Losing Control (Kerr Chronicles #1)(60)
Author: Jen Frederick

Checking out the rooftop bar at the Kimberly. Hit me up if you’re interested in visiting.

After I sent the smiley face, he’d sent another reply.

Only a smiley face? You can do better than that.

Ian tosses the phone aside, looking agitated. He puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t like this, Tiny.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t like that he’s texting you, flirting with you. That he even knows your name.”

“Isn’t it a little late for that?”

He shakes his head. “I need to figure something else out.”

“Why is it so important to you?” I’ve never pressed him before. It hasn’t been important, but if we’re going to build something together . . . there can’t be secrets. Not of this magnitude.

He rubs the back of his neck and looks away. At least he’s not going to lie to my face. “It’s something I’m doing for someone else. Not for me. I don’t want to say more.”

Underneath his terseness, I sense a darker emotion. Anger, tinged with fear. It’s the latter that makes me soften and give in. “Not tonight, then,” I say.

He places his hand on my shoulder. “Not tonight.” It’s not quite a promise that he’ll be divulging all his secrets another day, but it’s not a closed door either. He releases a small, humorless laugh. “It’s something that I haven’t shared with another for so long, I’m not sure how to tell the story. Or that you’ll still want me when you hear it.”

Turning my head, I press my face against the top of his hand, feeling the knuckles against the softness of my cheek. “You can trust me.”

“I do.”

We allow the silence to absorb the words that we are too afraid to voice to each other—I love you and I need you and I can’t live without you—but we feel them. The connection between us is real and we are bound by it even if we don’t want to be. It started that day on the street, so long ago. A hook in my heart is attached to a string that winds tighter with each passing minute. I couldn’t wriggle loose if I wanted to.

These moments of shared vulnerability are what make me believe that we are equals. That what Ian said before is true—underneath money, fame, class differences, we all bleed the same color. We all hurt the same. We all need, hate, love, cry, want.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze, a rueful smile on his face. “Let’s go out to eat. I want to look at a restaurant. The owner wants to open another one and is looking for an investor. Come and evaluate it with me?”

My bruises are still visible, but I like that he doesn’t want me to hide out inside his loft or the Central Towers apartments. I knock on the bedroom door where Mom is hiding to ask if she wants to accompany us but she demurs. Despite her recent energy spike, she feels very lethargic and would rather stay inside and watch television. Ian helps her into the living room and settles her on the sofa, fetching a blanket and a cup of tea for her.

I give her a kiss and, to my surprise, so does he. Mom grips his arm to prevent him from straightening up. “Take care of my girl.”

“Always.”

Their affection and exchange make my throat tight, so I take myself off to get changed before I start weeping happy tears.

After taking a quick shower, I wrestle my hair into a slick ponytail and rub on foundation. I long for the crew at the Red Door Spa but manage to draw on eyeliner and slick on mascara and lipstick.

In the closet, I pull out a pair of wide-legged black silk pants with a lace inset up the outer seam. I pair it with a top that ties at the neck and leaves my entire back bare. Another day without a bra. Ian will either be thrilled or painfully turned on. I hope both.

I slip on a pair of black pumps with red soles, like the ones the saleswoman was wearing. The narrow points of the front pinch my toes, but they look so fantastic I decide a little pain isn’t going to kill me. Besides, if my feet were to really hurt, I have an inkling Ian would carry me home.

When I step into the living room, my mother’s eyes light up.

“You look gorgeous, doesn’t she, Ian?”

I roll my eyes at Mom’s obvious attempt to garner compliments. Ian, looking like a sexy beast stepping from the cover of a men’s magazine in slim-fitting pants, a cream matching suit coat, and a black shirt unbuttoned so that I can see a tiny smattering of his chest hair, rises from the sofa. “Lovely.”

In two strides, he’s at my side. “Lickable,” he whispers in my ear. His hand spreads on the bare skin of my back, nearly spanning the entire space. Turning me ever so slightly so that my back is out of my mother’s view, Ian slides his fingers inside my shirt and presses the tips of his fingers into the plump curve of my breast. “Fuckable.”

I stiffen my legs to keep from collapsing. “Night, Mom,” I call and walk toward the door and away from Ian’s tempting fingers.

“Goodnight, Mom,” Ian echoes.

She laughs and it’s to that joyful sound that we begin our evening.

When we get to the lobby, the gray car is at the curb.

“Hey, Steve,” I call out in greeting as I climb in.

He grunts, apparently having used up all his words when he saved me from the crazy drug client. We drive to Catch, a restaurant not far from Ian’s loft. Situated on the second floor of a three-story brick building, the only way I know that there is even a restaurant is the doorman standing outside. The entrance so unobtrusive it might as well have a secret door. An elevator takes us to the second floor, and the place is packed. I can barely see the bar because of the number of people, and I’m insanely grateful for the height the painful shoes are giving me because everyone in here is super tall or wearing six-inch heels.

Ian places his hand around my waist as we wait for the maître d’ to seat us. His arm provides a protective cage, keeping other people out but stoking a slow fire within me. He’s having a hard time of it as well. I can feel it in the tenseness of his body and the way his fingers play with the edge of my shirt.

“Did I forget to give you the bras that we bought together?” he mouths against my ear.

“No, you forgot to buy shirts with fabric in the back. Apparently your money isn’t enough to buy a complete top—only half of one.”

He chuckles and because he’s so close to me I feel the puffs of air against my hair, and it’s as warm as a caress.

“We’ll have to get a new personal shopper who will buy you shirts that have both fronts and backs, because these backless shirts are adversely affecting my ability to be in public with you.” He steps even closer, and I feel the hard line of his erection against my hip. I am tempted to drop my hand and grasp him over the wool trousers, but the maître d’ approaches.