Make Me Sin

41

My heart dissolves around the edges. But A.J. isn’t done with giving me the third degree.

“How long have you owned the flower shop?”

I clear my throat, still recovering from what he’s just told me. “Three years.”

“You want to be a florist since you were little?”

“I always wanted to do something creative. And I knew I wanted to work for myself. I started working at Fleuret during high school and fell in love with it. When I graduated college, I bought the store. It’s hella hard work but I wouldn’t give it up for the world. It’s just . . . mine. It’s all mine. And no one can take it away from me. If it fails, it’s because I didn’t work hard enough, or smart enough. I can never be fired. That’s important to me: to stand on my own two feet. To make my own way. To never be at someone else’s mercy.”

My unplanned confession seems to satisfy him in some profound way, because he nods, and makes a masculine sound deep in his throat. After a moment of silence, the questions resume.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Just under a year.”

It goes on like this. He asks about where I went to school, how long I’ve been friends with Kat and Grace, what my favorite food is, my favorite color, my favorite place to vacation. He asks what TV shows I watch, and if I’m a reader, and what kind of music I like other than eighties rock, bang, bang, bang. It’s like he’s trying to pack a year of getting to know me into one night, like he can’t exist for another moment on the earth without finding out everything he can about the woman he’s wrapped around.

And I love it.

The one line of questioning conspicuously missing is about Eric. I know he saw us together at Starbucks, but he never brings it up.

When, after what seems like an hour of the third degree on every other subject, I try to turn the tables and ask A.J. why he moved into that abandoned hotel, he cuts me off with a curt “No.”

I turn my head. “No?”

His exhalation is low. He sounds exhausted. “I’m not here to talk about me.”

I swallow. Be brave, Chloe. Just ask him. Do it. I whisper, “Why are you here?”

This is when I feel—I actually, physically feel—his erection twitch. The damn thing is chomping at the bit! My heartbeat skyrockets.

He says, “Because I haven’t slept in six weeks.”

A few things happen in quick succession following that statement. First, I’m doused in cold disappointment. He’s here to sleep? As in, sleepy-sleep, nighty-night, sweet dreams, and see you in the morning kind of sleep? Huh. Not what I would have guessed. Especially because of that rocket ready to blast a hole out of his pants.

Which, my inner slut points out with a wink, hasn’t deflated an inch since he got here.

Second, my brain latches on to the fact that it was six weeks ago that I went to his house. Am I the reason he hasn’t slept in all that time?

Eerily reading my thoughts, he says, “Yes. Since that day.”

I’m at a loss for words. I’m thrilled, confused, turned on, worried, and a little weirded out. This is so far beyond my normal experience with men, I simply have no idea what’s the best course of action.

But my heart knows. Instinctively, my heart guesses what he needs from me. I understand why he came, and it’s not just because he needs to sleep.

He needs to escape. And the only way he can escape what gnaws at him is to surrender to it.

I take a deep breath, let it out. I don’t understand what drives him, what reasons he’s both so repelled by and attracted to me. Perhaps I never will. He doesn’t seem inclined to share.

What I do know is that I like having him here. I like his heat. I like his smell. I like the sound of his voice and the way he moves, the way he looks at me like he’s starving. I like the sheer size of him, cradling me in his strong arms so I feel completely safe and secure. I like his tattoos. I like his husky laugh. I like the way he looks at the world, in acceptance and forgiveness, without judgment or fear.

I like the way he protects and cares for Bella. The way he cares about a bunch of faceless animals he’ll never even meet, enough to change his eating habits for a lifetime.

He’s fascinating to me. He’s also a total enigma.

I ask, “Can I have one question?”

His arm tightens around my waist. Against my skin, his lips curve. He’s smiling.

“One.”

Chewing my lower lip, I think. There are too many to pick just one. Why do I make you want to die? Who is the dead woman in Russia? Why do you never look into a camera lens? Are you going to keep stalking me? Is it you who’s leaving the origami birds? What’s up with the damn hoodies?

Instead I blurt, “Are you a spy?”

There’s a moment of silence, until he starts to laugh. The sound is something I’ll never get used to. I wish I could listen to it forever.

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

I smile into the dark. “Very funny. Answer the question.”

He shifts his weight, adjusting his arm so that his left hand lies flat against my belly. He pulls me closer to his body, sealing any gaps between us, until we’re fused from top to toe. His bare feet tangle with mine. He lowers his mouth to my neck, to the place where it meets my shoulder, opens his lips over my skin, and bites me, just hard enough to sting.