One is a Promise (Tangled Lies, #1)

by Pam Godwin

Must be the nipples.

“How did you get in here?” “The heavy-duty deadbolt on the front door is useless when it’s unlocked.

“Never. I’m also not in the habit of waiting.” Icy blue eyes flick over my pajamas and sharpen when they reach my bare feet. “I told you to put shoes on.”

“I’ve been scraping by for years. That’s what people do.”

I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. I’m so fucking wet my pajama pants stick to my thighs.

going on beyond him wanting my employment. He chased away my date. Trespassed in my house. Offered me a job that pays triple the normal rate. It feels like he’s gone out of his way to put me directly under his thumb. Am I reading too much into this? The door cracks open, and his crystal blue eyes fill the gap. “Lock. It.”

“I expected the black jacket, shit-kickers, and faded jeans.” I step close enough to feel the heat of his body. “But those dimples…” “If you pinch my cheeks and tell me I’m adorable, you’ll never see them again.”

“Are you married?” “I will be.” Resting a leather-sleeved forearm on the gas tank, he leans in. “Does five o’clock tonight work for you?” I sip the coffee and hum. “Is that a proposal?” “It’s a foregone conclusion.” He rubs his jaw with a gloved hand. “I always wondered what you would look like.” “You wondered what I would look like?” “My forever.”

“Hold this.” I hand him the mug and reach for the lapels of his motorcycle jacket. He lifts the coffee to his lips,

Passing the coffee back to me, he stretches the zippered flaps tighter around my shoulders. There’s not enough room for both of us in this jacket, but his gloved hands span over the bare skin of my lower back, minimizing heat loss.

“There’s eleven things you should know before dating me,” I say. “Eleven?” “No more. No less.” I’m making this shit up as I go.

“I can live with that, if you can live with my mode of transportation.” I crane my neck to peer at the sexy lines of the Harley we’re straddling. “What if it’s snowing?” “We stay in bed.”

“Ask me to stay.” He touches a knuckle beneath my chin.

“Mrs. Hartman.” Hartman? That must be his last name. “Yes, Mr. Hartman?” I glance over my shoulder.

“Watching you dance is an exquisite experience. The freedom in your movements, the pleasure on your face… it evokes feelings that are deeper, hotter”—he bends so close his lips brush my ear—“better than sex.” Shuddering warmth curls through me. “You must not be having very good sex.” He touches his brow against my temple, his hand sweeping back to trace my spine as his minty breath bathes me in heat. “I imagine sex with you would annihilate every experience a man has ever had.”

“I fucking love your body.” “But not my messy personality?” My head falls back on his shoulder. “Exactly.” My stomach hardens. “What a cruel thing to say.” “You don’t look offended.” He touches his lips to my neck and rolls his hips against me.

“Dance with me. I want to see your moves.” “No.”

“I feel your erection, Trace. What would you do if I grabbed it?” “Try it and find out.”

“I want your come. Your screams. Your pleasure. Give it to me.”

“God, I love your cunt.” “My cunt loves you,” I say through labored breaths. “You should put a ring on it.” He tenses, and his response rolls out like a growl. “A piercing?” “Sure.” His dick gives a hard jerk inside me. “Tomorrow. We’re busy tonight.”

“I was thinking about your slutty days.” “I don’t think about that. Ever.” He shifts, pressing me against the tiles so he can cradle my face in his hands. “My life began the day we met. There is no before. Only you.”

“I was going to dance on the pole for you tonight, but you wore me out.” “You can do that tomorrow after I put a ring on your pussy.”

“For the record, that’s the second time you’ve chased a man from my house.” “I did no such thing.” He steps through the room, scanning every detail of Cole’s hard work with his infuriating eagle eyes. “It seems you have trouble hanging onto men.” My blood simmers, and my pulse shoots through the roof. “Nikolai is one of my many lovers. He always comes back.”

I glimpse the blue sleeve of Trace’s shirt before he crashes my back against the building, wraps a hand around my throat, and covers my mouth in a searing kiss.

“Fuck.” He lowers my feet to the ground but stays close, crowding me as he yanks on the cuffs of his sleeves and glares down at his erection. “Where to next?” “Second base?” “That’s not what I mean.”

“I’m sorry.” He cups the back of my head. “For your loss. And for the way I talk to you. I’m not a nice man.”

“Stay.” He leans back on the couch, staring up at me. “Why?” “Watch a movie with me.” That’s the last thing I expected him to say. This day just gets weirder and weirder. “What movie?” I chew the inside of my cheek. I shouldn’t stay. Any second, something coarse and horrible will vomit from his sexy mouth, and I’ll regret sticking around. He grabs the remote, and the screen on the wall powers on. “Dirty Dancing.”

“Why am I here and not her?” My voice is louder than I intended, drilling, accusing, demanding. His heated gaze touches my eyes, my throat, and lower, scanning the length of my stiffening body. “I enjoy looking at you.”

It’s the weirdest, most amazing feeling. I’ve never had man brush my hair.

“What else can you do with those hands?” I ask. “I’m not answering that.” “Chicken.” He goes still. So fucking quiet and still. Then slowly, methodically, he sets the brush down on the mattress in my line of sight. Worry tingles up my spine. I’m in for it now. He wraps my hair around his fist, and with an eye-watering yank, he cranes my neck at an uncomfortable angle. “Stop taunting me.” His mouth touches my ear, the gentle caress at odds with his tone. “You won’t like the consequence.”

“A man doesn’t fuck you without wanting more. Without wanting the long haul. But I’m not looking for forever. I’m not going to date you or fuck you or marry you.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “You’re in love with another man.”

“Are you tired?” He grabs the remote and absently runs his fingers through my tangle-free hair. “Wide awake.” “Want to watch Dirty Dancing?”

“Trace.” “Danni.” He shifts closer, closer, until his necktie brushes my spine, his palms cup my bare shoulders, and his forehead rests against the back of my head. “Come upstairs with me.”

Then I spot him twenty feet away, tucked in the corner of the third bar with a pretty brunette on his lap. He’s staring right at me.

“I bet these perfect little nipples are pink.” “See for yourself.” “Turn around.”

“I can’t do this anymore.” A fist of dread clenches inside me. “Can’t do what?” “I can’t keep pretending you aren’t the first thought in my head when I wake and the reason I can’t fall asleep at night.”

“I want all of you.”

“I need to think.” His keys jingle as he removes them from his pocket. He’s leaving. “Don’t go.” I grit my teeth at the pleading sound of my voice.

Because love doesn’t end with death. It doesn’t shrivel and disintegrate with the ashes. It hovers, follows, haunts the living.

Doesn’t matter what I choose—stay here or move forward—he’s gone. Giving up on life won’t bring him back.

“I fucking hate you.” He licks a path up my slit, breathes deeply against my mound, and looks directly in my eyes. “I love you.”

I wasn’t prepared for this. Jesus, Danni, I’ve never put myself in such a powerless, vulnerable position.” “Sounds like love,” I say softly. He stares at me, with something akin to desperation in his eyes. “Love isn’t a choice, you know.” I finger the fabric of the wedding dress. “You can’t control it. It just…happens, and you better hold on for dear life, because you never know when you’ll lose it.”

“You don’t have to do that.” “Do what?” “Include him. Talk about him.” “Yes, I do. He’s part of you, and I don’t want you to ever close off that part, or any part, of yourself from me. If you need to talk about him, I want to be the one you come to.”

“But I require something from you,” Trace says. “If and when you forgive me, I need you to make room for me”—he taps my chest—“here. Understood?” “Yes.”

“We’re spending the next four days together?” “If I don’t make any more mistakes,” he says, brushing a kiss against my wrist, “we’re spending the rest of our lives together.”

“Tell me about him,” Trace says quietly. Can he read my thoughts? I crane my neck and find his gaze on the picture frames across the room. “I should probably put those away.” My hand fists in the sheets. “Don’t do it for me.” He pries my fingers from the bedding and entwines them with his. “I intend to make myself at home in the house you shared with him. I’m going to make love to you in the bed I assume he once slept in. If I can’t handle seeing a picture of him, our relationship is doomed.” My ribcage stretches with cautious happiness, and I tighten my hand around his. “You really want to hear about him?” “Please.”

When she tips her scowl up at him, he scowls down at her, and they connect on some devious, calculating level I don’t understand.

“We’re going out. Wear a skirt. No panties.”

“I love you.” His breath catches, and he tightens his arms, burying his face in my neck. “I feel like I’ve been waiting my entire life to hear you say that.”