Permanent Marker by Angel Payne Page B

fat raindrops began plopping on them.
    “Pool party’s over, pet.” He adjusted her blouse back into place. Trusting that her skirt would drop down of its own accord when she stood—or maybe not, and that was all the better—he rose and yanked on his pants, barely zipping before he picked up his briefs and her shoes, then reached for her. “Come.” At her second of hesitation, he quipped, “I’d make some excuse about not wanting you to get wet, but I have a hunch you’d see through me.”
    That thawed her quiet awkwardness a little. As they walked into the villa, she replied, “It’s perfect timing, anyhow. Now nobody will question the state of my clothes.”
    He stopped when they got inside. “Why would anyone question your clothes?”
    It was a rhetorical question. He practically read the answer in the glance she gave the door, but he was going to make her voice it, anyhow. “It’s not a short walk back to my room, Senator. And it’s not too late yet. People will still be up. And—”
    “And what if I kept you here until it is too late?”
    He cupped her shoulder. She wrenched and turned. He allowed it, but if she thought he was going to let her lunge out that door, dismissing what they’d just done like nothing more than a summer storm, the woman was delusional.
    He watched her shoulders hunch as she crossed her arms. Her whole bearing edged back toward watchful caution. He wanted to shake her—to knock free the bricks of those walls he could see her erecting again.
    She set free a resigned sigh. “Is this where you tell me we need to talk?”
    Mark shifted forward, planting a wide stance behind her. He peeled off his shirt, so when she glanced back—and he suspected she would—she’d have to confront him in nothing but his skin, conviction, and command. Devious? Yes. But necessary? Also affirmative. There were more ways to knock down her bricks than the obvious.
    “We can get there by talking. Or any other means necessary.”
    “Get where?” She turned, then gaped. “Uh, okay. Look…Sena—”
    “Oh, no. Don’t you go there. You’re not hiding me behind the ‘Senator’ thing. Not now.” He closed on her by another step. “You’re still dealing with me as a man, Rose. As Mark. As Sir. And you’re dealing with yourself and what you’ve just discovered about yourself. No sweeping this under the rug. No pretending it didn’t happen.” He leaned in, pulling her arms apart now, holding them at her sides. “No forgetting how you came apart for me. How you flew. How we both did.”
    The energy of her sob filled the air before the sound of it. “Damn it! You don’t understand!” Despite the dismissal, she gripped his forearms like driftwood in a flood. “I have to forget, okay? I can’t fly. I’ll fall. Can’t you see that? I’ll fall far, and it’ll hurt. And I won’t be able to heal the damage this time. I won’t be…able to…”
    The tears took over her voice, and her pain took over his heart. He enveloped her hands in his own and slid them up around his neck, swearing if he ever met the people responsible for this disgusting mental programming, he hoped it was in a crowd. In close quarters, he doubted the bridge between his rage and his fists would stay intact.
    “You won’t fall, sweetheart.” He tucked her head into his chest. “I swear it. I won’t let you.”
    She softened, just a little, against him. She fit there so perfectly, smelling of rain and vanilla and sex, surrounding his senses, unchaining his soul.
    “Rose,” he whispered. “ Rosalind . Sweet pet…” The last of it died in the beginning of their kiss, a consummation of tongues and lips and need. A mewl swirled up her throat, unfastening his self-restraint by a dozen more latches. He ended the kiss by twisting a hand into her hair and pulling hard. She hissed as her head arched back, a sound mixed of pain and pleasure, and that drove him to sink his teeth into the flawless column of her