Shattered With You

Chapter Eight

He studied Eliza with a frown. "Do they know your real name?"

She shook her head.

"Good." He nodded, indicating Denny's dress. "Do you need help putting it on?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she dropped her gaze. "I—no. I can manage it. Can you, um..."

He stood and turned away from her, facing the window. As he did, he realized that he could see a partial reflection in the raised pane. A gentleman would divert his eyes. He watched. Once upon a time, he'd believed he could be a gentleman. Now, he knew better.

She stood gingerly, as if it hurt to move, which he knew it did. He thought of the shallow cuts that had once covered his chest and abdomen, along with his inner thighs. The wounds were no longer open; instead he was marked by a web of thin, white scars. The skin had long ago knitted, the pain only a brutal memory. But that didn't mean he was healed. Far from it.

He pressed his fingers to his temples, and forced the memories back, focusing instead on the reflection of the woman who had once belonged to him.

She moved slowly, and the motion of raising the dress over her head accentuated her small waist and perfect breasts. She had an athletic frame. Long and lean and lovely. Some men might consider her breasts too small, but they'd be wrong. He'd tasted those breasts, held their weight in his hands. He recalled one time in particular when he'd dragged his teeth over her erect nipple. It was as if he'd lit a firecracker inside her. Her ankles and wrists had been bound to the bed, and she'd arched up, her body practically vibrating with pleasure as she moaned his name and begged him for more. For everything.

He'd slid his hand under her skirt, his fingers teasing their way inside her soaked panties. She'd bucked against him, fucking his hand like a wild thing, and then begged for his cock. He'd denied her, of course. Made her wait until she was so hungry for him she could barely breathe. Then he'd buried himself in her, his fingers squeezing her nipples as he watched passion and euphoria rise on her face as he took her to the limit and she exploded in his arms, her loud cries pushing him over the edge along with her.

That same memory had threatened to burst free earlier, when he'd pulled out the cuff and attached her to the bed. He'd pushed it brutally away, both because he needed to focus on the job and because he had no business remembering. Not when he could no longer have her. There was no point to self-flagellation, after all. It didn't even faze his demons.

Now, though...

Now he realized that he was either a shamefully weak man or a fucking masochist, because even though he knew that he couldn't ever have Eliza in his bed again, he'd still opened the floodgates to his memories, and now his cock was straining against his trousers, on high alert from the enticing, delicious, erotic images flooding his brain.

"Okay," she said as he heard the first wail of sirens approaching the building. "I'm dressed. Not that it makes much difference in this outfit..."

He focused on the carpet, drawing deep breaths before he turned around. It wouldn't do for her to see just how much her presence—and his memories—had affected him. But as soon as he saw her standing there in the sheer black shift, her nipples hard against the thin material and her tiny, flesh-colored thong barely covering her sweet pussy, his cock sprang to attention all over again.

She met his eyes, then crossed her arms over her chest.

Damn. "Sorry, love. The dress suits you."

She rolled her eyes, but at the same time, some of the tension dropped away. "Are we ready?" She took a step toward the door.

"Not that way."