Page 86 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Why?”
“It’s important for your lover to know these things, Getty.”
I laugh nervously as the air between us shifts and twists into an unexpected undertow of desire. Unable to think with his salacious stare asking so much, I avert my eyes back to the ocean, thankful he’s willing to give me a moment to collect myself before I respond.
Oh my God. How do I answer him? First of all, this isn’t something Ethan ever cared to ask me, and second, I’m not very good at voicing something like this aloud. Maybe under the covers in a dark room . . . but not with piercing blue eyes holding steadfast to mine watching for my answer. Add on to that the fact that every part of my body—mind, nerves, pulse—is reacting in some way to the look he’s giving me and the topic he just introduced.
“Don’t be shy, Socks,” he murmurs, and places his hand over mine on the table. My eyes flash back to his. Those parts of my body that were reacting a second ago now go into overdrive. “You don’t get to be shy after last night.”
That grin again. But this time it’s one reflecting full-blown arrogant male smugness over yet another bout of incredible sex. And there’s something about that look that restores my con
fidence. The part that realizes I’m the one who put it there.
So I take a fortifying breath before looking back at him. “Everywhere.” It takes everything I have to maintain our eye contact. Every ounce of self-confidence I’ve found in myself to not look away and be ashamed for being honest. “In all the years we were together, Ethan never took the time to care . . . so I can’t tell you for sure. My lips maybe? Because you kiss me like I matter. Like I’m innocent and a vixen all in one. You worship them. Demanding at the same time you’re so patient with me. Or maybe my skin? Because I love the feel of your hands and how when you run them over me . . . their strength and noticeable restraint reflects your desire for me. Or the curve of my neck? Because when your lips are right there, I can hear that hitch in your breath when I put my hands on you. That sound tells me you want me to touch you. So I don’t have an answer for you. I like when you touch me everywhere, Zander. . . .” I pointedly emphasize the last words. Draw them out, making sure my tone sounds like how his touch makes me feel. Greedy. Desperate. Consumed.
Before I can even take in his expression—wide eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip, the bob of his Adam’s apple—and gauge how he took my confession, I think about me. About my unexpected candor and the comfort level I have with him.
What a far cry this woman I am is from the shadow I was months ago.
Now that the words are out, I can’t take them back. And if the look in Zander’s eyes is any indication, I don’t think he’d want me to if I could.
“If that’s not a challenge to touch every erogenous zone on your body until you can pick just one as your favorite, I don’t know what is. Shit.” He blows out a whistle and unsuccessfully fights to hide the surprised grin on his lips. “I think I need a cigarette after that.”
It’s my turn to laugh. Long and loud. And to wonder just what other parts of me he’s going to awaken on his quest to make me pick a favorite.
No complaints here.
Chapter 25
GETTY
There’s only one word to describe how I feel as I head home after wandering aimlessly around town for a bit. Content. I picked up the humidor, sat on the waterfront for a while eating an ice-cream cone, and then headed over to the farmers’ market to pick up some peonies.
But the unyielding smile on my face is because of Zander. It hasn’t left my lips since he unexpectedly kissed me good-bye on the boardwalk with the parting words, “I still can’t believe you don’t like strawberries.” Then he flashed that disarming grin of his as he took a few steps backward before turning around to head home and grab some kind of something for the mechanic on the boat.
Guess I can cross “kiss the repair guy” off the to-do list.
I laugh at the thought as I unlock the front door, making a mental note to add an item of my own to the list for him. Aware of the waning time before my shift starts, I put the flowers in a vase and head straight to my bedroom, distracted with thoughts of where I can hide the humidor. I don’t want Zander to see it until I can explain my intentions.
Within seconds of tossing my purse on the bed and setting the humidor down, I have my shirt over my head and am toeing my shoes off.
“Now that’s the proper welcome I’d expect from my wife.”
Every part of my body freezes—the toes on my right foot from pushing down against the heel of my shoe on my left foot, my fingers behind my back beginning to unfasten the clasp of my bra, my heart, my breath. The only things moving are the hairs that slowly stand to attention on the back of my neck and the dust dancing in the light of the room.
I’m not your wife. The thought echoes in my head but never makes it to my lips. Nothing does. Instead, I concentrate on the buoyant specks for a moment. It’s the only thing I can focus on, because it takes everything I have to tell myself to breathe, to exhale evenly, and to rein in every ounce of emotion that I feel. To put up the mask. To disassociate. To make him believe when I turn around that I’m not scared of him.
But I am.
Every.
Single.
Part.
Of.
Me.
