The Killing Dance - Laurell K. Hamilton [39]
I’d seen Richard nude once when I first met him, but never since. We hadn’t even been thinking about dating then. I had to look away, mainly because I wanted to look. I wanted to see him like that, and it was too embarrassing for words. I studied the contents of the built-in shelves on his bedroom wall like I’d memorize them. Bits of quartz, a small bird’s nest. There was a lump of fossilized coral as big as my hand, a dark rich gold in color with streaks of white quartz. I’d found it on a camping trip and given it to him because he collected bits and pieces, and I didn’t. I touched the bit of coral, and didn’t want to turn around.
“You said you wanted to talk, then talk,” Richard said.
I glanced back. Lillian snipped the black thread she was using to close his skin. “There,” she said. “You shouldn’t even have a scar.”
Richard folded his arms on the bed, resting his chin on his forearms. His hair spread around his face, foaming and touchable. I knew it was as soft as it looked.
Lillian glanced from one to the other of us. “I believe I’ll leave you two alone.” She began putting things into her bag, which was brown leather and looked more like a fishing tackle box than anything else. She looked at Richard and back to me. “Take a piece of advice from an old lady. Don’t screw up.”
She left with Richard and me both staring after her.
“You can get dressed now,” I said.
He glanced at his crumpled jeans, moving only his dark eyes. His eyes came back to me, and they were as angry as I’d ever seen them. “Why?”
I concentrated on meeting those angry eyes and tried not to stare at his body. It was harder than I would have admitted out loud. “Because it’s hard to fight with you when you’re naked.”
He raised up on his elbows, hair falling down into his eyes, until he stared at me through a curtain of brown gold hair. It reminded me of Gabriel, and that was unnerving as hell.
“I know you want me, Anita. I can smell it.”
Oh, that made me feel better. I blushed for the second time in five minutes. “So, you’re gorgeous. So what? What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
He raised up on all fours, knees, and hands. I looked away so fast it made me dizzy. “Please put on your jeans.”
I heard him slide off the bed. “You can’t even look at me, can you?”
There was something about the way he said it that made me want to see his face, but I couldn’t turn around. I just couldn’t. If this was the last fight we ever had, I didn’t want the memory of his body imprinted on my mind. It would be too cruel.
I felt him standing behind me. “What do you want from me, Richard?”
“Look at me.”
I shook my head.
He touched my shoulder, and I jerked away.
“You can’t even stand for me to touch you, can you?” For the first time, I heard pain in his voice, raw and hurting.
I turned then. I had to see his face. His eyes glittered with unshed tears, eyes wide so they wouldn’t fall. He’d pushed his hair back from his face, but it was already spilling forward. My eyes traveled down his muscular chest, and I wanted to run my hands over his nipples, down his slender waist, and lower. I drew my eyes back up to his face with force of will alone, my face pale now, rather than blushing. I was having trouble breathing. My heart was beating so hard, it was hard to hear.
“I love it when you touch me,” I said.
He stared down at me, his eyes filled with pain. I think I preferred the anger. “I used to admire you for saying no to Jean-Claude. I know you want him, and you keep refusing. I thought it was very moral of you.” He shook his head, one tear slid from the corner of his eye, trailing in slow motion down his cheek.
I brushed the tear from his face with my fingertip. He caught my hand in his, holding it a little too hard, but not hurting, only surprising. It was also my right hand, and drawing the gun left-handed was going to be a bitch. Not that I really thought I’d need the gun, but he was acting so strangely.
Richard