His gaze lowered to her pink mouth. That’s how he knew just how strongly he wanted Emma. He was willing to sacrifice a fair portion of his pride in order to have her. What’s more, he wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed. The circumstances were unprecedented. He didn’t have a lot of experience explaining himself to women. Either they got him, or they didn’t. Fitting himself into some preconceived idea of what a woman expected of him wasn’t something he was remotely interested in doing.

He saw the anxiety flicker across her face and sighed, dropping his hand from her skull, cupping her shoulder instead. She’d really curled up in that armoire and listened while he selfishly took his pleasure with another woman. She really was undone by this whole thing.

Yet here she was, willingly choosing to be with him. He admired her courage.

Another feeling rose up in him, a surprising, slicing one: Jealousy.

He couldn’t recall being as anxious as Emma looked in that moment. Not even for a majority of his childhood. His hide was too tough. He was the strong one, or so everyone said. He was the survivor. He was too bitter, too jaded to ever wear that expression again, to ever feel that vulnerable. There had to have been a time when he was that open, that unguarded to the world, though.

Hadn’t there been?

He shut his eyes briefly, shielding himself from her luminous face. It would be so much easier just to forget about it all. He’d have to examine himself far too closely for comfort in order to have Emma. It would be messy and just . . . too much of an effort.

Way too much. He should take her home this instant.

“I’m just a man, Emma. I’m not so twisted that you can’t see that, am I?” he asked quietly instead, opening his eyes.

“I see you,” she whispered.

The hair on his nape stood on end as she studied him. He suddenly felt anxious.

“And you’re not twisted,” she said. “Not yet, anyway.”

He exhaled, realizing he’d been waiting for her assessment like an irreversible, binding judgment, stupid and illogical as that was.

He looked into shining, velvety-soft eyes. Innocent. Enigmatic. Her lush, unadorned lips trembled slightly. He experienced an overwhelming urge to plunge his tongue into her mouth, to pierce her everywhere he could . . . anything to feel her as deeply as was humanly possible, to be so tight and high inside her that for a brief, mindless moment of bliss, he possessed her.

Christ. He was kidding himself if he thought he was the master of this situation. Did he really think he could ever defile her? Not even in his wildest depravity could he begin to span the depths of this wisp of a girl’s eyes.

He inhaled sharply, gathering himself. He put his hands on her waist and lifted. She gave a little of cry of surprise when he set her on top of the brick wall in front of him. Her face was almost level with his now. He stepped between her parted thighs, keeping his hands on her narrow waist.

“Okay,” he said, holding her startled stare. “What should we talk about first?”

Her mouth trembled with amusement. “It’s come to my attention lately that I have a problematic habit of denying reality,” she said. “I’ve been known to prefer my own comfortable version of the world. I think it’s best I face the truth when it comes to you, don’t you?”

His expression flattened. She really was unexpected.

“Absolutely,” he said. “You were disturbed by what you saw that night. And in the aftermath, you convinced yourself that I wasn’t the same man you’d seen.”

Emma nodded.

“Is this the problematic habit you referred to? The one where you refuse to see certain things?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you think you didn’t want to allow yourself to know it was me?” he asked, taking a step closer to her and holding her stare.

She swallowed thickly at the sensation of his body brushing against her open thighs. His gaze bore straight down to the center of her.

“Because it was safer to assume you weren’t the man who did those things,” she said honestly. He didn’t reply, seeming to sense there was more. She bit her lip and looked away. “And because I was disturbed by what I saw.”

“Disturbed,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“And disgusted.”

She nodded.

“Were you aroused?”

The silence stretched, interrupted only by the sound of the gentle, soughing surf against the rocks below. Her pulse started to leap at her throat like it wanted to escape her skin. Face reality.

“Yes,” she said softly, her cheeks burning. Her gaze leapt to his. “But I was upset. It seemed wrong, what you were doing. And I was mad at you.”

“Mad?” he clarified, his fingers moving subtly on her waist, the sensation distracting her. “For flogging Astrid? For restraining her?”

“Yes,” she hissed, frowning at him for his ease at broaching the most volatile of topics. “But not just for that.”

“What then?” he asked intently. “Emma?” he prompted when she just sat there.

“For making me feel so much,” she admitted in a rush. “For making me feel things I didn’t even know existed. I was disgusted, and confused, and curious, and angry, and . . . aroused,” she forced herself to say the word. “It was too much to consider, you being that man when I met you face-to-face the next night. Too much to handle. I didn’t do it consciously. I just ignored the facts.”

“What facts?”

“Lots of things,” she mused, studying his tie. “Like why would a guest room have a monitor for Cristina in it, or worse yet, that . . . that apparatus, that thing you tied . . .”

She faded off, embarrassment overwhelming her.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” he said. “Why would a guest room have that? What else did you ignore?”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Why does it matter?”

“It matters,” he said quietly. “Unless I understand your state of mind, it’s hard to know how to relieve your anxiety.”

She lowered her head. “Lots of things,” she murmured. “I told myself not only was your hair shorter than the man’s I’d seen, the color was darker as well. But of course when you cut your hair, the highlights went, too, for the most part. Every other time I saw you afterward, it was in dim light, so it looked even darker.” She inhaled through her nose slowly. “Your scent,” she added in a whisper. “Sandalwood with just a hint of citrus and leather. My mother loved things like candles and potpourri. Her sense of smell was very sharp. She could tell what certain stews and soups needed just by smelling the broth. I got her nose. When I was in the armoire,” she mumbled, “I could smell you, but there was something just a tad different mixing with your scent: motor oil. The garments I was sitting in when I was in the armoire—I couldn’t see them, because it was dark—but they were your coveralls, weren’t they? The ones you wear when you’re working on cars?”

“Yes.”

Her throat ached when she swallowed. “I knew it,” she said softly. “Or part of me did. I recognized your scent and the texture of the fabric when you held me last week in the garage and you were wearing the coveralls.”

He said nothing. She looked up at him uncertainly. Expectantly. His long bangs had fallen forward in the lake breeze, so that his gleaming eyes were shadowed.

“What do you imagine that I’m going to tell you now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I guess you’re a person who likes BDSM, and that’s your lifestyle choice? And that it may not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s your sexual preference? That it’s consensual and no one gets hurt?”

“Very politically correct,” he said, his small smile gentle despite his mild sarcasm.

“Well what would you say?”

His hands moved on her waist, stroking her in a seemingly distracted fashion while he thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, perhaps noticing her impatience. “Believe it or not, I don’t sit around thinking up excuses for why I want something, or why I want it a certain way. But I will tell you this. You were right to be disgusted that night.”