His touch landed on my shoulder, and I wondered how he found me so easily. His fingers were warm and soft, starkly different from the chill I couldn’t escape. My teeth chattered as his caress fluttered across my breasts, and my moan rent the air like a sword, tearing the quiet in two.
Clothing swished, and his arm brushed mine as he moved to stand behind me. His breath hit my ear before his words did. “All those years I was in prison, did you even think of me once?”
Twisting my aching wrists, I shuffled my feet, but my limbs refused to stop quaking. “Please let me down.”
“Answer the question.”
“I wrote you letters,” I blurted, then drew in a quick breath. In the wee hours of the morning when sleep eluded me, I’d bared my soul to him on paper. All the guilt I’d carried, how I felt about him. I’d also laid out every last detail of the secrets I kept locked away.
“I never got any letters.”
“I never sent them.” Why had I opened my mouth about the letters? If he ever found them…oh God.
“Then why write them?”
“Because I…”
“Spit it out, Alex.”
“I missed you.”
“You missed me?” He fisted my hair. “You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right? You sent me away.”
“I know.” I grimaced as his tug on my hair increased.
“What part of me did you miss? The guy you couldn’t resist gawking at, or the guy who actually gave a shit about you?”
Past tense. He didn’t care about me anymore. I couldn’t blame him, but the knowledge hurt something fierce, threatened to chew a hole in my heart. “I just missed you, Rafe.”
“Did you write about all the dirty things you wished I’d do to you?”
“No.”
“Liar,” he murmured into my ear. “Tell me about your fantasies.”
I tried shaking my head, mortified, but his fist in my hair immobilized me.
“If you don’t start talking, you’re staying down here until morning.” His hand dropped, and I sensed him retreating.
“Don’t go!” I cried. “I’ll tell you.”
“I know you will. You haven’t changed. I knew eight years ago I could probably do anything I wanted, but I knew better.”
“And now?” I asked, hesitance creeping into my tone.
“Now I’m black on the inside. I just don’t give a fuck anymore.”
“I don’t believe that. I still remember who you are, even if you don’t.”
“Would the man you remember have strung you up on your toes?”
Definitely not.
“Didn’t think so,” he said, as if he’d heard my thoughts. “So talk. Tell me all of your dirty secrets.”
Oh God. The way he breathed those words into my ear was enough to unravel me. “I’ve thought about you making love to me.”
“Do I seem like a making-love kind of guy?”
“No.” He seemed like a fuck-you-until-you-split-in-two kind of guy. The kind of guy who’d bring new meaning to the word passionate.