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Chapter One

Anna

 

“I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to work.”

I lean on my antique cream fainting couch, thankful for the curving arm and high back to rest my head. If I were another type of woman, I’d throw an arm over my forehead and have an attack of the vapors, but instead I stare at my boyfriend of six months, unblinking—not comprehending the words coming from his mouth.

Is he breaking up with me?

I had a few glasses of wine while waiting for him, so maybe I’m confused. “Pardon?”

Mason Bennett scrubs a hand over his perfectly stubbled jaw, his rich, chocolate-brown eyes resigned. Final. “I’m sorry, Anna. I’m afraid our relationship isn’t working for me.”

Oh my God. He is breaking up with me. But why? Everything has been going so well. I had no idea he was unhappy. Tears prick the corners of my eyes, and I blink them away, hoping he doesn’t notice the sudden brightness.

He frowns, brow furrowing. “Please, don’t cry. That’s the last thing I want.”

Of course he noticed. He notices everything. It’s one of the reasons I went and fell in love with him. Until Mason, I hadn’t known men were capable of such exquisite attention.

He’s perfect! And he’s dumping me!

For the first time in my life, I want to be dramatic, but it’s really not my style.

I’m more the suffer-in-silence type.

I swipe two fingers under my lashes, hiding the offending wetness. “I’m fine. I’m…surprised.”

How could I be so clueless?

“I know, I wish…” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and shifts in the brocade wingback chair where he sits across from me.

He should look silly sitting amidst the frilliness of the green and yellow flowers. But he doesn’t. With his strong-boned features, full mouth, and short brown hair, he manages to reek of a certain masculinity that the surrounding old-fashioned femininity only highlights.

Although I’ve never spoken the words, I love him. I’m twenty-eight and have never been in love before now. The depth of my feelings came to me one afternoon while we baked oatmeal cookies together in my kitchen, but I stayed silent. I’m not prone to grand, sweeping emotion and needed to get used to the idea before I dared speak those three little words out loud. I’d foolishly believed I had all the time in the world. And truthfully, I hoped he’d say them first and take the risk for me.

In fairness, until his arrival five minutes ago, he’d never given me any indication he didn’t share my happiness.

I’m in shock. Numb. None of this makes any sense. We’ve never even had a fight. Shouldn’t we at least argue before we break up?

The saddest thing is I thought our date last night was near perfect. Over candlelight, we ate a sublime dinner of the most decadent lobster. We laughed and talked, all while getting tipsy on too much good wine. After, we went to his place and fell into his king-size bed. He made love to me so thoroughly I was boneless.

All day, I’ve been dreaming about it, floating on air. I might have even engaged in some embarrassing, adolescent behavior that included doodling Mrs. Anna Bennett in my more lavish script across a piece of my finest stationery before tossing the evidence in the fire.

What in heaven’s name happened between last night and today to alter the course of our relationship? Is he some sort of Machiavellian actor?

I manage to push one word past my tight throat. “Why?”

Elbows resting on his knees, he studies me with single-minded focus, like he’s trying to peer inside my head. He raises his hands as though in prayer before pressing them to his lips. “It’s complicated.”

Anger finally weaves its fine threads through my shock, and I grasp hold of it, clutching it to my chest like a coat of arms. When I speak, I let the barest hint bleed through. “I’m not an idiot.”

He scowls, his expression turning as dark and dangerous as a summer storm cloud. “Of course not.”

“I’d like an explanation.” I tilt my chin. “I deserve an explanation.”

I must understand how I read the situation so incorrectly.

He made me believe—in myself, in us.

Maybe another more sophisticated woman—one who goes to clubs and is able to seductively lure men, instead of reading too many volumes of English literature—would play it cool as ice, dismissing him without a backward glance. But I’m not like that. I can’t pretend I’m not hurt, can’t pretend it doesn’t matter. I’ve spent the last six months living out my wildest dreams, and I refuse to spend the rest of my days wondering where I went wrong.

Our relationship was like the most perfect romantic comedy, without any of the annoying misunderstandings common in the genre. I mean really—it was the stuff of fantasies.

We had a meet cute, when I slammed my grocery cart into him.

I was shy.

He was gorgeous.

I fluttered my lashes.

He ran a hand over a strong jaw, shadowed with roguish five o’clock stubble.

I stammered like an idiot.

He was charming and flirtatious.

As a demolition expert, Mason doesn’t wear a suit to work. Instead all six feet-four inches of him was clad in a navy T-shirt with his company logo on it and form-fitting jeans.

I was in my schoolteacher’s clothes and couldn’t believe he kept talking to me and making me laugh.

It had been sheer perfection.

He was exactly the kind of man I secretly desired but never dreamed I could attract.

Not that I’m ugly. Actually, I’m quite pretty. But guys like Mason never approach me. The problem is I’m too cute, too girl-next-door. With blond, curly, shoulder-length hair, a low-key personality, and a job as a first-grade teacher, I attract nice men who desire a nice girl.

I can’t help being a nice girl any more than daring girls can help being exciting.

Only I’m a nice girl who has the misfortune of being attracted to men like Mason: men who ooze sex appeal, hint at danger, and have a reckless gleam in their eyes.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune when he asked me to join him for coffee. I didn’t even hesitate, and as he teased me over lattes, I was as giddy as a sixteen year old on her first date.

Coffee had progressed to lunch, and then dinner, until seeing each other on Saturday night was implied. He took the sexual part of our relationship excruciatingly slow, coaxing and seducing me out of my shyness until I finally invited him to bed. Of course he was as fantastic at sex as he as at everything else.

We were a goddamn Hallmark movie!

So what happened?

The silence starts to grate on me, and I prompt, “Well?”

Dark, intense, unreadable, melting-chocolate eyes spear into my very core before darting away.

He clears his throat. “We want different things.”

I shake my head. “What kind of answer is that?”

Something shifts in his expression, and his fingers tighten until his tanned knuckles turn white. “I care about you a lot.”

The words cut like a knife. At least I never told him I loved him. At least I’m to be spared that final humiliation.

I cross my arms. “Let me get this straight. Everything has been going along fine, and all of the suddenit’s not enough?”

“It’s not all of the sudden,” he says, his voice calm, soft, ripe with sympathy.

For some reason, his response infuriates me more than him ending things. I need answers! I need to shatter his dead-eyed restraint so I can get to the truth. I have the urge to break him, make him feel a fraction of what I feel.

I hug myself tighter. “I see. And did you feel this way last night when you made love to me three times?”

His face twists, and he rakes a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to explain this.”

I’m finally getting somewhere. “Try.”

“Fine.” He rises from the chair and moves to the window, staring out at my tree-lined street. “Last night made me realize it’s not enough.”

It’s a quick uppercut to the ribs, and the air leaves my lungs with a whoosh. God, I’ve been such a fool.Humiliation washes hot over my skin. Here I’ve been mooning over fantastic sex, and he left my bed dissatisfied.

I’m not enough for him. The truth is the final nail in the coffin, breaking my heart. The last whisper of the demanding diva curls through the air before dissipating into the ether. I don’t think I can stomach any more answers.

I tuck my chin, casting my gaze downward to hide the welling in my eyes. I manage to eke out, “I’m sorry.”

He whips around. “No, Anna. Don’t do that. You’re great. Wonderful. You are everything a man wants in a woman. I’m the screwup here, not you.”

Oh. My. God. I’m getting the speech. I clench my hands and feel a tear trickle down my cheek. “Don’t even try that clichéd dating breakup garbage on me.”

He walks over, and my heart races a little, just like it always does. Why does he have to be so beautiful?

I want to beg him for another chance. The fact that this is pathetic keeps me silent.

He kneels, jeans stretching taut over powerful thighs. He takes my tightly clenched hands in his. “It’s not garbage. You’re the good one here.”

This is insufferable.

I let my hair fall across my cheeks, hiding my face. The words slip out before I can stop them. “Six months, and you won’t tell me the truth.”

A frustrated noise. A hard exhale. “I don’t know how to tell you the truth.” He strokes my hair, soft and gentle, like he still wants to touch me. “How to say the words.”

Then it hits me, like being whacked with a two-by-four. I get it. Everything makes perfect sense.

I stare down at the loose red-and-yellow flowered skirt I wore to school today. To put them both out of their misery, I speak for him. “You’ve met someone else.”

“Jesus, no,” he says so vehemently my head shoots up.

I’m surprised at his expression, no longer remote and unreadable. He looks anguished, sad, as defeated as I feel. If it hurts him this much, why is he doing this? Only another woman makes sense.

I pat his forearm, savoring the flex of muscles against my palm. “It’s okay. I understand.”

I don’t, but at least this horrible conversation can end.

“It’s not okay! That would never be okay.” He trails a path over my jaw, and I get lost in the touch. I love the way his callused fingers make my skin tingle. Something about the sensation of rough meeting soft makes me melt.

Now he’ll never touch me again.

He stares into my eyes. “Do you really believe I’d do that?”

If not that, then what? I shrug. “No, but—”

“There’s no one else.” His gaze drops to my mouth as though he wants to kiss me. “I only want you.”

“Then why are you ending things?” I’m so confused. It’s not relief shadowing his features, it’s loss.

He sighs, and his hand drops away. He sits on his haunches and studies me for a long, long time. “You really want to know, even though you won’t like the answer?”

“Yes.” I’m not sure what the truth will bring, but I need to understand if I have any hope of moving on from this.

Something dark plays over his face, and his eyes flicker with what I think is indecision, but he finally gives me a firm nod. “All right then. Here’s the truth. I love you.”

I blink at him. That’s the last thing I expect to hear. “You love me?”

“Yes, I do.”

I see no subterfuge lurking in his face. No evasion.

I don’t understand any of this, but I’m unable to hide the words I’ve held back for so long. “I love you too, Mason.”

“I know you do,” he says. Matter-of-fact, like it’s not even a question.

“If you love me and I love you, then why?” Somewhere in this convoluted conversation is the root of the problem, and maybe if I understand, I can fix it.

The first stirrings of hope have me sitting forward, leaning toward him.

He puts his hands on my biceps, stopping my progression. “Because loving you comes with an unanticipated consequence, kind of a catch-22, so to speak.”

“I don’t understand.” I can fix whatever he needs me to fix as long as I can be with him. This doesn’t make me feminist of the year, obviously, but I don’t care. I can’t help how I feel.

His lips curve into a heartbreaking, soul-wrenching smile. “I really tried. I swear. But it’s much harder than I thought it would be, especially with you. Last night made me realize I can’t hold back any longer. It’s not fair to keep such a big part of myself a secret from you. I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”

A secret? If not another woman, then what? “What are you hiding?”

“Come here,” he says, making room for me on the floor. I’m glued to the fainting couch, motionless, afraid I’ll crumple without the support.

He shakes his head as though clearing it. “Please, come here.”

“Why?”

He sighs—a deep, mournful sound that clutches in my chest and makes me ache. “I’d like to kiss you before you look at me totally differently. Can I do that?”

He wants to kiss me? Now? When he’s breaking up with me? I search his expression, trying to catch a glimpse of his secrets. But all I see is warmth. Mason. The man I love who miraculously loves me in return.

I steel my spine. This one kiss is my chance to keep him, to prove we belong together. I move to the floor and onto my knees, looking at him expectantly.

Relief softens the corners of his mouth, and he reaches for me. His hands slide up my back, curling around my neck. He stares deep into my eyes, as though he’s searching for answers. “I want something from you, but you can say no. Okay?”

“Okay.” I wet my suddenly dry lips.

He smiles, his grip tightening on my neck. “Can I kiss you the way I want to?”

The question confuses me. “You haven’t been kissing me the way you want to?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“You didn’t like it? All the times before?” All the slow, burning kisses we’ve shared weren’t what he wanted?

“Of course I did. I loved them… It’s just…” He traces a path over my jaw. “Hard to explain.”

His touch is so soft and gentle, it hypnotizes me. “Then what?”

“Say I can kiss you the way I want and maybe you’ll understand.”

I have no idea what this mysterious kiss might reveal, but I will not deny him. “Yes, please.”

A soft groan, and then his mouth is on mine.

And in that second, I know he’s right.

This isn’t like any kiss we’ve ever shared, and it is hard to explain.

There’s no brushing of soft, coaxing lips over mine, no teasing with the tip of his tongue, waiting for me to open—none of the slow, methodical patience I’ve come to expect.

The only way I can describe it is that his lips claim me, capture me with a surety that borders on arrogance. He slants his head, deepening the contact. It’s not a kiss shared; it’s a kiss taken.

Stunned, all I can do is clutch his shoulders and let the storm take me away.

His grip tightens in my hair, hard enough to send a prickle of sensation across the nape of my neck. He’s…devouring me.

That’s exactly how I feel—devoured, taken, eaten alive.

It’s shocking. Overwhelming.

He’s always been so sweet, so gentle, almost asking for permission.

There’s no asking now.

His tongue invades. Captures. Taunts and teases.

I dig my nails into his shoulders and hang on for dear life, unable to process how one kiss can be so different from everything I’ve experienced before.

In the midst of the onslaught, a fire catches low in my belly and my nipples pull tight, almost painfully. Wanting relief, I press my chest to his, rubbing against him to relieve the sharp, sudden ache.

He growls low in his throat, and somehow everything ratchets up another notch. A dark, feral sound that both terrifies and excites me leaves his lungs. His mouth grows harder, more urgent and demanding. He tugs my curls tighter, fisting them.

Sensation gives way to a slight, pleasure-filled pain that sends an explosion of tingles down my spine. I catch fire, leaning in, pressing close, hungry.

As suddenly as it started, he pulls away. His fingers still tight in my hair, he yanks my head back, forcing me to look at him. This isn’t gentle Mason. This is a dangerous Mason that backs up all that sex appeal he exudes.

He tugs again. “Now do you see?”

Dizzy with lust, I fight to catch my breath. “No… Yes.” I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

“That’s the problem. You want to make love.” His voice is harsh, unlike anything I’ve heard before. “But that’s not what I want.”

“You want what is in that kiss?” My words are shaky, unsure.

“Yes.” His expression grows feral, and I tremble, unsure what to make of him. He grips my jaw, holding it so I can’t look away. “Anna, I want to fuck you, claim you, possess every inch of your body until it obeys only me.”

Fuck? Claim? Obey? He’s never spoken so crudely.

My heart pounds.

Before I can speak, he delivers another punishing kiss that’s over before it begins. “I want to dominate you, and I can no longer be satisfied with anything else, so I need to say goodbye.”

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