Page 60 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

Her hand reaches out to touch my chest. “You’re the best distraction.”

I don’t know what she means, but her eyes close and her hand begins to trail down my chest and over my stomach, causing a rush of blood to throb in my groin.

“Isabella—”

She shakes her head and leans toward me, her fingers fumbling with my belt buckle. “Call me Izzy again.”

I grasp her wrist, pressing my thumb against her racing pulse. “No,” I say, realizing what she’s attempting to do. “This—no, this can’t happen. You’re wasted. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

Her eyes open, and even though they’re a little unfocused, they make my breath catch. With surprising steadiness, she pushes herself up onto her knees. “Please, Dave, I just want to feel something good.”

My resolve cracks enough for her hand to free itself from my hold, and a shudder ripples through me as her fingertips slide under the hem of my shirt. My body betrays me, every cell desperate to devour her right here in this scummy motel room. I want to tear her dress to pieces, the one that’s been teasing me allnight. I want to finally see and feel every inch of her gorgeous skin while she moans my name. And she would. She would moan and scream my name with how good I would make her feel. I’d make her forget all of the shit she tried to vanish by drinking tonight. I would be the distraction she so desperately craves.

But it would be wrong. And as amazing as it would feel to finally kiss her, touch her, consume her—in the morning, it would be a mess. A mess I might regret for the rest of my life.

I push her away and stand up from the bed, painfully aware of the bulge in my jeans. “Izzy, stop, you need to go to sleep.”

Her face drops, the color draining away.

“Actually,” she blurts, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

She rolls off the bed and runs for the bathroom, then promptly retches into the toilet. Well, that’s one way to deflate my hard-on. I take a few steps toward the bathroom. “Do you want some help?” I ask, forehead resting against the cool door.

“No!” she says in a strained voice. “Just—don’t come in here, please.”

At the sound of her throwing up again, I back away. “I’m just going to go get you some water, okay? I think I saw a vending machine outside.”

Grabbing the key, I head outside, spark up a cigarette, and lock the door behind me. Don’t want that office creep to find his way inside while I look for something to help with what I’m sure will be a nasty hangover in the morning. Luckily, there’s a vending machine at the end of the row of motel rooms, so I grab two water bottles and take my time walking back, reveling in the comforting smoke of my cigarette before I go back in.

Staring at the door, I hesitate. It’s all too familiar and suddenly, my heart begins to pound in my chest and my muscles lock up. I back away from the door, leaning against a support beam for the second level. No, this can’t be happening again. It’s not the same—she’s not the same—but someone should tell thatto my body, which seems programmed to protect itself. Protect my heart.

It seems like no matter where I go, and whatever I do, this follows me. Am I being punished? Forced to live out the same horrible scenario over and over again? Is it just a coincidence? Or is it maybe an opportunity to change? To fix the mistakes I’ve made and do the right thing for once?

As I stand outside of this motel door, I think I can finally admit to myself that I’m scared. I’m scared to lose what I’ve found. Scared of losing the success I’ve worked my whole life to achieve. Scared of being lied to. Scared of opening my heart because it’s too vulnerable, too damaged, and too accustomed with being thrown away like garbage. If I keep it closed off to everyone, I’ll never get hurt again. I’m scared of my luck running out.

Isabella is in bed when I walk back through the door. After making sure everything is secure, including the chain lock, I set one of the bottles of water down on the table next to her head and shift to the edge of the bed. Her face is pale, but it looks like she’s washed her makeup off—the mascara that had been under her eyes is gone and her lips, while still dark, no longer have the reddish tint.

She’s still wearing her little dress but she’s taken off the cropped jacket, and I can’t help my heart from trying to find where my signature was on her shoulder.

“Isabella?” I say softly, wondering if she’s truly asleep.

Her forehead pinches and she groans. “Hmm?”

“Are you feeling better?”

“I’m so sorry. I’m so,sosorry.”

“It’s okay, we all get carried away sometimes.” I take a deep breath. “You’re safe. Just go to sleep.”

“Dave?” she whispers, and her eyes flutter open to find me.

“Yeah?”

“Will you stay with me?”

Seeing as how there’s only one bed in here, no chairs to sleep on, and I suppose the alternative is the floor . . .

“Please?” she whispers.

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