Mirror of My Soul, Joey Hill [ereader iphone .txt] 📗

think you can go a lot further.” His eyes glinted with a wealth of meanings, none of them unpleasant, all of them capable of setting free nervous frissons of energy through her lower vitals, reinforcing that there were portions of her that still needed attention. “Let’s do this. Just put your arms around my neck. I know you’re tired.”

Tired didn’t even begin to describe her drained status. So she did after a brief hesitation. He gathered her in to him, slid his arms under her legs and lifted her off the steps, amazing her as he had before at how easily he did it, as if he could carry her forever. It was a foolish, romantic notion, as was letting her head drop onto his shoulder as he unlocked her door, closed them in, turned the deadbolt.

He took her upstairs where her living quarters were, showing her he had paid close attention on his visits to her place. The stuffed tiger told her he had good ears, too, apparently overhearing Chloe’s comments about him spoken through a swinging

kitchen door on their very first meeting. He paused at the top of the stairs only a moment, went left.

Tyler found Marguerite’s bedroom was a tranquil mixture of Eastern tastes and

Western whimsy. The four-poster bed with the carved floral headboard was

complemented by the framed Japanese water scene hanging over it, the soft glow of Chinese lanterns she kept lit and strung from each post like a canopy frame. There was a bamboo sea chest in the corner, some photographs arranged on its surface. Somewhat like those in the tearoom, only more personal. Pictures of the little girl whose party she had hosted, all large eyes under one of the big hats, her neck strung with elaborate rhinestone beads. Chloe and Gen conferring over a steaming teapot, Chloe laughing, her eyes alight with whatever dry witticism was falling from Gen’s lips. And one that surprised him as he let her feet touch the ground.

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Mirror of My Soul

It was a photo of him taken in a park in Tampa where he ran when he was staying at his place in the city. He sat on top of a picnic table, his body sweating from the run.

His hands dangled loosely between his knees. He had a half smile on his face where he’d apparently seen something in his people-watching that amused him. It was a very intimate picture, his knees splayed in the pose, the curve of his groin visible under the fit of his sweats. The long line of his inner thigh was defined as well as the curve of his biceps as he braced his forearms on his legs. His T-shirt was balled up in one hand. The dampness of the hair at his nape and temple from his exertions had been captured in the photo.

Stepping away from him, she turned her body so she blocked it. “It was chance. I was in the park that day, practicing photography. I saw you, decided to try a shot.”

“How long ago?” His voice was soft as he moved toward her, trapping her in that corner unless she made an awkward dodge to avoid it. She stayed still, though her body trembled the closer he got. It heated his blood, made his cock harder, made his heart ache in his chest. “Answer me, Marguerite.”

“About two years ago.”

Soon after the first time he’d seen her at The Zone, felt that odd connection

whenever their gazes met.

“You felt it, even then. As I did.”

She tried for a shrug. “Infatuation happens.”

“And yet.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, nudged her to the side. “The picture is still here. And it appears someone’s finger has touched the glass. Often.”

“It’s a good photograph. And the cleaning service I use probably does that when they dust the frames. I’ve got to go to the bathroom.” She shied away, skirted the bed and disappeared into her bathroom, closing the door.

Tyler let her go with an effort, hoping that it being the second floor and her own house, she wouldn’t try to escape again. His gaze returned to the picture. Marguerite had taken care and time with the photograph, capturing the expression she’d wanted, the aspects of his body, his posture. He was aroused and humbled at once by what the picture revealed about the photographer, about the way she might feel for him. He wished he’d been able to handle differently so much of what he’d done with her. No matter that his gut told him he was on the right track, that some fortresses could only be breached by acts of destruction, it hurt him deeply inside to cause her harm or pain in any way.

“I only want to love you, angel,” he murmured. “Just let me in. Let’s stop making every step into a fight.”

His gaze shifted to the shelf of books. Tea, Eastern philosophy. Pain management techniques, mental as well as physical. Interesting choice. His attention slowly covered the simple, sparse elegance of the room. Each item obviously was chosen for its significance to her, which underscored the importance of the photo. At her bedside nightstand there was a book of Haiku, a clock, a lamp. And though he was normally the 21

Joey W. Hill

type of man who accepted the boundaries of common courtesy, when it came to her the boundaries were thin. Especially after tonight. He moved to the nightstand and opened the small drawer, just curious to see if she was as sparse in the contents of what could not be seen as what could.

His gaze narrowed. A black silk scarf. A coiled belt with additional holes punched in its length. Two lengths of nylon rope. He turned, examined the four posts of the bed.

He found what he was looking for at the third one, at the foot of the bed. Reaching out, he ran his hand over one hourglass shape where the veneer was rubbed thin. It was not greatly noticeable, particularly