Page 22 of On Thin Ice

But I was fooling myself. I wasn’t just giving him my virginity or my body. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was also handing him the keys to my heart.

And as he broke through that wall, my fingernails digging into his back, he possessed every little part of me.

I just didn’t know it yet.

Sinclair had been as gentle as could be under the circumstances. We took a short shower afterward and then he’d put me in one of his white cotton t-shirts.

And then we curled up in bed next to each other. The last time I’d glanced at his clock, it had been somewhere around eleven—and I wished I could sleep, but the throbbing pain between my legs and my excited brain were making it difficult.

Fortunately, Sinclair didn’t seem to mind. He pulled me into his arms and held me close under that black silky sheet, his hand again lazily stroking my back.

This time, though, my girl parts decided they could wait a day or so before asking for seconds.

Because there was a soft light flowing out from the bathroom, I looked around his bedroom without moving my head—and I spotted the book on the dresser. “Have you started reading it?”

“What?” Although his voice didn’t sound sleepy, he might have been getting close.

“Snow Falling on Cedars. It’s on your dresser.”

“No, not really. I’m sorry. I’ve reread the first couple of paragraphs a couple of times—but then my daily reading beckons me.”

“Once you get through the first chapter—”

“I know. You said that. I plan to settle down with it when we get our first good snowstorm on a weekend. I’ll curl up with it in front of the fireplace in the study.”

“You don’t have to read it.”

“I want to, Lise. I promised.”

I ran my hand along his firm shoulder and upper arm. “What’s this tattoo?” I asked, wanting to know anything about him he’d be willing to share.

“Oh, that stupid thing. It’s a lion, the mascot for Columbia.” The college he attended—I remembered. It had been one of the first things we’d talked about, before we discovered each other’s real identity. “I and three other boys had had a long weekend of drinking and wound up talking each other into it. It was an act of rebellion against our uptight parents.”

“Do you regret it?”

Opening his eyes, he grinned. “Not a damn bit.” Then he moved his hand to my arm, running a finger along it. “Besides, my father never found out about it. So much for being rebellious. What difference does it make if the people you’re rebelling against have no idea?”

I didn’t have an answer for that. I’d never rebelled against my father…because he was all I’d ever had in this world. Rebelling against him would have been like cutting off one of my hands.

Moving his head as if to capture my eyes, he seemed to sense my thoughts—and hoped to keep them light. “What about you? Why no tattoos? Not that I’m complaining.”

Besides the fact that I couldn’t afford them…there was yet another reason. The crowd didn’t accept me, so why would I follow them? “Everybody has one.”

“Exactly. And everyone your age seems to have a dozen—”

“What do you mean everyone my age? You’re not that much older.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “How old are you, Annalise?” The way he said my full first name sent a rumble through my body…because his question suddenly felt like a command—and I was compelled to obey.

Still… “Do you really want to know?”

The smile was fading from his face, even though he didn’t seem angry. “I asked.”

“I’m nineteen.”

He let out a quick breath as if I’d punched him. “Christ.”

“Why?”

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