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Finally, once everything is done, Billy has been removed, and statements have been taken, I place Marci in the front of my squad and drive her home.
She rests her forehead against the glass, peering out at Heatstroke as it passes by, storefronts illuminated like snapshots in a toy viewfinder.
We arrive home, and I open her car door for her, and guide her into our cottage. Once inside, she lets out a breath at the sight of Mr. Skitters curled up on the recliner.
“It’s good to be here,” she whispers. “It feels…” Marci licks her lips. “It feels like home, Jesse. I can’t believe that tonight happened. It was a lie. Billy lied to me about being in debt. He lied to me and used me, and you were fucking right. I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” I say, shutting the door and hanging up my suit jacket.
I guide her through to the bedroom and sit her down on the bed. I remove her shoes and massage her feet.
“You are not an idiot. You’re a good person, and he took advantage of you, and that doesn’t make you any less. Being taken advantage of is a reflection on him, not on you. It doesn’t make you weak or him strong. It’s the opposite.”
“Stop.” Marci pulls away from me. “I’m not the one who needs care right now. It’s you.”
“Angel.”
“Get up on the bed,” she says. “Now. I’m going to take care of you.”
Marci gets off the bed and sets up the tripod. She places the camera on it, and then she strips off every piece of clothing. She sets the timer and comes over, climbs into my lap, clasps my head in her hands, and hugs me to her chest.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“I’m tired of fighting you,” she says. “Fighting you in real life and in my head.”
I want to press her and ask what that means.
“Tonight,” she says, “I want to pretend that what we have is real.”
She presses me backward onto the bed, straddles me, and kisses my face, peppering me with affection I crave but never get.
Forty-One
MARCI
I’m falling for him.
Falling for a man I thought I hated. Because he’s treated me better than my own family. He’s cared more than anyone ever has, and that’s not an indictment on my friends. More like any man I’ve met. None of them compare to Jesse Taylor.
I want him to feel it. I don’t want to scare him off, but I can’t hold back tonight.
“Angel,” he says, and there are other words on his lips. Ones he doesn’t say. “Angel, you do incredible things to me.”
Goosebumps break out over my skin.
I straddle him. I unbutton his shirt carefully, and he winces as my fingers brush past the bruise spreading across his ribs. My pulse races, and I force myself to keep my anger under control because I want Jesse to feelustonight.
I want to erase our doubts, even though I’m not sure I can wipe away years of history between us, or my own fear of commitment.
“Marci, Angel,” he says, his tone gravelly with desire. He cups my breast and pinches my nipple. He winces and groans. “Fuck,that hurts. I can’t do much. Don’t think I’ll be thrusting any time soon. Cracked rib.”
I squirm on his lap, against his hard length.
“Baby,” I say. “Just hold still. I’m going to take care of you.”
Gently, I remove his shirt. I get up, remove his shoes and socks, then strip off his pants, those fitted boxers. He lies naked on the bed, one arm propped behind his head, bicep flexed, watching me with hungry eyes.
“You’re killing me,” he murmurs. “I want you, Angel. I promised I’d make you come when you needed me, and I can’t tonight.”
