It was the so that took hold in his heart, finding purchase, tethering him to her. He thought he could deny himself. He almost believed he could forget her. But he was too far gone to let her go. She was his, and there were simply no two ways about it. She had to be in his life. “Me too.”
Soon, she broke the embrace, and took her turn washing him, working her nimble hands across his body, the mischievous look in her eyes telling him that she enjoyed touching him as much as he craved her touch. She stopped at his arm, running a finger along the lines of his tattooed bicep. “Passion,” she said, in a reflective voice. “This is so you. It’s perfect for you. You are the most passionate man I have ever known. You are passionate in your heart, and passionate in bed, and passionate in your beliefs, and in every single thing you do.”
He got him. She knew him. She understood who he was and what made him tick. It was heady being that connected to someone. “It’s easy to be passionate with you, Julia.”
“And thank you for letting me do that just now in the shower,” she said, trailing her fingers across his shoulder.
“For washing me?” He arched an eyebrow in question.
She nodded. “And for letting me tie your hands.”
“As I’ve said before, I’ve got no issues. No hangups. I’m pretty much game for anything and good to go.”
“I like that.”
“What about you? Anything you don’t want me to do?” He asked as she turned the shower off and handed him a towel, taking another one for herself.
She didn’t answer immediately; instead she folded her towel in half, then in quarters, the long way. He watched her curiously. She raised the towel to her eyes. A knowing grin broke across his face for having gotten her charade.
“Got it. No blindfolding.”
She returned to drying off. “I just like to be able to see, that’s all. Blindfolding is the only thing that I’m not wild about. And it’s not because I have some terrible past with trauma about blindfolding. But the thought of it makes me feel a bit too vulnerable, and for a woman with trust issues, well, I’m not sure it’s the best kind of kink for me.”
She hung up her towel on a hook and he did the same.
“There are many other forms of kink that I’m more than happy to try with you, Julia,” he said, then reached for her hand and led her back to her bedroom. Once they slipped under the covers, he wrapped his arms around her, then brushed her hair away from her ear. “I guess I’ll just have to imagine then how you’d look with my tie over your eyes, wearing nothing but stockings, sitting in a chair and touching yourself while I watch.”
She craned her neck to give him a curious stare. “Is that your fantasy?”
He nodded. “It is one of many.”
“Maybe someday, handsome. Maybe someday.”
“I have another fantasy,” he murmured softly in her ear, tugging her closer as they spooned.
“What’s that?” she asked curiously.
“Falling asleep with you in my arms.”
“I think that’s about to become your reality.”
“Lucky me.”
Chapter Twenty
The pancakes were as delicious as promised.
With breakfast finished, they walked past a block full of graffiti art and consignment shops in the Mission district. An up-and-coming neighborhood full of hipsters and Internet startup folks, the shops here bore the evidence of the clientele, but there was an element to these few blocks that bothered him. He didn’t like the idea of her living in a neighborhood still plagued with crime and trouble, even if the numbers were improving. She was an independent woman though and it wasn’t his place to criticize where she lived.
“You like living here?” he asked, keeping the question casual.
“Sure,” she said with a laid back shrug as they sidestepped a sleeping homeless man. “There’s a kickass bakery a few blocks over, some fabulous coffee shops, and lots of boutiques that my sister loves, so I get to see her more often.”
“Maybe we should all do something next time I’m in town,” he suggested and couldn’t deny the touch of nerves in his chest. Last time he’d asked for something more, she’d gone running. But maybe dinner with her sister was something she could handle.
“I would love that,” she said, and his nerves departed with her simple answer. “And you’re going to love Chris. He’s the best.”
“I’m looking forward to meeting him in person,” he said, checking the time on his watch, “In about twenty minutes.”
“Let’s get your bag so you’re not late,” she said as they turned onto her block, passing a vintage clothing shop a few doors down. His driver waited in a town car by her building. Clay gave him a quick wave, then headed to her third floor apartment. Her cell phone was still on the kitchen counter. She’d left it there all morning, and he’d been grateful to have her undivided attention, a luxury he’d rarely had with Sabrina. He grabbed his suitcase and tapped her metal table. “Good table. That’s a keeper.”
“I was planning on framing that table because I love what we did on it so much,” she said, then led him back down the stairs and out of her building.
She stopped in her tracks and cursed under her breath. “Fuck,” she muttered, and ran a hand through her hair.
“What is it?” he asked, and his shoulders tightened with worry. He zeroed in on her eyes, then followed her line of sight to a large man built like a slab of meat pacing a few feet away. The man had dark black hair, with a white streak down the side. He was scanning the street, and very quickly set his eyes on Julia.
Instantly, Clay reached for her, draping an arm protectively around her. He turned to look at her, holding her gaze tight with his own. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” she said in a thin voice as the freight-train-sized man walked toward them.
“You know him?”
“Sort of,” she said, as she pressed the tip of her tongue nervously along her teeth.
“Julia,” the man barked as he reached them. “You don’t answer your phone? Is everything okay?” He sounded strangely concerned, almost paternal, and that irked Clay.
“I was out to breakfast,” she said, through tight lips. Clay glanced from Julia to the man and back, wanting to know who the hell he was and why he was talking to her like he owned her.
“Charlie needs you tonight.”
Julia didn’t answer him.
“Julia,” Clay asked carefully. “Who’s this?”
The man held out a hand, flashed a toothy smile. “I’m Stevie. Who are you?”
Before he could answer, Julia squeezed his arm tightly, some kind of signal, it seemed, then started talking. “This is Carl. Carl and I met last night at the bar. He’s just heading home now.”
She shot Clay a pleading looking, asking with her eyes to go along with the lie.
“Nice to meet you, Carl,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye, Clay noticed a bulge by the man’s shins, as if a hard, square barrel of a gun were held safely in place with an ankle holster. Clay didn’t have a clue who this man was or why he was packing, but blood rushed fast through his veins, adrenaline kicking in as he quickly cycled through escape routes for the two of them if he pulled it. Down the block, into the building, behind the car. Or better yet, Clay could move first if he needed to. He could take this man; Stevie was big and slow, and Clay had speed on his side. A quick, hard jab to the ribs would double him over, giving them time to get away.
“Likewise,” Clay said, calling on his best acting ability. He had no idea why she needed him to lie, and he didn’t like it one bit, but he wasn’t going to make things worse for her in the moment. Papa bear attitude or not, the man had thug or dealer written all over him.