The next morning, my sister wakes me at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock with my niece and her husband, David, in tow. I mentioned the previous day that the brakes on the Midget are screeching, and now she’s here to meddle… I mean, fix it. Or rather, make David fix it.
With the car up on jacks in the driveway, he stretches on his back beneath it, grunting and clanking tools. Angel squats in the flowerbed, stabbing Rollie Pollie pillbugs with a stick, while Bree and I drink coffee on the loveseat under the old oak tree.
Bree knows every quarrelsome detail of my time spent with Trace Savoy. After catching her up on the concert, I’m anxious to hear her thoughts. But the slaughter going on behind me makes my skin crawl.
“Tell her to stop doing that,” I say to Bree.
“Angel, leave the bugs alone.”
The hem of my niece’s cute sundress drags through the dirt as she drives the stick down over and over, chanting, “Die. Die. Die.”
“They’re just bugs.” Bree tilts her head, studying her daughter. “That’s normal behavior, right?”
A first-grade teacher is asking me—someone who’s never around children—what I consider normal?
When Angel was born, I thought it was adorable that Bree named her after our family name, Angelo. But if I knew then what I know now, I would’ve given her The Book of Baby Names: The Demonology Edition.
“Yeah, there’s nothing frightening about her at all,” I say dryly.
Bree slumps back on the seat. “Okay, so when you called Trace out last night for being confusing and cryptic, what did he do?”
“He shook his head and walked away, smiling.”
“The smile is new. Sounds like progress.”
“Progress? I thought you were against me getting involved with him.” I lift my coffee mug and find it empty. Damn.
“Jesus, Danni. You blew past involved when you stayed the night at his penthouse.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she sticks a finger in the air.
“Hold that thought. We need more coffee.” She grabs my cup and darts into the house.
Footsteps approach behind me, and I turn, staring into the large brown eyes of a demon.
Angel brushes a wayward hair back toward her pigtails and smiles a toothy fiendish non-smile. “I’m going to eat your head.”
“That sounds…complicated.”
“I’m going to put it on a stick and roast it and eat it with a fork.” She swishes the dress around her knees.
“If you eat my head, we won’t be able to have these creepy conversations.” I shudder.
She lifts a shoulder. “I’ll find other heads to talk to.”
Where does she come up with this shit?
I raise my voice toward the car. “Are you hearing this, David?”
“A little busy,” he yells back.
Yeah, but I know he’s listening, and that’s what I call denial.
Angel skips away, humming Hell’s version of A-Tisket, A-Tasket. I love that kid, but sweet lord have mercy, she scares the crap out of me.
“What’s that look for?” Bree steps out of the house and hands me a warm mug.
“I’ve changed my mind. There’s something really disturbing about your child.”
She blows on her coffee. “She’s just going through a phase.”
Is demon possession a phase?
“So.” Bree regards me, as if revving up for a scolding. “You don’t think you’re involved with this man?”
“I didn’t say that. I’m just not going to pursue a relationship with him.”
“Why not?”
“He doesn’t want one, not with anyone. Least of all with me.” My stomach hardens. “He sleeps around—
“You don’t know that.”
“I see him with women, Bree. And he said he never spends a night alone.”
“He told you that…like three months ago.” She props an elbow on the back of the loveseat, her sharp gray eyes looking straight through mine. “I think he’s waiting for you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Waiting for what?”
Her gaze drops to my engagement ring, and her voice softens. “For you to get over Cole.”
My throat goes dry, and I twist the band on my finger. “It’s been on my right hand since I met Trace.”
“Okay. But can you take it off?” She gives me a small, encouraging smile. “From what you’ve said, it seems to bother him.”
Without letting myself think about it, I work the ring off my finger and slip it into the pocket of my jeans. “There’s your answer.”
My heart thunders painfully, but after a few measured breaths, all is quiet.
“How are we doing?” She rests a hand on my forearm.
I resent the concern in her eyes. It reminds me of that godawful part of my life, the months that followed Cole’s funeral, when she repeatedly dug me out of the alcohol-induced abyss I numbed myself in. Which is why I’m also so fucking thankful for her. Every damn day.
“I’m good, Bree. But I think you’re off-base about Trace. He’s not waiting for anything. I mean, it’s not like he’s competing for my attention. Cole’s dead, and I’m here, single and available.”
“You’re single. But you’re not available.”
“That makes no sense.”
She eyes the mug of coffee in my hand. “Hold out your cup.”
“Why?”
“Just do it.” She guides my fingers to the handle and adjusts the position of the mug over a patch of grass. “Imagine that the cup is you, and the coffee is all your love for Cole.”
The mug is full, sloshing over the sides as I hold it in place. “This is stupid.”
“Shut up and pay attention.” She stands over me and lifts her mug, which is equally full. “My cup represents Trace, and all the love he wants to give you.”
I snort. “As if.”
She ignores me and proceeds to pour her coffee into mine. As it flows over the sides and into the grass, she continues pouring, her expression taut with concentration.
“You just wasted all that coffee,” I say. “Maybe you should stick with teaching first graders.”
“I swear, Danielle.” She fists her hands on her hips, the empty mug dangling from her fingers. “Sometimes you’re denser than a first grader.”
“I’m not dense, Gabrielle. I get it. My cup runneth over because it’s half-full of shit.” I grin, knowing full well that’s not what she’s insinuating. “I need a bigger cup.”
“Wrong.” She plops down beside me. “I was trying to demonstrate an old Chinese Zen saying. You can’t fit Trace’s love into the love you already possess. It’s supposed to ask the question…” She meets my eyes. “Do you have the right cup full?”
“Apparently, I don’t.” With a sigh, I stare at the mug. “So I empty my cup.”
“Empty the cup,” she echoes.
“But it’s also filled with my love for you and the demon—”
“Don’t call her that.”
“The angel and mom and dad—”
“Nope. That’s a different cup. This is the man cup.”
For the love of God. My head hurts. “What if I’m in a polyamorous relationship?”
“Do you want that?”
“Well, no.” I can’t even hold onto one man. “But—”
“Empty the damn cup.”
I do it to make her happy, dumping delicious java all over the grass.
Emptying the metaphorical cup, however, will be much harder than flicking my wrist.
“I’ll go get us more coffee.” I stand, needing a moment to regroup.
“Danni,” David calls from beneath the car. “Come here.”
“I’ll get the coffee.” Bree takes my mug.
“What’s the verdict?” I step beside his supine position on the ground.
Clothed in athletic gear, he’s recently acquired a dad bod, with the requisite extra around the middle. But he’s still a good-looking guy, especially for a high-school math teacher and soccer coach.
He doesn’t move his head from beneath the undercarriage. “When was the last time you had your brakes replaced?”
“Umm…”
He rolls out on a scooter thing and stares up at me with grease smeared across his brow. “Did Cole do it?”
I nod.
“So at least three years ago.” He sits up and blots a towel over his swarthy face. “As hard as you ride the brakes, I’m not surprised they’re already grinding metal on metal.”
Shit. I blow out a breath. “What does that mean?”
“It means your car doesn’t leave this driveway until I have time to replace the brakes.”
“I can have it towed—”
“It’ll take longer.” He collects his tools and climbs to his feet. “I can do it tomorrow night.”
“Are you sure? I’ll pay you.”
He laughs. “Your sister would castrate me if I took your money.”
It’s clear who wears the pants in their family, but who I am to judge? They’re in love, and I’m enviously happy for them.
After they leave, I change into a mini dance skirt and strappy crop top. Then I head into the dance studio and send Trace a text.
Me: I need a favor
My phone rings within seconds, displaying his name on the screen.
“Did you miss my voice?” I set it on speaker, on the floor, and bend at the waist, warming up to work on a new routine.
“Is everything okay?”
I melt at the worry rumbling through the phone. “Brakes are shot on my car. Can I get a ride to and from work tonight?”
His relieved exhale makes me smile. Stretching my arms over my head, I study my form in the mirror.
“Yes, of course. I’ll send my driver.” He pauses, breathing softly through the silence. “Is that all?”
Not even close. I want to talk to him. Share my feelings, my thoughts, my desires. I want to empty my cup.
Lowering to the floor, I arch in the Cow Stretch to warm up my tummy muscles. “What are you doing today?”
“Running a multi-million-dollar empire.”
“What’s that involve? Snapping fingers and counting dead presidents?”
“Dead presidents?”
“Money.” I roll into a neck-stretching back bend. “You know, Jackson, Grant, Benjamin—”
“Benjamin Franklin wasn’t a president.”
“Then why is he on the hundred-dollar bill?”
The phone vibrates with his chuckle. “What are you doing today?”
“I’m practicing a new belly dance routine. Wanna hear the song?”
“I’d love to.”
A smile lifts my cheeks. “Hang on.”
I leap over the phone on the floor and power on the sound system. Keeping the volume low enough to hear him, I move back to the phone. A moment later, Criminal by Britney Spears streams through the speakers.
“Talk me through the movements,” he says. “So I can visual it.”
Warm energy fizzes through my veins. “The dance begins with just my hips.” I move them, watching my reflection in the mirror. “I’m sweeping through soft figure-eight motions.”
He listens without interruption as I speak through every twitch, head toss, and hip thrust.
I love his interest in my dancing. He might be moody and layered with mixed signals, but there’s something underneath it all, something behind the stuffy suits that calls to me, awakens me, makes my heart flutter like a baby bird.
The first and last time I felt anything like this, it was instantaneous and explosive, spinning and colliding and welding Cole and I together under the force of our own gravity.
With Trace, it’s different. More like seeds. Two hearty seeds that weather drought and neglect and tribulation, all the while sprouting roots—roots that grow toward each other, building a foundation, stretching, and blooming, not two but one single stalk, straight through the cracks in a hostile landscape.
We’ll either grow into something beautiful.
Or we won’t.
The song winds to a close, and his voice echoes behind me, in stereo. “Play it again. I want to watch this time.”
I spin and find him leaning in the doorway, his phone and a set of keys dangling from his hand.
Today’s suit is navy, with a light blue shirt and black tie. His tailored slacks fit so well my gaze is drawn to them, to the way they cup and mold to his groin. He’s so insanely, incredibly sexy and masculine it takes a great deal of effort to look away.
I wish I’d worn something nicer or at least brushed my hair. That’s what he does to me. Makes me want to tear through my closet, try on ten outfits, take a shower, put on makeup, hairspray and tease and hairspray some more. Because at some point in the last four months, this man helped me move past a broken promise and gave me a reason to try again.
I feel him watching me, and when I look up, my heartbeat ricochets in my chest. With his chin tilted down and hands resting in his pockets, his gaze roams along my bare legs, traces my hips, pauses on my chest. My nipples harden, my breasts unbound beneath the loose crop top. I think he likes what I’m wearing, given the way his lips part to accommodate the rush of his breath.
His attention drops to my hand—my naked finger—and his jaw flexes. “You took off the ring.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, feeling awkward. “Did you break the speed limit getting here?”
He continues to stare at my hand, a turbulence of emotions descending upon his features. Then he blinks, smooths out his expression, and lifts his head. “I drive a fast car.”
I don’t know what to make of his reaction to the ring, so I slip around him and step outside, shielding my eyes against the setting sun.
Parked behind the Midget is a sexy luxury sports car with charcoal metallic paint. Fat tires give it a wide stance, and the convertible top, black leather interior, and rear bumper spoiler all scream, Pay attention to me. It looks pricey, and I bet the inside smells like him—rich, dark, manly. I can totally see him driving…whatever it is.
“What is that?” I ask.
He makes a sound of disbelief. “A Maserati GranTurismo.”
“It’s like a fancier, forty-years-newer version of my car. Look, they’re the same height.”
“Except mine’s a lot longer. Sleeker. More powerful.” He punctuates every word with a heated growl.
“Are we still talking about cars?”
“You tell me.”
Our eyes meet and hold for several seconds before I glance away.
“Better check yourself, Trace. You’re dangerously close to flirting.”
“I came early to watch you practice.” He turns back into the house, vanishing inside.
He said he was sending his driver, but never mind that. He’s four hours early. That’s a lot of time to spend with a man who ties me up in knots.
But I want him to tie me up. And kiss me and love me and never release me.
I take a calming breath. I’m just going to let this run its own course. I won’t fight it. Won’t deny it. Won’t push it. But I might tease it a little. If he wants me to practice in front of him, I’ll give him a show.
Inside, I set Criminal on repeat and take my position before him. He found a folding chair and reclines on it, legs spread, fingers laced together on his flat stomach. Then, without a twitch or a word, he watches me dance. A god on his throne, immaculate power and authority, straight-faced and unmoved.
Until I dance closer, more erotically, putting everything I have into the roll of my abs and hips. I inch so close I’m swaying in the V of his legs, moving my arms to the rhythm and stirring the air around his tense posture.
He shifts on the chair, licks his lips.
Then he touches me. A knuckle against my inner thigh. The backs of his fingers beneath the short hem of my flowing skirt. By the time the song cycles three times, both of his hands are on me, curved around my thighs and edging toward my backside, which is bared by a thong.
Suspended in eye contact, lost in the pressure of his fingers, I give up on the choreography and free fall into improvisation. My hands drop to his shoulders, digging into the fabric and muscles beneath.
The slouch of his body begs me to dance on him. While I’m not a stripper, I know my way around a lap, having spent a year playing kinky games with Cole. I also know that the build-up, the sexy tease, is crucial.
As the song restarts, I perch my butt in the air, pushing my chest closer to Trace’s slack face. Then I nudge back on his shoulders, using his body to gracefully stand straight and step back.
Lips parted and smile playful, I strut around him, tilting my hips up and down and running my hands along my body. He doesn’t take his eyes off me, twisting on the seat to watch me dance behind him.
With my feet positioned behind his chair, I touch his jaw, nudging him to look forward. Then I gently lower my chest toward the back of his head, moving my body downward and twisting my hips to the beat.
Now would be a good time to take a step back and talk myself out of whatever this is. But every nerve ending below my waist rages at the thought. Instead, I reach around him and boldly graze my fingers along the thick shape of his cock through the slacks.
Hard and long, he jerks against my hand, and his head falls back. “Danni.”
Sliding upward, I explore the chiseled expanse of his abs and run my nose along his neck. “You smell hungry, Trace.”
His chest heaves, and one leg stretches out, scraping his shoe along the floor. “Come here.”
A hand curls around my wrist, and I let him pull me around the chair. When I return to his front, I give him my back, writhing sensually, tauntingly between his knees.
“You have a great ass. Not big. Not small.” His voice is hoarse, raw, lacking its usual eloquence as he caresses my backside. “It’s a perfect shape that looks incredible on your body.”
Emboldened by the compliment, I slowly lower onto his lap with my back to him, grinding gently and shivering against the hard press of his erection. His hands slide to my thighs and move upward beneath the skirt, settling on my hips.
“Your skin feels like silk,” he breathes raggedly at my ear. “And the dips here…” His thumbs stroke my waist. “I dream about these curves and the way you move them. You’re built for sex.” He touches his mouth to my neck, groaning. “Christ, I’m so fucking hard.”
Quivers race along my inner thighs, and my core tightens, pulsates, driving my movements to the music. I lean back and press my backside into his lap, my shoulders against his chest, and wrap an arm around his neck.
“You always smell like Nag Champa.” With his hands beneath my skirt, one sinks between my legs, over the thong. The other lifts, slipping under my shirt to cup a bare breast. “Such a sexy, potent, exotic scent. It lingered on my sheets for a week after you left.”
“Your maid didn’t wash them?” I moan against the tweak of his fingers on my nipple.
“I wouldn’t allow it. Not until I couldn’t smell you anymore.”
My chest flutters.
Who am I kidding? There’s a damn butterfly migration taking off inside me. His confession is just so…unexpected. So is the hand caressing the soaked crotch of my thong.
He’s rock hard beneath me. I’m dripping wet. Why are we still talking?
I remind myself he was with another woman two nights ago. Hell, he could’ve spent the night with another woman after dropping me off at the concert.
Miserable thoughts. But my body doesn’t seem to care. His touch feels too good, and I’m so fucking worked up my pussy throbs with its own heartbeat.
“I love your tits.” He squeezes my flesh. “Perfectly round, sitting up high on your chest and driving me insane every goddamn day.” His finger circles around the bud. “I bet these perfect little nipples are pink.”
“See for yourself.”
“Turn around.”
I’m not fully standing before he spins me to face him, pulls me onto his lap, and guides my legs to straddle the spread of his.
“So damn beautiful.” He cups my face, seemingly hypnotized by whatever he sees there.
I look him in the eye and give him a sweet subtle grin, communicating that I know how entranced he is.
His attention lowers to my chest, and his hands follow, lifting the hem of my shirt with slow, agonizing patience. Cool air brushes my nipples. Then his gaze.
“Pink.” His expression intensifies, lighting me on fire.
He grips my ass and shifts me up his chest to nuzzle my breasts. I use my hands to squeeze what little I have around his face. His breaths become shallow, and his teeth graze my skin. When he swirls his tongue around a nipple, my head falls back, my fingers clutching his shoulders for support.
But he has me, his arms holding me tight as he lowers me onto the rigid cock trapped within his slacks. He rocks his hips upward, groaning, his hands roaming everywhere—my thighs, my breasts, my neck, always returning to knead my butt.
I slide my face along the side of his until I reach his ear. Then I draw the lobe between my lips and suck.
It sets him off, his hands plunging into my hair and his tongue sweeping into my mouth.
“You’re so fucking hot.” He growls into the kiss, the fingers in my hair wrenching my head back for a deeper angle. “You make me crazy.”
I know the feeling. All reason has abandoned me in the powerful arms of desire. I want him, need him, and none of this is rational. But I’m caught in the rapid rhythm of his breaths, the flex of his body, and the expert strokes of his tongue.
With my legs hooked around the back of the chair, my skirt rides up to my hips. I gently grind against him, rocking up and down, like I’m riding a bull in slow-motion. The wetness between my legs will no doubt leave a stain on his slacks, and the thought makes me grin against his lips.
The song loops again, and he eases back but not away. “I can’t do this anymore.”
A fist of dread clenches inside me. “Can’t do what?”
“I can’t keep pretending you aren’t the first thought in my head when I wake and the reason I can’t fall asleep at night.”
I stare at him in shock.
Eyes hooded, mouth parted, he cradles my face and touches our foreheads together. “I lied to you.”
My heart skips. “What do you mean?”
“I want you, Danni.”
Oh. “That’s not exactly a secret.” I press my weight down on his erection.
“It’s more than that. I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.” His fingers tighten against my jaw. “I want all of you.”