with another forkful of salad. I’m too caught up in the conversation to protest. Around a mouthful of salad, I say, “How is it possible that despite your rather caveman approach to things, you almost sound liberated?”
“Maybe I am. Is that so hard to fathom?”
“This from the man who ordered me off a plane with a rocket launcher. Where did you get that thing, anyway?”
“I keep an arsenal of weapons in the back of every SUV. You never know when you might need the odd machine gun or hand grenade.”
I say drily, “Right. How silly of me. One needs to be prepared. What a Boy Scout.”
He chuckles again. “Believe it or not, I was. Ireland’s version, anyway. I was involved with Scouting Ireland almost until I went into the military.”
Surprised by that tidbit of information, I raise my brows. “You were in the military?”
He pauses to take a bite of the salad for himself. It seems deliberate. Like an avoidance tactic. After he swallows, he simply says, “Aye.”
He’s not meeting my eyes.
“Declan.”
His wary gaze flashes up to meet mine.
“We can do Don’t Ask-Don’t Tell if you want. We don’t have to share our sad stories. It’s probably safer that way.”
“Safer?”
I’m flustered by his penetrating look. It seems to say he knows I’m trying desperately to protect myself from him. “I meant smarter.”
Examining my expression, he sweeps his thumb over my lips. “Don’t hide. When I said you were safe with me, I meant it.”
“Okay, but only if you don’t hide from me.”
He caresses my face a moment longer. “The difference is, you haven’t said I’m safe with you. Which is good, because we both know I’m not.”
“So this total trust thing only works one way? From me to you?”
His brows pull together. “Do you want me to trust you?”
“Could you?”
Our gazes are locked together. The air between turns crackling.
His voice low and rough, he says, “If you gave yourself to me and meant it. If I knew you’d be loyal to me the way you are with your girlfriend, Natalie. Then aye. I could trust you. But if I did, it would be with everything, including my life. I don’t do half measures. I wouldn’t hold back. And there’s a lot of ugliness my trust would expose you to. There are many things you’d discover that might make you regret ever meeting me at all.
“So before you ask for my trust, think carefully. Because if I give it to you, it means I’m yours. And you’re mine. For good. There’s never any getting out of that, even if you asked me to. Even if it got to be too much and you wanted to run away.”
His voice drops. His gaze drills into mine. “Because I take the words ‘until death do us part’ literally.”
I don’t know how we got here. One minute we’re chatting about feminism, and the next we’re falling down a rabbit hole of marriage vows and death pacts.
“Okay. Wow. That’s a lot.”
“I don’t see you running away, though.”
There’s a challenge in his tone. A challenge in his eyes. A look that says I should decide right now how this is going to go.
My heart hammering, I moisten my lips. “No. I’m not running. But I’m not promising I won’t want to.”
He smiles. “Good enough for now. If you change your mind, let me know.”
“And you’ll let me go when I ask you to?”
“If,” he corrects. “If you ask me to.”
“You seem pretty sure of yourself there. I do have a life to get back to, you know.”
He gazes at me for a beat. Then he takes another bite of the salad, thinking. When he swallows, he looks back at me with something in his eyes I’ve never seen before.
Pain.
“I’m a lot older than you, as you keep pointing out. I’ve traveled more roads, many of them dark. I’ve learned that no matter how well you think you know yourself, you can still be surprised. You can’t control what moves you. The only thing in your control is the choice over whether or not you surrender to it.
“I think you realize, deep down, that you can trust me. The only thing you’re really on the fence about is if you’re willing to trust yourself. Because up till now, you haven’t met a man who knew how to handle you. Who could see what you are behind that ivory tower you’ve built around your heart. But I see you. And I know you’re scared seven shades of shite to let me in.
“I can’t convince you to. That’s a leap you have to make yourself. And I can promise you that it’ll be messy. You, me, what that would mean to everyone else … messy. But worth it, at least in my opinion. Because this half-dead gangster of yours has seen a lot in his time, but nothing as fine as this.”
When I only sit there swallowing around the lump in my throat, he says, “Now let’s finish this horrible bowl of rabbit food and go to bed.”
“Okay.”
He looks at me with an arched eyebrow.
“I mean … yes, sir.”
When he leans down and kisses me tenderly, I realize exactly how much trouble I’m really in, and how right he was about the ivory tower I’ve built to keep my heart safe.
A heart that’s safe would never ache with so much longing.
26
SLOANE
Declan removes my handcuffs before we get into bed. He removes the shirt he put on me, too, then gets undressed himself and pulls me down on top of him. He settles us under the covers and presses a kiss to my forehead, ordering me to go to sleep.
“How can you sleep with me on top of you? Aren’t I heavy?”
“Aye. Camels weigh a bloody ton.”
“Ha.”
“Stop worrying about me, and do as I tell you.”
We lie there in the dark, my head on his chest, listening to each other breathing, until the whirlwind in my head makes me sigh. “I don’t think I’m tired.”
“I’m sure you have some kind of ridiculous breathing trick that will help.”
“I usually do a flow visualization when I have trouble falling asleep, but there’s something I’m freaking out about, so I know it won’t help.”
Declan had been rubbing his hand up and down my spine, but he stops. “What is it?”
“We haven’t had the STD talk. And we didn’t use a condom last time.”
He says immediately, “I’m clean.”
“Good. Me, too.”
“I can get tested if you don’t believe me.”
“No, I trust you.”
That hangs there in the air like a party pinata stuffed with candy surrounded by a bunch of grinning five-year-old kids holding bats. I close my eyes, cursing myself.
Then Declan says quietly, “Thank you.”
At least he’s not gloating.
After I blow out a hard breath, he changes the subject. “What’s a flow visualization?”
“It’s a relaxation practice. When I’m stressed out, I picture myself sitting underneath a big oak tree beside a stream in the country. The weather is warm, and there’s a gentle breeze. I’m wearing some kind of super cool Lord of the Rings fairy queen costume, and my hair looks great.”
Declan snorts. I ignore him.
“Whatever worried thought comes to mind, I just mentally put the thought on a leaf in the stream and watch it flow away until it disappears around a bend. Money? It goes on a leaf and drifts away. My future? I put the words on a leaf. My boss at work? She goes on a leaf. In miniature. It’s fun to watch her screaming and stamping her foot, two inches tall, then disappear. Sometimes I make a big fish come up and swallow her.”
After a thoughtful pause, Declan says, “What do you worry about your future?”
I answer without thinking. “The usual stuff. Cancer. Bankruptcy. Dying alone.”
He sounds disturbed. “That’s a heavy list for someone who isn’t even thirty. You should be worried about what you’re going to do next weekend, not about dying alone.”
“Everyone dies alone. I just want to do it with dignity. But there’s nothing dignified about being so sick you can’t wipe your own ass or so weak you can’t tell the nurse you’re in such agony you don’t want to live another minute.”
Declan rolls me onto my back, props himself up on an elbow, and looks at me. Even in the dark room, I see the soft shine of his blue eyes.
“You’re talking about your mother.”
“How did you know that?”
When he doesn’t answer, I say, “Oh. Right. The background check you ran on me.”
“Aye.”
“It must’ve been pretty extensive.”
“Aye.”
I study his face. In the shadows, he looks very serious, his expression intent. Hesitant, unsure if he’ll tell me the truth, I say, “Was it through a detective agency, something like that?”
“No. Through the NSA.”
“What’s that?”
“The National Security Agency.”
When I only lie there looking at him with a frown, he elaborates.
“It’s the intelligence agency of the US Department of State.”
“Wait. You mean the people who spy on us? Who record our phone calls and emails and stuff for the government?”
“Aye, though I’m sure they’d tell you they don’t do that.”
“I read an article about them not long ago. They’re like Big Brother!”
“No, lass, they’re much worse. They make Big Brother look like Ronald McDonald.”
“Oh my god. And they have information about me?”
“They have information about everyone. No, don’t try to sit up. Stay right there.”
“You want me to remain flat after I found out the government has been spying on me?”
“You’re not special. They spy on everybody.”
I stare at him, horrified. “So you know someone who works there who gave you all this information?”
“Aye. I know your credit card balances, your medical history, your educational background, your driver’s record, that you have no criminal record but you did once talk yourself out of a DUI, everywhere you’ve lived and traveled your entire life, what you buy from Instagram ads, how much money you have in your bank accounts, and, basically, everything else.”
He pauses for a beat. “Including that you had a negative STD test on your visit to your gynecologist last month.”
I clap a hand over my eyes. “Wow, this honesty-and-trust thing is fucking awful.”
“We haven’t even really gotten started yet.”
“I feel sick.”
“I did warn you.”
“You should probably stop talking now.”
He takes my wrist and pins my arm next to my side. “Let’s get back to your worries.”
“Let’s not and say we did.”
Blowing right past that, he says, “I’ll give you money if you need it.”
I turn my head on the pillow and look at him. “Excuse me?”
“You heard what I said.”
“I also heard you say you knew how much money I have in my bank accounts.”
“I do.”
“So then you know I’ve been saving.”
In his pause, I sense that he’s trying to word something so as not to be insulting. He fails miserably.
“Considering the amount in question, I’d guess you were saving for a weekend cruise to Tijuana. On one of those cheap cruise lines. Where everyone ends up getting diarrhea from tainted drinking water.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“I apologize.”
“Not everyone is rich.”
“No. Especially not you.”
Insulted, I glare at him.
“Don’t take it personally. It’s not about your character. I’m only saying you don’t have much money, which I’d be happy to rectify.”
“Say the word ‘money’ to me again. I dare you.”
“I can see this is a point of pride for you. Let’s move on. What have you been saving for?”
“The laser beam that will blow you into a million tiny gangster pieces.”
He tries very hard not to laugh as I lie there staring murder at him.
“Seriously. Tell me.”
“Why? So you can mock me with your superior finances?”
“No, so I can be amazed by how cool it is.”
I say grudgingly, “It is cool.”
“I know it will be. So tell me.”
Sighing heavily, I turn my head and stare at the ceiling. After a short debate with myself, I relent.
“I’m going to open my own yoga studio. But for kids. Girls, to be exact. It’ll be called Fit for a Queen, and we’ll hand out tiaras at the start of every class, and teach the kids how to feel empowered and proud of their bodies, instead of ashamed. There won’t be any scales. There won’t be any mirrors. There won’t be any asshole helicopter moms in the back of the room watching and wringing their hands over how fat little Abby and Eva are.
“But there will be lots of hugs and encouragement. There will be lots of positive affirmations. There will be lots of tools they can learn to use to help themselves survive in a world that only values what they look like. Because there are way too many little girls who’re being taught to smother their fire and stamp out their light so they can seem smaller to people who are scared of how big they really are. Or how big they could be, if only someone believed in them.”
In the wake of that passionate speech, total silence.
I refuse to break it first. I lie there with my heart pounding, waiting for him to say something, until, finally, he does.
“That’s beautiful, Sloane. That’s bloody beautiful.”
The quiet wonder in his voice makes my chest tight. My throat gets tight, too. “Thank you.”
He pulls me into his side, tucking me close. The arm he wraps around me feels possessive.
I whisper into his chest, “You said you’d promise me anything I asked. Was that true?”
“Aye.”
“I only have one thing.”
“Which is?”
“Please don’t hurt Stavros. No matter how this turns out, leave him out of it. He doesn’t deserve to get hurt because of me.”
His chest expands with his slow inhalation. His voice comes out rough. “You’re very protective of him.”
“He’s a friend.”
“He’s an ex-lover.”
“He needs someone to look out for him.”
“We’re talking about a wealthy, grown man, not a child.”
“Oh, please. You’ve met him. You know what I mean.”
After a pause, Declan says grudgingly, “Aye.”
“So do you promise?”
Though I can’t see his face, I feel his confusion. “If you care for him so much, why aren’t you still with him? He’s in love with you.”
“No, he’s in love with my shoes.”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“It means he loves what I give him, not me. He doesn’t even know me. He’ll be head-over-heels for the next girl who meets his needs, trust me. My point is that I couldn’t live with myself if he were to get hurt because of something I did. Or didn’t do. Something related to us.”
When he doesn’t answer me, I say, “Please, Declan. It would mean a lot to me.”
“Are you this worried about all your exes?”
“No. Are you jealous?”
“Not of him.”
It sounds like he’s hedging the truth. “Of what, then?”
After a long moment, he answers reluctantly. “He didn’t have to force you. You chose him.”
I can tell he didn’t want to admit that, and it makes my heart ache that he did. I say gently, “You didn’t force me.”
“I kidnapped you. I took you against your will.”
“Let’s not get hung up on how this all started. Things could be worse. It’s not like we met in prison.”
He’s silent, thinking. When he doesn’t talk for too long, I say, “Spit it out.”
“The way your mind works continues to amaze me. Or maybe confuse is the right word. I’ve never known anyone so able to accept things as they are without a shred of denial.”
“I wasn’t always this pragmatic. Life kicked my ass pretty good when I was a kid. Lucky for me, too, because it brought out the fighter in me. If I was never knocked down, I’d never have discovered the strength it took to stand back up. And to keep getting up after every future kick, knowing that I could.”
He murmurs, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls.”
“And the most massive characters are seared with scars.”
His heavy exhalation sounds depressed. “Fuck.”
“What’s wrong?”
“You know Khalil Gibran.”
“I love him. Have you read The Prophet?”
“It’s only my favorite book.”
“Why does that make you depressed?”
His voice gains a rough edge. “Because you’re a twenty-eight-year-old girl I fucking abducted, a girl who’s best friends with the girlfriend of my worst enemy, a girl who frets over her ex-lover—also my enemy—who was born more than a decade after me in a different country than me and has lived an entirely different life than me, and who somehow fucking knows obscure ancient Stoic philosophers and obscure twentieth-century Lebanese poets, and who wants to cook healthy meals for her kidnappers and teach them stress-reduction techniques. You don’t make sense.”
Into his angry silence, I say softly, “For you, you mean.”
A growling sound is my only answer.
“If it makes you feel any better, you don’t make any sense for me, either. You’re too old and too grouchy and way too bossy. Plus, you’re right. Kidnapping is a terrible way to start a relationship. It’s completely fucked up. We’re totally doomed, I get it. But you know what else?”
“No. What?”
“I don’t care about any of that, because the way you look at me makes me feel like I could fly.”
His entire body goes still. The breath he eventually releases is slow and ragged. “I thought you were scared of me. Of this.”
