When he eased back to look at his handiwork—Whitney could feel her eyes were heavy, her lips swollen—his voice was deep and dusty, his eyes hot. “Have a nice day, darling.” He stroked his thumb along her jaw.
Shaking with lingering desire, she scowled at the endearment and his insistent use of it, then she went to grab her clutch purse and wallet. “Good-bye, John, thanks for the orgasm.” She slipped back into her heels, and left, his laughter trailing behind.
Oh, but she wasn’t even a good bluffer.
He knew his effect.
What he did to her.
He’d looked so damn satisfied after the kiss.
Whitney just couldn’t believe that twenty-four hours ago, she’d awoken with an ache in her chest, wondering where he was, what he was doing, and who he was with. This ache burrowed deeply within her; it remained when she laughed, when she cried, when she breathed, and when she ate. It had become a permanent part of her, like a limb. And Andrew Fairchild had put it there.
But now, this morning, she’d woken up lying naked in his apartment, in his bed, with her body sore from his loving and his beautiful physical form standing only a few feet away—damp and draped in a towel and looking as delicious as ever.
How easy it would be, to slip back into the role she had made for herself next to him. To get rid of this godforsaken ache.
She wanted him to be the man she’d always believed him to be. Her savior, her hero, the man who completed her.
But where had he been all this time?
The question hammered at her—mocked her as she showered and changed in her apartment, then headed to her office, dressed in a sharp navy-blue Carolina Herrera business suit. Absently, she gazed down at her right wrist and stroked the dark ink: ANDREW.
She’d felt like his bride the day they had this ink put on their skins.
She’d moved in with him nearly two years before, and she had never, ever, imagined that she could be so happy. Joy had overflowed her being, and thanks to this man’s love, the broken little girl Whitney had been had once again found herself singing in the shower, going out with friends, smiling like a dope to herself whenever she thought of him—which was practically all day.
She should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
One night, Andrew took her out to dinner, acting so mysterious Whitney almost wondered if he was going to propose. Instead, he told her he needed to leave for a while, and though her insides knotted and her throat closed and her eyes stung, she wanted to be the kind of woman who deserved him. Strong, like he was. So she’d nodded in understanding and kept her fears of being alone to herself.
But as the day of his departure came closer, her nightmares worsened, and Andrew seemed quiet and withdrawn. Whitney caught him watching her during the day with such pained intensity, she throbbed with pain, too.
“Will you come back soon?” she kept asking him, dreading his absence.
“As soon as I can,” he always promised, but he never told her how long it would be, only that it would be longer than he wanted. “Will you wait for me, Whitney?” he asked, and for a man who commanded the world, the uncertainty in his eyes every time he asked made her inner turmoil magnify.
“Andrew, I’d wait for you forever,” she told him every single time.
“Would you promise that to me?”
“I do. Yes. I will.”
But he had a better idea, and the next day, a week before he left, they were at the tattoo parlor and both emerged with brand new tattoos.
“Ouch, that hurt, Andrew,” Whitney complained, her wrists burning hot.
He laughed, his dark head thrown back, his teeth flashing white against his tan. “Love hurts, darling.”
They both smiled as they interlocked their fingers, and their sore wrists came into contact; the marks were identical, blood-reddened and swollen, only carrying different names.
That night, the look in his eyes as he made love to her, the way he spoke with such conviction as he joined his body to hers, made her truly believe that she would always belong to him. He felt so hard and hot inside her. So permanent.
He’d been desperate to get close to her, biting her, grinding her, squeezing her, licking her. His eyes heavy-lidded and dark. His ragged breaths in her ear. “We’re bound now, Whitney. I’m yours and you’re mine . . .”
“Andrew . . .” She remembered sobbing from the passion. From the pain of his imminent departure.
“Be mine, Whitney. Promise me forever.”
She clenched his hands tighter, nodding her head as fast as possible. “I’ll promise you more . . .”
He framed her cheeks within his palms, fiercely squeezing her. “Until the day I die, I vow to love you. Honor you. Protect you. Provide and care for you. I’ll be faithful to you. There will never be anyone for me but you . . .”
Whitney had repeated those words to him in breathless abandon. They’d been worth more than a wedding vow to her, and yet they’d obviously meant shit to Andrew.
Was she going to sell herself short to a man who would abandon her?
No.
She was done with playing the victim.
She’d been stuck in an awful past that had not been of her choosing.
Her parents had been loving, but a pleasure trip to Las Vegas and the awful hotel fire had taken them from her. Under the new guardianship of her uncle Harry, her fairy-tale life had come crashing down on her. She’d had no one but her friends back then, and she’d been too ashamed to tell them what her father’s brother did to her when he stole into her bedroom at night. For years, she’d felt dirty, unworthy. She’d been a spirited young girl, and suddenly she’d been broken.
It had taken long, too long, to realize she wasn’t to blame.
Not, even, for being the person holding the knife that killed Uncle Harry.
She hadn’t chosen any of what happened—she had been a victim, as the therapist had told her many, many times. She’d learned to accept that there were some things you couldn’t control, and it had lessened her fear of being physically hurt again.
But there was no denying the power Andrew Fairchild had over her.
He was her life—her first thought in the morning, her last thought at night.
She’d lost him for years, but every day, he’d been the reason she’d pushed through, held on, tried to be strong.
She’d been faithful to him, obediently waiting. But what had he been doing all this time?