She raised her head high enough to look into his eyes. “Did they die the way you told me?”
He stroked her hair, ran his thumb across her cheekbone. “You’re hot, you know that? Smokin’.”
Her look let him know he wouldn’t get by with that.
He sighed in resignation. “They retired down here. When their renter left, they gave over the use of this apartment to me and moved into the larger one downstairs. Mom treated it like a dollhouse. Fixed it up. She loved it.”
He continued combing his fingers through her hair but was staring blankly at the ceiling. “I could spin it a thousand ways, Jordie, but the short version is that Dad placed all his retirement money with Panella. He and your brother stole it. Forty years of savings, gone. By Panella’s standards, it wasn’t a huge amount. He never would have missed it. But to my folks it represented the reward for a lifetime of hard work and sacrifice. It evaporated.
“And he stole more than their retirement. He robbed Dad of his pride. He felt like a fool for being scammed. Broke him in every way a man can be broken. He was going to have to sell this place to get out from under the mortgage. When he called to tell me, he was crying, and said the worst of it was having to tell Mom that she would have to abandon her dollhouse. He said he didn’t see how he could do it.”
He paused, took a breath. “I guess he couldn’t. She was asleep, never knew it, but I don’t see how he could’ve done that, either.”
“Shaw. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t dismiss my apology with a thanks.” She took him by the chin and forced him to look at her. “I’m truly sorry that my brother played a key role in the deaths of your parents.”
“Josh is as twisted a person as anybody I’ve ever heard of. I hate like hell the hold he has on you. But he was only Panella’s facilitator. You said so yourself. A brainy one, granted, but would Josh have ever committed a crime if he hadn’t been corrupted by Panella? He’s the destructive one, Jordie. He’s evil.”
She returned her cheek to his chest. “I can’t argue with that. But regarding your parents, I feel guilty by association with Josh and Panella. I don’t know how you can be here with me like this.”
“Then let me explain it.” He eased her onto her back and loomed above her. “I saw you, wanted you, and didn’t give a damn who you were related to. I still don’t.”
The first kiss left her breathless. All those that came after left her boneless. His lips and tongue were everywhere, a gentle suction combined with a fluid swirl—on the undersides of her arms, the insides of her thighs, behind her knees, the arches of her feet. They mapped her throat, breasts, nipples, navel, and the shallow channels that funneled from her hip bones to her sex. Where they lingered.
Murmuring endearments in the syntax of both sinners and saints, he lavished her with caresses. But before she came, he turned her onto her stomach, straddled her legs, and kissed his way down her spine.
Sliding his hand between her legs, he pushed his fingers into where he’d left her achy and melting, then in graphic detail, talked her through what he was doing to her. It was erotic and exciting and uniquely Shaw.
But what finally broke her control was the way in which he described, in ragged whispers, how good she felt to him. With his voice and touch leaving her no choice, she ground herself against his hand, undulating between his chest and the bed until she collapsed.
Before she had fully recovered, he turned her onto her back and pressed open her thighs. Then he was inside her, hard and full and vital, a male mating. He pulled her hands above her head and held them there, but not as securely as his gaze held hers.
His intensity wasn’t entirely self-gratifying. He was sensitive to her responses, accommodating each slight shift of her body, interpreting every sound, anticipating what she wanted before she knew it herself.
She wasn’t as satiated as she’d believed, because when he adjusted his angle so that each thrust, some slow, others quick, stroked her where she was most susceptible, she arched involuntarily, asking for more.
At the perfect time, he went deep and grafted his body to hers. The rotating motion of his hips was slight, but the pleasure immense. At that spot where they were fused, it collected, concentrated, and then burst, overwhelming her again.
He let himself come, his forehead against hers, his hands linked with hers above her head, his breath uneven and hot against her face.
They rested for long moments before he raised his head and looked into her face. He brushed aside a strand of her hair that had become ensnared in his scruff. She didn’t realize her eyes had leaked tears until he sipped them off her cheeks. “I made you cry.”
Worse, she thought. You made me care.
Neither addressed that he hadn’t taken the precaution he had the first time, but as they pulled apart, they exchanged a look that acknowledged their awareness of it.
They spooned again. He placed his arm around her. She hugged it to her breasts. “Am I under arrest again?”
“I’m thinking.”
“You’ll let me know when you reach a decision?”
“You’ll know.”
“You’ll put me in handcuffs? Tie my feet with a bandana?”