Free His Secrets by Lisa Renée Jones Page A

me.”
    “Security’s everything to me, but I don’t see it as money or power.”
    “Because your father used money and power as a weapon against you—which I will never do.” I lean in and kiss her. “You know that what’s mine is yours. I want you to share all of my world with me, Sara.”
    She studies me, trailing her fingers down my jaw. “It means more to me than you know, that you want to share your life with me. I’m sorry that will never include your mother.”
    Covering her hand with mine, I stroke her palm with my thumb. “You think coming here is about my mother’s death, don’t you?”
    “Isn’t it?”
    “No. It’s about seclusion. No whip. No outside influences.”
    “To deal with the loss of your mother.”
    “I didn’t take to the whip until the murder of Amber’s family. It was just an ironic twist of fate that it’s the same week as my mother’s death that somehow made the two erupt into guilt.”
    “But her family’s death wasn’t your fault any more than your mother’s dying in a car accident was, Chris. You were mugged and you tried to save them. And the boy you shot—”
    “Was a killer. I know, and I’d pull the trigger again if I had to do it over. But that doesn’t keep the images of his body, or those of Amber’s family, from haunting me, nor does it stop my guilt over leading Amber to the whip.” I hesitate. “And thinking about her seeking the whip for relief makes me want the whip. And yes, I know that’s fucked up. You know I am.”
    “Don’t say that. You’re not.”
    “Like I told you. I understand Mark for a reason. Life taught us both that control is survival. When I don’t have it, it’s an issue for me. The difference between him and me, though, is that I know I have that issue. He does too, but doesn’t accept it. Or he didn’t. I’m not sure how he’s handling losing Rebecca.”
    Her fingers flex into my bare arms. “I’m not sure how any of us are.”
    “Together. We’ll handle it together.”
    She nods. “I know. Let’s not talk about what’s waiting for us back in the States. Right now, I wish we could just stay here and never leave.”
    “We’ll be back in a few weeks,” I promise, and for no identifiable reason, that burning sensation in my chest starts again. Determined not to let this be the start of my annual meltdown, which I knew Sara would either witness or prevent this weekend, I motion to a huge door. “I want to show you something.”
    Pulling it open, I walk into the dark, twenty-foot-square empty room and hit the switch, turning on the dozen or so teardrop lights hanging from a high ceiling. Stepping back out, I motion Sara inside and, with curiosity brimming from beneath her long dark lashes, she enters. Leaving the door open, I follow her in. I’m greeted with one of Sara’s gorgeous, charming smiles while she holds her hands out to her sides to indicate the cushioned walls, covered with red silk.
    “My mother used it like a giant bulletin board to pin all the ad campaigns for her cosmetics company in here.”
    “So why don’t you have your drawings from your sketchpads pinned up?”
    My hands go to her waist and I walk her back against one of the walls, trapping her legs with mine. “Hmmm,” I murmur. “I think I’ll use it for all the sketches I do of you.”
    “I’ve only seen two sketches and two paintings. Today’s and—”
    “The bondage painting,” I supply.
    “Yes.”
    She sounds breathless. I like her breathless.
    I untie her robe, brushing my fingers over her slender rib cage, traveling to the curves of her breasts. “The one about trust.”
    “I trust you, Chris.”
    Trust. It’s something I value. It’s something I intend to deserve with this woman every day of the rest of our lives. I caress the robe off her shoulders, feeling the goose bumps that rise in its wake, liking how I’m never on edge alone with Sara. As I toss the garment aside, my gaze lowers sliding hotly over her full,