Amber to Ashes (The Torn Heart #1) (13 page)

I swallow hard, the effort twisting my throat. He’s said all I need to know. All I’m sure he’s ever going to let me in on.

“You good?” he asks, his voice soft.

I nod. Despite everything dumped in my lap in the last fifteen minutes, I think I am.

“Cool.” He lifts his hand and twirls my hair between his fingers. “So are you curious where I’m taking you?”

“A little.” Through several texts during the week, he’s dropped hints here and there—some shit about visiting a time warp—but I’m still not sure where we’re going.

“A
little
?”

“Yeah, a little.”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a grin. “I thought I told you,
nothing
about me is little.”

“Ah, that’s right.” I giggle, tension disappearing from my shoulders. “Forgive me.”

“All’s forgiven.”

The second the words fall from his mouth, we pull into the parking lot of a top-notch condominium complex in downtown Annapolis. Reserved for those who possess enough cash for such accommodations as living on the bay, it’s an area I’ll never be able to afford. At least not until I’m finished with school.

“Your place?” I ask.

“Yup,” Brock answers.

I had no clue this was our destination for the evening, and for this, I’m feeling overdressed. Considering the topics covered in the last twenty minutes, it’s only now I realize Brock’s wearing low-hung jeans and a graphic T-shirt. Brock plays a gentleman, stepping from the vehicle and opening my door. With my hand in his, my heels hit the asphalt, my eyes taking in the painted purple sky and setting sun. A warm breeze hugs my skin, the smell of fresh seafood invading my nose as Brock leads me toward an elevator. My heart pounds over the laughter from drunken partygoers flocking the downtown area.

“You look nervous,” Brock says, his face cool and collected. He pushes the button for the fifteenth floor. “Do I scare you?”

“You asked me that already. And I told you no.”

He brings his knuckles to my cheek. “I think you’re lying.”

“And, as usual, I think you’re a wiseass,” I retort, relishing in the caress of his knuckles stroking down my collarbone. “A wiseass who has no right talking about lying.”

My stomach twists with guilt. I almost raped his best friend today. Who’s the bigger liar?

Brock leans into my ear, his lips flirting with it. “You got me there. I did lie. And I apologized for it. If I have to pay penance to you for my shitty lie every single day, I will. Never put
anything
past me. Besides, I’m sure I could conjure up quite a few . . .
intriguing
ways to make you enjoy my apology.” With a smirk, he grips my waist, his words a soft whisper. “Do you have any secrets, my mysterious, beautiful Ber?”

I attempt to ignore the sexual potency he exudes. The sexual potency I want nothing more than to absorb into my skin. Our conversation from the lake sparks through my head. “It’s human nature to lie. We pick it up before we can even walk. Still, none of my lies or secrets will ever . . .
hurt
you.”

Brock pulls me flush to his chest and nips my ear, the delicious sting causing my thighs to involuntarily clench. “Ah, I see. Now you have me wondering just how sweet your lies will taste on my tongue.”

Air punches from my lungs, my heart evaporating into a mist of crimson as the elevator doors part, breaking me from the ridiculous trance he so effortlessly put me under. He smiles, reaches for my hand, and guides me down the hall to his unit.

I glimpse a blade of light creeping from the kitchen as I step into his dimly lit condo. Still, I can easily make out claret-red walls, shadows slapping across polished maple floors as I scan the impressive space. It’s filled with what appears to be black leather couches and large mahogany furniture. Either he had a longtime girlfriend who
spread her flair for design all over the place, or he hired someone to do it. Needless to say, the lavishness in which he lives nearly drops me.

“Welcome to
mi
casa
.” His gaze slides from mine as he flips on a lamp. “Go ahead and make yourself comfortable while I prepare dinner.”

Convinced he was ordering takeout, I cock a shocked brow. “You cook?”

“These hands,” he says, lifting both, “possess
many
talents. Cooking’s the most minor of them all. Stick around long enough, and I bet your body will agree.”

I shake my head. “You’re extremely sure of yourself.”

“In more ways than you could ever imagine,” he answers, an edge of playfulness in his tone as he takes my purse. Along with his keys and a knot of cash, he drops it onto a bar dripping with black granite. “In all seriousness, you’re hungry, right?”

I nod and walk over to a set of French doors, my eyes exploring a balcony overlooking the bay. “Depends. What are you cooking?”

“With the help of this here handy microwave and Orville Redenbacher, the popcorn I promised you when my ‘killer pickup lines’ won you over the day we met.”

I turn and, sure as shit, he’s pulled out a bag. “You’re kidding me.”

A chuckle barrels from his chest as he tosses the bag into the microwave. Flashing his pearly whites, he moves toward the refrigerator, pulls out a six-pack of Red Bull, and sets it on the island. “Do I look like I’m kidding, my mysterious Ber?”

I roll my eyes. “Why the need for a nickname?”

Cool amusement hits his face as he leans against the counter, his arms crossed. “Because it’s our secret joke, and you’re my . . . pet.”

“Your
pet
?”

“Yes. My
pet
.” Seduction laces his low growl. He steps in front of me, a soft smile sliding across his mouth. “Is that okay with you?” Before I can answer, he dips his head to my ear and whispers, “I handle my pets with special care, always making sure their needs come first.”
He moves his lips to my jaw, his hands finding my waist. “Their pleasure is what brings mine. I fucking drown in it. Their soft moans.” He licks the contour of my jaw, a deep groan rumbling from his chest. “The way their bodies tremble.” He pulls me closer, his hardening erection pressed to my stomach. “The sweat glistening on their skin. Their sweet scent before, during, and especially after I place my stamp on them.” He backs me against the opposite counter, his lips landing on mine. “I’ll do anything to see them reach their . . . happy place.”

Delicious heat coils through me, my heart thwacking uncontrollably. Though my eyes slipped closed somewhere around “glistening skin,” I feel Brock’s smirk.

He grips my waist harder. “Do you like being in that happy place?”

“Yes,” I whisper, opening my eyes.

“Yeah? Because I can bring you there over and over and over again.” His voice is a low, primal baritone, causing my pulse to spike as his fingers play with the waistband of my skirt. “I don’t need much time to refuel. I also give extra treats to my pets who are good and do what I want them to.”

“Is that so?” I clutch the cool granite behind me, trying to exercise the control he’s stripping me of. “What kind of treats?”

“Ah, I can’t divulge that information.” A grin tweaks his mouth, his eyes flashing mirth. “You need—no, strike that—you
will
experience it firsthand.”

Beeeeeeeeep  . . .

I almost mistake the sound of the microwave for the flatlining of my heart.

As though he didn’t have his fingers halfway to my “happy place,” wasn’t seducing me like a pro, and didn’t nearly have me hopping onto the counter—legs spread and ready for treats—Brock takes a measured step back, his grin holding steady. I pull in a pissed-off breath as he retrieves the popcorn from the microwave and pours it into a bowl. He watches me intently, his eyes crinkling in amusement.

“Open your mouth,” he says, nearing me again. “I want to give you something.” Though his voice is a whisper, the beautiful command in it stabs my ears.

Hands clutching the counter tighter, I stare into his eyes, my heart going nuts as I instinctively obey him.

With a triumphant smile, he places a piece of popcorn onto my tongue. “Does that taste good?”

“Mm-hmm.”
I nod and chew. “You
are
talented. You’ve mastered the art of popcorn making. I foresee doing anything you want for those treats of yours.
Anything
.” I swipe my tongue across my lips for effect.

I get the reaction I’m aiming for.

Expression flaring with need, Brock watches me close my eyes in mock pleasure. When I open them, his gaze devours mine, stroking between my breasts and mouth. I flip him a wink, turn around, and traipse into the living room, leaving
him
hanging this time.

I’m also a pro. He just doesn’t know it yet.

I can’t help but giggle when I hear him groan. I deposit myself onto the couch, my own triumphant smile spreading as Brock wanders into the room like a lost, lonely child. Holding the bowl of popcorn, he grins and positions himself in front of me. I nearly lose my breath as he leans over me, stretches his arm, and rests his hand on the back of the couch just above my shoulder.

Oh God. His lips are within kissing distance. If I move an inch, I’ll hit the mark.

Like a true Southern belle, I bat my lashes and stare at him. “You have to give me your secret recipe. I mean, honestly, you’re going places with it, and I feel the absolute need to be included in your success.”

He cocks his head to the side, his grin broadening. “I’m all for partnerships.”

“So it’s a deal, then?” I try to concentrate on the smell of the but
tery popcorn instead of his musky cologne. “I must warn you. I’d require fifty percent if we were to enter into a partnership.”

He raises a brow, his hand staking claim on the nape of my neck. “Fifty percent’s not cheap. But it’s me who must warn you, I’ll make you work
very
hard for that half.”

“How . . .
hard
?” A spark of excitement blooms in my stomach as I watch his eyes catch my innuendo.

“You have
no
fucking idea how hard.”

“Oh, but I think I do.” With a husky laugh, my gaze falls to his arousal beneath his jeans.

“Open,” he says, staring at my lips.

The heated cadence in his voice pulls me further into his spell, extinguishing my good friend mutiny. I once again obey his words. What the hell? Talk about the power of sexual deprivation. It’s been close to three months for me, and my body’s about to go bat-shit crazy if it doesn’t get what it needs to maintain a sense of normalcy.

Exquisite warmth slides up my spine as Brock places another piece of popcorn on my tongue. Our gazes lock, flames flickering in our showdown, but before either of us can take an uneven breath, the sound of Brock’s cell phone slices through the air. His movements still, his body straightening.

“This is a joke, right?” I ask, honestly pissed off.

Brock sighs, a frown pinching his forehead. “I have to get it.” He touches my cheek, sets the bowl on the coffee table, and turns.

Dumbfounded, I watch him move across the living room to snatch the stupid phone off the kitchen counter. Anger punches me in the gut, my blood boiling. I’m about to yank the phone away from him, jet out to the balcony, and toss the fucking thing into the bay. I’ve decided the plan’s brilliant and go to act on it; however, my attention lands on an unopened DVD box set. The first season of
Happy Days
essentially saves Brock’s cell from a watery death.

Time warp.
Now his texts make sense.

I can’t help but smile as I stand and pluck the several discs containing the only good memories I’ve experienced from the towering entertainment center. Brock’s kept his word.

Popcorn, Red Bulls, and Mrs. Cunningham.

Charmer.

I can’t say I’ll keep mine. There’s no way I’m singing for him again. Impatient, I glance around and locate the remote, deciding to open up the box and pop in the first episode. Just as I reclaim my seat on the couch, and
Happy Days’
infamous “weird” melody streams from the speakers, Brock once again graces me with his presence.

With his hand buried in his hair, he casts me a hesitant smile. “I’m sorry.” He sits next to me, sliding his arm across the back of the couch. “I was waiting on a call.”

“Apparently.” I lean forward for a piece of popcorn and toss it into my mouth, my concentration aimed at the television and not his beautiful face. On a sigh, I lean back, accepting that if I continue to see him, the constant interruptions are something I’ll have to learn to tolerate.

Silence stretches for a few seconds before Brock lets out a light chuckle.

“What?”

He twirls a piece of my hair. My shoulders go slack, every muscle in my body relaxing.

“The first episode was always my favorite,” he says.

“Wait.” My attention floats between him and the television. “I just opened the DVD. How’s it always been your favorite if you’ve never seen the show?”

A guilty smirk lifts his lips as he leans in and whispers, “Did you honestly think I grew up with the last name Cunningham and had
no
idea the show existed?”

I feel dizzy, thrown off-kilter by the sweet warmth of his breath. I rake my eyes over him.

His smirk turns into a boyish smile. “With the exception of the first one, which I actually liked, my mother made all of us kids suffer through every episode.”

“You bastard,” I huff, playfully swatting his arm. “You lied to me . . . again. Maybe
my
nickname for
you
needs to be Pinocchio?”

“Maybe it does. But
that
lie got you to sing for me in public.” Amusement lights up his face. “It also has you sitting next to me now, so it’s a lie I’ll never regret telling. When I want something badly enough, I’ll do whatever I have to do to get it. It usually works in my favor.”

“A little high on ourselves, are we?”

“No,” he whispers, his expression striking hot with want.

His eyes shift to my lips, and he slides his thumb across my mouth. Other than the pounding of my heart, I’m positive every organ in me has ceased functioning properly.