Free Black Dalliances (A Blushing Death Novel) by Suzanne M. Sabol Page A

on the desk, Patrick snarled, “Why does she need him? Why am I not enough?” Images of her lush body tumbling in white satin sheets flitted through his mind, making his body react as he always did where she was concerned—with uninhibited arousal. But in the next moment, a body was tumbling with her-large, tanned, and not his. He slammed his eyes shut, trying desperately to erase the image of Dahlia and Dean together from his mind. If he thought about that animal’s hands on Dahlia, he might kill Dean with his bare hands.
    “I don’t know why, Pat, but you’re not enough, and neither is he.”
    Something in his chest tightened with a soft thump and squeezed painfully. He thought his insides might explode from the realization that he could still lose her.
    “Talk to her, Pat. She may be lethal but she’s not unreasonable.”
    “She’s slipping away into Dean’s arms,” he whispered to himself, sounding more defeated than anything else.
    “And whose fault is that?” Alex snapped, the click of fangs sharp in the quiet office. She hopped from the desk and stalked to the office door then slammed it behind her, leaving him alone with his own anguish.
    The house still seemed empty, cold even though there was furniture everywhere, boxes and bags from every store Jade had dragged me to. She’d actually managed to get most of the furniture delivered but the few remaining pieces were being delivered in the morning, including the guest bedroom furniture. So, Ev was still at the hotel for at least another night.
    It didn’t feel like home, not yet.
    The quiet hadn’t bothered me earlier when I’d spent most of the afternoon washing sheets, towels, clothes, dish towels, and anything else I thought I might need to survive in the next few days. Dropping my bag and keys on the entry table Jade and I had found, I headed upstairs. That Jacuzzi tub in the master bath was calling my name.
    Grabbing the bag of candles I’d picked up at The Candle Lab that afternoon, I trotted upstairs and took them into the master bath with me. I filled up the tub with a generous helping of Mr. Bubble and lit all the candles, five in all. I figured that the candles counteracted the ridiculousness of me owning Mr. Bubble.
    Stripping down, I pinned my hair up on top of my head. I stepped into the tub and sank down into the water, letting the heat seep into my skin and wrap me in its comforting warmth. The bath was almost too hot, singeing my skin but I didn’t care. I just wanted the dirty feeling to go away.
    I closed my eyes and breathed in one breath after another, attempting to clear my mind. I was tired of feeling guilty and tired of walking on eggshells. After washing and shaving, I lounged back in the water to relax. I couldn’t seem to get my shoulders to release the tension and my muscles ached from the constant pressure.
    Patrick’s expression kept haunting me, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was nothing left between us. The water had lost the sting of heat and I was about to run some hot water when his voice rumbled in the small room.
    “You need to remember to set the alarm,” Dean murmured in a husky voice.
    Opening my eyes in a slow flutter, I lifted my chin to meet his gaze.
    Dean stood in the doorway in a pair of worn jeans, ripped in all the right places, and a pale blue T-shirt that was stretched across his muscular chest to the point of tearing. The candlelight flickered against his dark, olive skin, giving him a delicious glow. I found myself salivating at the sight of him but I couldn’t let him see it.
    We were trying to be good, waiting until Patrick was back in the game and things between us were settled . . . one way or another, which was looking bleak all of a sudden. Considering the conversation I’d just had with Patrick, I wasn’t optimistic. Dean wasn’t helping the situation either by looking sooo damned good.
    “I guess I’m just not used to it,” I answered in a raspy, fatigued voice. I