10. Arianne

"It's time for you to come home with me," Patrick says, gripping hold of my wrist.

I try to snatch my arm away, but his grip is so tight that my skin burns as I try to pull. "Please, leave me alone, Patrick. I'm not going back with you."

I glance over to where Halo leans against a wall, watching. His eyes are on me, filled with concern, but he doesn't intervene. Tears well as panic envelops me in a cold mist. "Help me, Halo, please," I cry.

But he doesn't; he watches as I'm dragged to Patrick's truck. I kick and fight and try to wriggle out of his hold as he forces me into the passenger seat.

"Halo, please!" I scream.

"You're mine again," Patrick whispers in my ear.

At the sensation of his breath against my cheek, I jolt upright in bed, tears stinging my cheeks.

"Shit," I mutter. "Shit. Shit. Shit."

There is early-morning light pouring through the gaps in the blinds. I try to focus on that. I'm in Asbury Park. Patrick isn't here. I'm safe in this moment.

I swipe beneath my eyes as I take a deep breath. Fighting the urge to break down and cry, I slip out of bed to the bathroom with the intention of washing my face. Cold water, maybe some coffee—anything to shake the dregs of the nightmare from my mind.

Memories of the way Patrick squeezed my wrist causes me to rub my skin gently. The dream held me in such a grip that even now, with the cool feel of Halo's hardwood floors beneath my feet, I can't bring myself fully into the moment.

In the millisecond it takes me to open the bathroom door, I notice three things. Steam swirls in the air, the shower is running, and Halo is leaning back against the wall, eyes closed, masturbating.

My eyes are drawn straight to his hand, which grips his eye-wateringly long cock. I try to look away but don't get much farther than the muscles that form a V to where his hand is…

Jesus.

Halo's head is rested against the tile, too into what he's doing to notice me one foot through the doorway.

If he did, he'd probably notice the way my nipples have pebbled beneath my T-shirt. My core tightens. Patrick was an attractive man. He kept himself in shape. He even had a tattoo sleeve, but Halo is…

Delicious.

Ink covers the upper part of his chest, both arms, and his hands. His long hair hangs over his shoulders. There is hair on his chest. A glorious specimen of a man.

"Fuck, Arianne," he mutters, and I glance at his face, expecting to find his eyes on me. But they are still closed.

Oh, God. Is he thinking about me?

Placing my hand on the doorframe, I mentally urge myself to leave, even as I try to silently pull the door closed behind me.

I even try to recall parts of the dream. Anything to take me off the collision course I'm on. The one where a man really wants me. The one where the very idea of me gets him so hot, he has to take care of himself in private. There's only ever been Patrick, and he's made me feel like… I don't know, a vessel maybe. I'm the place he can come in. I'm the person he takes everything out on. He loved the idea of me.

But not once did he make me feel desired.

Not once did he ever make me feel like I was his reason for being, that he couldn't wait to make love to me, rather than it being my responsibility as a wife to be available to him.

I was meant to compliment him on his physique, on his looks, on the things he did for us. I was meant to make him feel good about himself, like he was a hero.

Never did he make me feel wanted. He made me feel like a temptress. One without control. One there to make him think something impure.

Sex with him always left me feeling dirty down to my soul. In need of a shower.

Speaking of which.

I allow my eyes to drop to Halo's hand, watching as he shifts from long strokes of the full length, to shorter strokes that focus on the head.

His abs clench, and I know that feeling, that moment when an orgasm is getting close. I rarely came with Patrick, but on my own, I could. My clit aches to be touched, but I daren't move. I don't want to break whatever moment this is.

It's wrong to watch without his permission. It's voyeuristic. But watching this utterly strong and virile man do this is heady.

A part of me wishes I were brave enough to tug my T-shirt over my head, walk into the shower, and offer to help him. My mouth waters as I imagine what it would be like to drop to my knees beneath the warm spray and open my mouth.

The vision shocks me as I hated giving blow jobs to Patrick. Maybe I feel like Halo might see it as the gift I'm offering instead of the service I'm meant to provide.

Suddenly, Halo lurches forward, slamming his palm on the glass shower wall, his eyes wide open, focused on me.

"Arianne," he groans as he comes. His cum hits the shower wall in thick white spurts before being washed down the drain.

And I turn and run from the bathroom.

When I get to my bedroom, I leap onto the bed and pull the covers over me like a five-year-old hiding from an imaginary monster. I don't want to see his face. I don't want to see anger.

What if he kicks me out for invading his privacy?

Oh, God. What did I just do?

I slide my hand between my legs and press the heel of my palm against my aching clit, urging it to think less about an orgasm and more about being homeless.

Patrick's voice coaxes me back to reality. You don't deserve an orgasm.

The sheets are too much for my hypersensitive skin, and I push them back. My breathing is still a little ragged, and I take a few deep breaths as I try to bring myself back under control.

I need to get cleaned up, and then I need to go and apologize. Everything that just happened in that bathroom was pure fantasy. If a man of Halo's size put his hands on me, I'd freak out. He could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

And yet he picked me up and put me on the counter so he could tend to the cuts on my feet when the glass broke.

He was gentle. He can be gentle. I've seen him with Lola.

In preparation, I use a makeup wipe to freshen up as I'm not stepping foot back in the bathroom yet. I grab some clean clothes from my suitcase and pull them on. When I start mermaid braiding my long hair, I know I'm procrastinating. Abandoning it, I pull my hair up into a simple ponytail. My hands shake as I tighten it.

I step into Lola's room but find her crib empty. Now he's doing my job too. He's going to be furious.

The stairs creak as I walk down them, trying to remind myself it was a simple mistake. I didn't mean to stare. I was paralyzed. Jesus, even to myself it all sounds weak, because in the face of a body like his, the sheer masculine energy I felt watching him, I didn't want to move.

I'll start with sorry. For invading his privacy and for staring. I'll be honest. That he's an attractive man.

No.

That's a really bad idea.

But maybe flattery will soften him up.

Flattery always worked with Patrick.

As I blow out a breath, I realize I can smell something cooking. And there's a squeal from Lola.

Okay. Maybe he won't get mad in front of Lola. The thought is cowardly because I'm hiding behind a child.

When I push the kitchen door open, I see Halo, his back to me, at the stove. His hair is still wet, leaving damp marks on the back of his faded black T-shirt that fits his shoulders way too well.

He's stirring something in the pan. Eggs, I deduce from the carton on the counter. Just how many balls am I going to drop today? Shouldn't I have prepared breakfast while he was in the shower?

Lola squeals again when she sees me. Her face is covered in bits of soggy toast sticks she's sucking on. I smile and wave.

"Hey, Halo. Have you got a minute?"

He turns to face me for a second, glances down at my shorts, then turns back to the pan. "One second."

When the eggs are ready, he serves them up onto a little plate and carries it to Lola's high chair. She grabs a handful and eats it hungrily, all the while her little legs kick out beneath the small white table.

"You look like you could do with some air," Halo says finally. "Let's go outside."

"We can't leave Lola alone while she's eating. She might choke."

Halo eyes me carefully. "Which is why I was going to move her too."

Halo's house is on a lovely lot, with trees at the back of the property. I can hear gulls in the distance, a reminder that the Jersey shore I've heard about isn't too far away. I can't remember the last time I saw the ocean.

There's a wooden bench on a stone patio near the door, and he gestures to it before moving Lola's high chair outside with her still in it. He puts her down close enough where we can all see and hear each other.

"What's on your mind?" he asks as I sit on one end, and he sits on the other.

My cheeks burn. "I'm sorry. About earlier. It was an accident. I'd had a bad dream. A nightmare, really. I wasn't thinking about you or the shower until I was in the doorway, and then…"

Halo bites back a smirk. "And then you couldn't stop thinking about me and the shower?"

I groan and put my head in my hands. "I'm so sorry. It was highly inappropriate. I should have knocked. I mean…I will knock. From now on. Unless you need me to leave, which I would totally understand, because it was…"

Hot. Sexually exciting. Uninhibited.

"You want to finish that sentence, Arianne?"

When I look up at him, he still has that easy smile, but there is something heated in his eyes.

"Why did you say my name?" I ask. The words come out on a whisper.

Each syllable hangs in the air between us.

Halo bites down on his lip as he studies me intently. My heart races. I don't do well with long pauses. Patrick used to use them when he beat me. He used to build up the anticipation, make me hyper-vigilant and alert, waiting for the next blow to land, wondering if the last blow had been dealt.

"I'm sorry. Don't answer that," I manage to spit out.

"You're gonna piss me off if you keep apologizing," Halo says, and as he does, he suddenly moves towards me.

And I can't hold back my reaction.