Perfect Fit Page 4

  “Your last name,” Rowyn said softly, shifting her gaze from their hands to his face. “Is that why you go by Fiore instead of Fury?”

  Darius nodded. “I changed it back to our original family name in honor of my grandfather. He died when I was eighteen, and I lost the person who gave me the love and acceptance my father didn’t. Or wouldn’t.”

  God, she understood that. Never being good enough. Never able to attain approval, no matter the awards, accolades, or success. Never receiving love from the one who was supposed to give it unconditionally.

  She clenched her fingers into a fist, battling the urge to reach out and brush the backs of her fingers down his cheek. Or stroke her thumb over one of those damn eyebrows. But years of rejection seemed like a manacle around her wrist, chaining her arm to her side.

  Touch him. Comfort him, a small voice whispered inside her head. Give him what you’ve yearned for.

  With a force of will that set her heart pounding in a frantic beat, Rowyn lifted her arm, extended her hand toward him, and cupped his jaw. Displays of affection were as foreign to her as the Bible was to an atheist. Sex with Darius had been a risk; she had shared and submitted her body to him in a way she’d never done with another man. Yet this small gesture left her more exposed and vulnerable than hours naked in his bed had. It bared her heart—staked it to her chest, an easy target for rejection.

  When Darius covered her hand with his, then turned his head to place a kiss in the center of her palm, she sighed. And the band around her chest loosened.

  “My mother resents me,” she said softly. “Every time she looks at me, she’s reminded of my father, who she believes chose his family over her.” The confession stumbled past her lips. For the first time, she admitted aloud the truth she’d known for more than half her life. Wanda realized that the Harrisons weren’t the happy-go-lucky unit they represented in pictures, but even she didn’t know the extent of the antipathy.

  Darius pressed his lips to her skin once more before lowering her hand to his thighs and cradling both. He waited, silent, his steady gaze centered on her face. In the blue depths of his eyes she didn’t detect judgment or ridicule. Just compassion. Tenderness. And acceptance.

  Those attributes gave her the strength to continue.

  “My parents were young when they secretly married against his family’s wishes. I’m sure Dad assumed they would accept her—and eventually me. But that never happened. They blamed Mom for leading their son astray, for trapping him, for not being Korean…” Rowyn choked out a humorless chuckle. “That he continued to work for the family business further complicated the situation and deepened the bitterness and anger that ultimately led to Mom leaving him.”

  “Your mother told you this?”

  Rowyn shook her head. “No. Dad did a couple of years before he died.” From her mother, Rowyn had heard curses, insults, and rants about her selfish, worthless father who hadn’t wanted either of them. Even to this day, eight years after his death, she couldn’t discuss her first husband rationally. “My parents divorced when I was eight, and Mom did her best to keep me from him—changing the visitation dates, scheduling events on his weekends. A couple of times she forced me to call him and tell him I didn’t want to see him. She needed to hurt him, and replacing him in his daughter’s life with another father accomplished that.”

  In an abrupt motion, Rowyn lunged to her feet, unable to sit still any longer. It seemed as if a live wire vibrated under her skin. She needed to move, to do…something.

  “Would you mind if we kept walking?”

  “Not at all,” Darius murmured. But instead of stepping out onto the path, he shifted in front of Rowyn, cupped her face between his palms, and lowered his head until his forehead rested against hers. Slowly—so damn slowly—he brushed his lips over her mouth. Once. Twice. Then he dived deep, his tongue parting her lips and tasting what lay beyond.

  He lit a match to the stick of her emotional dynamite, and her control detonated into pieces around her feet. All the emotional tension of the past minutes cracked under his caressing mouth, and she arched into him, perching on her toes. She met him stroke for stroke. Sucked his tongue back into her mouth when he would’ve withdrawn. The hungry growl that rumbled in her throat should have embarrassed her. Should have. But it didn’t. She needed him. Ached for him.

  Craved the port he represented in the middle of her mental storm.

  Darius lifted his head, ignoring her sound of protest. And when she would have followed him, demanded he return to her, he pressed a thumb over her lips, denying her what she wanted most. The small, soft kiss he pressed to the corner of her mouth softened the blow of refusal.

  “Finish it,” he whispered, and the quiet command was like a lance to a wound. The pain, anger, and grief swelled and rush out in a torrential outpour.

  “I hurt him so badly. I hurt him,” she blurted, speaking so fast, the words tumbled over one another. She lifted her hands between them and placed them on his chest. She pushed, needing air, space…but he dropped his arms from her face and wrapped them around her to hold her tight. “I just wanted her to love me, to be nice to me. I couldn’t make Daniel like me. All I had was her, and she blamed me because Daniel wouldn’t give me his last name or pay me the attention he poured on Cindy. The only way I could make her happy was to reject Dad. She seemed to care then, to show me kindness. And I hurt one of the few people who loved me unconditionally.” She wept, fisting the front of his shirt. “I never told him how sorry I was. He died not knowing I didn’t mean those things I’d said. He never knew…”

  Harsh sobs racked her body, and she couldn’t halt the tremors that attacked her. One moment she stood in Darius’s arms, and the next her feet had left the ground and she was cradled to a hard chest. Soothing murmurs she couldn’t decipher barely penetrated the emotional tempest that swept her away.

  How much time passed, Rowyn couldn’t say. But when the jagged weeping quieted into shallow, rough breaths that scratched her burning throat, she was once again on the bench they’d vacated. A solid shoulder supported her head, and strong arms cuddled her close.

  She remained in Darius’s embrace, content. It felt as if a huge boulder that she’d carried for years had been suddenly hoisted from her chest. She felt…free.

  And probably looked like a hot mess with swollen eyes, puffy face, and slinging snot. As if hearing her internal list, Darius handed her a white handkerchief. Rowyn murmured a thank-you, then tried to clean up all vestiges of her breakdown.

  He didn’t speak, allowing her to gather her composure and thoughts, and she was grateful. God, she hadn’t realized all that guilt, grief, and anger had been caged in her like prisoners of war. Memories of her father and their short time together rose, and for the first time, she didn’t suppress them. Their first stilted lunch at one of the riverside cafés. She›d been so nervous, and so had he. But after an hour the walls had lowered, and they had tentatively reached out to each other, planning another lunch date.

  The images passed in a blurred succession. Lunch, dinner, shopping. Her twenty-second birthday. She touched her fingertips to the base of her throat. He›d given her the beautiful necklace with his native Korean engraved on the back. To my princess. Because she would never stop being his princess, he’d told her. He’d died three months later of a freak brain aneurysm.

  Another sob, less intense than its predecessors, surged in her chest. Damn, she missed that necklace. Her last link to her father, gone. Unless… Shit, she was an idiot! Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  She jerked her head up and met Darius’s concerned, soft gaze. “Did you find a necklace at your place after I, uh, left?”

  He arched his eyebrow, and for once she didn’t experience the urge to rip it off. Now it seemed kind of adorable. “What?” he asked.

  Rowyn gripped his shoulder. “Did you find a necklace?”

  “A gold chain with a pendant?” Darius nodded. “Yes. You left it on my bedroom dresser.”


  Joy swelled and spilled over into a delighted cry. She threw her arms around him and squeezed him tight. With a startled bark of laughter, he clutched her to him. Oh God, she prayed. Thank you, thank you.

  Grinning, she leaned back far enough to plant a huge, hard kiss on his smiling mouth.

  “I take it you’re happy,” he drawled.

  Rowyn mimicked the gesture she’d come to think of as his trademark and lifted her brow. “What gave you that idea?”

  He chuckled and swept a caress down her spine. “I don’t know. The wild ecstatic shriek, the half nelson on my neck, the kiss…”

  “I don’t shriek,” she informed him, but ruined the dignified denial with another hug. Happiness. It filled her to capacity, invading her lungs, replacing her breath. “The necklace. Can you mail it to me?”

  “I can do better than that.” He hitched his hip up and removed a slender cell phone from the front pocket of his pants. With one hand he tapped in a number and pressed the small phone to his ear. “Hey, Valerie,” he greeted. “I need a favor.” Minutes later he ended his call, having instructed his assistant to pick up the jewelry from his house and overnight it that day.

  “Thank you,” Rowyn said, voice hoarse. So many words—Thank you for caring. Thank you for holding me while I cried. Thank you for finding that piece of my heart and protecting it—jumbled in her head. And none of them could adequately express what he’d done for her that day. So she bowed her head, pressed her face to the warm crook of his neck, and whispered it again. “Thank you.”

  Once more, he tucked her into the haven of his body, his arms a harbor that shouldn’t have felt so safe, that shouldn’t have offered protection.

  It would be the height of stupidity to get used to Darius’s arms around her.

  She’d never considered herself a foolish woman… Guess it really was a day for firsts.

  Chapter Five

  “However, this evening she lost track of time and left only at the final stroke of midnight…”—Cinderella

  “I feel like Pretty Woman…but without the whole prostitute thing.”—Rowyn Jeong

  “Just give me about ten minutes to change clothes. Then we’ll swing by your house so you can change, and then we can head out to dinner.” Darius glanced over his shoulder as he swiped the magnetized key card through the electronic door slot. Reassured by Rowyn’s nod, he pressed the handle down and pushed the hotel room door open.

  They moved into the large and elegantly appointed living room. Boston’s skyline at sunset presented a vibrant, gorgeous backdrop through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Darius crossed to one of the tables that flanked the couch and tugged the chain on the lamp to illuminate the shadowed interior. He turned to her, and his breath caught in his throat. Rowyn had that effect on him; she had since the moment he’d laid eyes on her months ago, sitting alone down the length of the nightclub bar.

  Thinking back on how they’d met and spent their first—and only—night together, Darius could imagine why Rowyn believed he picked up women and often indulged in one-night stands. He wasn’t a saint—his halo would’ve been repossessed a long time ago—but it had been years since he’d done anything so promiscuous. Rowyn had been the exception to the rule. And their time together would have exceeded more than a few hours if she had remained in his bed…remained with him.

  No, he hadn’t fallen in love with her that night, he admitted, studying the straight line of her spine as she crossed the room to stand before the window. But images of her, of those sex-filled hours, lingered in his head, never fading. And when he saw her the evening before in her parents’ home, an inexplicable joy had seized hold of his chest. He felt as if he’d found something precious that had been lost to him.

  Lost. It described the heartbroken woman he’d held in his arms a few hours ago. Jesus. The ragged cries had ripped his heart from his chest. Without conscious thought, he rubbed his breastbone and imagined he could massage away the echo of pain that resonated hours later. He would have given anything to shoulder her hurt and grief. Witnessing the proud, strong woman he’d come to know curl against him as if attempting to escape herself had stirred something in him—something that had lain dormant until that moment. Suddenly he yearned to protect, shelter…keep. He couldn’t turn back time and wipe out her pain. But he could make damn sure it didn’t touch her in the present or future.

  Being able to offer her the necklace had transformed him into Hercules. He’d wanted to beg Rowyn to give him something else he could do for her. Just to see happiness light up her dark eyes again.

  Damn, she was lovely, he thought, staring at her striking profile. All sleek lines and gorgeous curves. The modest hem of her dress bared long, toned legs. He’d had the pleasure of those slender brown limbs locked around his waist, over his shoulders. He wanted that again. Needed it again. His cock hardened in complete agreement.

  Lust tempered by a softer but no less intense emotion hummed through his body like an electrical current. Plans for dinner relegated to later, he approached her. In a replay of the night before, he paused behind her, close enough for the dark strands of her ponytail to tickle his chin. And he drew closer still, until her lower back cradled his straining dick and his chest pressed to her shoulder blades. Unlike last night, he didn’t allow a polite distance between them. Nothing but her dress and his pants separated his cock from riding the shallow dip below her spine. It still wasn’t enough, he realized, rubbing his cheek against the heavy silk of her hair. It wouldn’t be until her pussy surrounded his cock with its blistering heat.

  “Are you smelling my hair again?”

  He smiled at the softly spoken question, acknowledging the attempt at humor but detecting the quiver beneath. Trepidation or arousal? He clasped her waist, his thumbs meeting on the ridges of her spine. Yet he didn’t linger. His breathing deepened as desire punched a hole in his stomach, and he slid his hands up the sides of her slender torso, not stopping until he cupped the undersides of her generous breasts. Generous, beautiful breasts, he amended as he gave the mounds a light squeeze.

  Rowyn stiffened, gasped, and released the sweetest whimper he’d ever heard. It echoed the need that stiffened his cock, gripped his balls, and twisted his gut.

  “God, that’s sweet,” he murmured and flicked his thumbs across the hard nipples that poked against the thin fabric of her dress. His reward came in the form of another needy moan. She dropped her head back and rested it on his shoulder. Quick bursts of air parted her lips, and the thick black fan of lowered lashes hid her eyes. He pressed a kiss to her temple and, without words, declared how beautiful he found her. With his hands he worshipped her, molding her flesh, circling and then pinching the hard tips cresting her breasts.

  The pained cries in no way resembled the sobs from that afternoon. Rowyn arched and twisted under his touch, then encircled his wrists like cuffs with her fingers. But not to restrain him. To hold on.

  He nipped the curve of her ear. “Do you know how good you feel to me?” he rasped. “I could come just from squeezing these lovely breasts. Or your nipples.” Darius released a rough, broken chuckle that sounded tormented to his ears. “I’ve dreamed about sucking your nipples, sweetheart. How they feel on my tongue. Sometimes I’ve woken up savoring the imprint of them,” he growled and rolled the stiff peaks, tugged them until she shuddered against him. The restless shifting of her thighs, the sensual roll of her hips—they all telegraphed her heightened lust. So fucking responsive. He gritted his teeth as her ass stroked over his dick.

  “Fuck this,” he snapped and abandoned her breasts. Ignoring her whispered protest, he shifted backward and attacked his belt. In seconds he had the slim leather freed of its buckle, the pants’ closure open, and zipper lowered. With one hand he reached inside his boxers and fisted his aching cock, while with the other he shoved his pants and underwear beneath his balls.

  “Lift your skirt.” The guttural command reflected the hunger that flayed him. He wanted to give her tender
ness—should have been controlled enough to—but it eluded him at the promise of being balls-deep inside her pussy after six long months of dreaming about it.

  Rowyn obeyed; she clutched the skirt of her dress and bunched the material until the hem brushed the bottom curve of her ass. Then, like a seductive striptease, she revealed the perfect globes bared by a pink lace thong. Son. Of. A. Bitch.

  A bead of precum appeared on his cockhead.

  “Now the panties, sweetheart,” he encouraged, rocking his hips forward and thrusting his dick through his fist, a poor substitute for the wet, swollen flesh Rowyn slowly bared as she inched the lace underwear over her ass. “Don’t let the dress go,” he ordered when the skirt started to drift down. “Hold it up and bend over. I want to see your pussy.”

  Rowyn hesitated. He noticed the minute clenching of her fists around the dress hem, as if she was unsure or embarrassed. Didn’t she realize how hard she made him—how hot she made him burn? Shame on him if she doubted his desire or need for her.

  “Do it, sweetheart.” He rubbed his palm up the outside of her smooth thigh. The muscle tensed, then relaxed. He continued the sensual exploration to her bare hip. “I’ve dreamed about your pretty pussy for months. I need to see, baby.”

  She gathered the skirt in front of her and bent over at the waist. Immediately he centered his gaze on the pink, swollen folds that glistened with her cream. He tightened his grip on his cock as Rowyn smoothed her thong down her slim thighs and exposed more of her lovely sex.

  He couldn’t help himself. Darius reached out and traced her slit with his forefinger. His balls drew up at the first touch of her flesh in so long. He groaned. Warm. Soft. Heavy juices coated his fingertip, and he stroked forward, covering the whole length of his finger in her wetness.