Page 82 of Thirst
My breath hitched. My fingers had developed a will of their own because they stayed where he’d put them, exploring the hard ridge. When he drew a ragged inhale, I stilled, my gaze snapping to his. He was telling the truth—he hadn’t had anyone since that night at the gallery.
“Why not?” I asked, then jerked my hand from his crotch. “Never mind. I don’t know why I asked.”
“I know why.” Strong palms cupped my face. “You want to hear that it’s because of you. That I can’t get you out of my head. That every time we fuck it’s the best ever—and then it gets even better.” His thumbs caressed my cheekbones in slow strokes. “I’m right, aren’t I?
“No.” I was gripping his shoulders now, needing to hold onto something because the ground beneath me had tilted. “Yes. I don’t know.” The words tumbled out like loose stones.
“Well, it’s true.” His blue eyes burned into mine, like the admission scoured him raw. “I don’t want anyone but you.”
The air between us hummed. My pulse kicked, and the anger and hurt in me twisted into something reckless, something that felt too much like yearning.
Did he feel it too?
That pull buzzing beneath my skin a live wire, the one I’d been trying to pretend wasn’t there? A knowing. A recognition.
But no, that couldn’t be right. This man couldn’t be my mate, not when he still saw me as the enemy.
I pulled back. “What about my father?” I asked, inserting him between us like a shield. “Have you heard from him?”
His gaze turned frosty. He released me and stepped back. “Not since that first night.”
“He knows it wasn’t me, then—texting him.”
He lifted a shoulder, let it fall. “Probably.”
“So what are you going to do?”
He just looked at me.
“I see.” I turned and headed for the living room, needing to get away from both him and that four-poster bed.
Cain followed. “The floors are heated,” he said, tapping an electronic panel next to the door, impersonal as a hotel manager. “Thermostat’s next to the intercom. If you need anything, push two for Kerry—the housekeeper. Hit three for the kitchen.” He glanced around, his gaze catching on the sketchpad. “I’ll have them get you more drawing things—supplies. Make a list and give it to Rio.”
“I will.” I paused, then added, “Thank you.” Again.
But I was grateful. To be allowed to draw meant a lot.
He shrugged. “You have a gift. You should use it.”
I bit down on my lower lip, tempted to leave it there. He was my jailer. My captor. I owed him nothing.
But Cain valued truth…and information.
And even though he was keeping me here against my will, he’d apologized for locking me up and moved me to this apartment.
He’d bent. Maybe I could bend too.
He reached for the door handle.
“Wait,” I said. “There’s something I have to tell you. Nazaire knows. Those texts—he assumed I was with you. Why would he say that unless he found out we’ve been meeting?”
Cain nodded, unsurprised. “That’s what I figured. And?—?”
A chill licked over my skin. I rubbed my upper arms.
“You understand that’s why he sent me to meet your uncle? He knew exactly what he was doing—he wanted to put me in an impossible position.”
Cain opened his mouth, then closed it.
