Chapter 7: On Top

I didn't sleep.

At two in the morning I got up, unlocked the guest room door, and walked down the hall in his shirt.

His bedroom door was open.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed in the dark with his elbows on his knees.

He hadn't slept either.

"Three million people think I'm a gold digger," I said.

"I know. I've had my lawyers on it since six."

"I don't want a lawyer."

He lifted his head.

"What do you want?"

"I want somebody to look at me like I'm not a joke."

He stood up, and the shirt I wore suddenly felt too thin.

"I look at you," he said. "I haven't stopped since the clinic."

"Then prove it's not about the blood."

He crossed the room in two steps and I met him halfway.

His mouth came down on mine, hard and angry and certain, and I grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt and kissed him back harder.

He walked me backward until my legs hit the mattress.

"You're going to regret this," he said against my lips.

"If you say one more word, I'll make you regret that."

He laughed into my mouth, and his hands went under the shirt, up my bare thighs, and over my hips.

He lifted me by the waist and set me on the bed.

I pulled the shirt over my head and threw it on the floor.

I wasn't wearing anything under it.

His breath stopped.

"Look at you," he said hoarsely.

"You said you'd look."

"I'm looking."

His eyes went over my breasts and down my stomach, slowly, and he did not blink.

I tore his shirt open and the buttons skittered across the floor.

He was thin from the sickness, but every line of him was hard, and there was a long scar over his ribs.

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