Burn Down the Night by M O'Keefe

Author:M O'Keefe [O'Keefe, M]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780399593949
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2016-08-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 17

I went to sleep on the love seat, but I woke up alone in the bed. The sheets beside me were cold, but the pillow next to mine still carried the dent from his head.

He’d moved me in the night. Picked me up in his tattooed arms despite his hurt ribs and carried me into the bedroom. And then didn’t spoon me, or try to seduce me. He didn’t even cup my breast.

Bastard.

Screw him and his kindness and respect. He didn’t have to rub it in.

I crawled out of bed, feeling a little like I’d been hit by a car. I’d slept so hard, for perhaps the first time since we got down here. The clock on the microwave in the kitchen said 10:30.

Jesus. Almost twelve hours of sleep.

“Max?” I said. He wasn’t in the living room or the bathroom. There was no note from him.

Perfect.

I’d had this thought last night, before drifting off, that I would go back down to Eric and ask if he could put some kind of spyware on Max’s phone. That way, I might be able to find out something about the people calling that number. I ran into the kitchen where my phone was charging on the counter, but it was alone.

Shit.

I checked all the plugs in the condo to see if he had his phone charging someplace else. But they were all empty. The drawers in every room in the condo were also empty.

I opened up the blinds and looked down at the pool deck only to find Max sprawled out on a deck chair, facing our side of the condo unit. He was wearing black trunks—where he got those, I had no idea. His chest was bare and his arms were lifted above his head, wrapped around the plastic strap above his head.

That tree and skull tattoo was revealed to the world. It felt intimate, that tattoo. I wanted to run down there and cover it up.

Every wiry muscle in his body stood out in relief. The bare skin of his chest not covered with bruises or tattoos glistened with sweat and his black hair was damp, slicked off his head.

His features were so defined. Elegant almost. Like if he were picked up and dropped back in some ballroom in England, he’d work there just as well as he worked here. All those women in corsets would faint at his feet.

See…historical romance novels: fueling sexual fantasies since I was too young to be reading them.

He should not be so hot. Not after last night. Not after we ripped open our pasts for each other and walked away because we were both too damaged to deal. Because we knew that if we touched—if we had each other it would only ruin everything.

But there he was. Sitting in the sun with all his tattoos and his bruises and even his gunshot wound like there was no part of himself he was ashamed of or felt like hiding.

And that was pretty goddamn hot.

And his phone, a small black rectangle, sat on the cement deck beside him.

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