Crossing the Line: Without a Trace series, a contemporary erotic romance novel by Ally Bishop Page A

signs earlier than even I did.” I closed my eyes, wishing talking about the experience didn’t bring it to life in full color in my mind’s eye. “He…we were…it’s hard to describe. Everything remained the same to the outside world, but the longer we were together—when the bloom fell off the rose, I guess—he started making comments. Little things. About the size of my thighs, or that my breasts weren’t very big. Stuff like that. And he’d say it like it was a joke, that he was just teasing, and then he’d tell me I was perfect and I shouldn’t be so sensitive.”
    Ian takes the chopstick from me and links our fingers. “He mocked you while making it seem like you were the one with the problem.”
    I nod, glad he gets it. “Exactly.”
    “Ella—”
    “Don’t say you’re sorry. And don’t look at me like that. It’s over.” I try to soften my words with as much of a grin as I can muster. “I don’t even like thinking about it. Our breakup was…brutal, and it’s been awhile since I could even think about seeing anyone.”
    Understanding dawns in his gaze. “So I’m the first person you’ve been with since then?”
    I manage a wry smile at his phrasing. “Yes. You’re also the first guy I’ve fucked.”
    He chuckles at my bald language. Then he stands. “Come here.”
    I join him, unsure what to expect. But he pulls me against him, then tilts my face so I meet his eyes. “You don’t deserve to be mocked. Ever.”
    “I know that now. But when you’re in the moment, and someone makes it seem like you are being overly sensitive, it’s easy to forget.”
    He holds me then, in the quiet stillness of his office, despite the echoes of honking horns and busy city life outside. We simply exist, and I can’t imagine a more perfect moment than this.

CHAPTER 12
    SPECIAL DELIVERY
    W e manage a play and dinner on Wednesday night. He even got tickets to a sold out Broadway show. “It pays to have corporations for clients,” he teases when we get our own box seats. It’s no fault of the actors that we leave during intermission. Or the taxi driver when we can’t keep our hands off each other on the ride to his apartment. And I’m pretty sure the driver who takes me home is on standby.
    Dear God, who have I become?
    When Thursday rolls around, I’m exhausted from lack of sleep, but wired from all the hormones. And Noah is giving me suspicious glares.
    “I can figure out the password for your computer. You’re forcing me to become a spy.”
    I shake my head, the strange butterflies in my belly batting their wings ferociously. “I don’t ask you questions when you wander off at night.”
    “That’s different. I disappear with different women on a regular basis. And I’m home the next day without fail. This is one person, every night, for almost a week. And you won’t tell me his name.” He narrows his eyes. “You’re either embarrassed to admit he’s a hunchback—for which I would not judge you, sister dear—or he’s someone you think I won’t approve of.”
    He’s a bit closer to the mark than I want to admit, and I’m tempted to come clean. But I know my brother: constant teasing will commence. I hide my face in a folder before I answer. “You have an overactive imagination. What is so wrong with wanting a little privacy?”
    He grunts something unintelligible but clearly not approving.
    “Fine. I will tell you who he is next week. I promise. But I want to see if it’s even going to last that long. That way, if it doesn’t, I won’t have to deal with the humiliation.”
    “What’s so special about next week? Why can’t you tell me today?”
    “Because we’ll be ‘Facebook official’ by then.” I grin at him.
    His eyebrow rises, very slowly. “You’ll be what? What does ‘Facebook official’ even mean?”
    Now it’s my turn to look skeptical. “Really? You date so few people more than once, you don’t even recognize the term?”
    “If you’ll recall, I’m