She shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter. The who is irrelevant.”
“How is that not relevant? What’s more relevant than that?”
“Believe me, it is beyond mattering now. He won’t be shooting anyone else.”
“What was his motivation?” I asked, because sometimes she gave me answers when I found just the right question.
She smiled ruefully. She knew what I was up to. “Money, most likely, though I can’t be sure.”
“You’re saying someone was paid to shoot you?” It was worse even than I’d thought.
“Paid, no, I doubt it. He wasn’t alive to collect. But he was hired, and I doubt it was just to shoot me. I’m pretty sure his job was to kill me.”
I was still reeling when she rose from the bed and headed into the bathroom to shower.
Eventually I followed, far from done with the subject.
“Do you have any clue why someone would be hired to kill you?” I asked her, as I joined her in the shower.
She didn’t speak, just turned and started washing my body, particularly my spent cock.
That she made pristine with several vigorous strokes from her soapy hands.
With a curse, I freed myself, warding her off. “Stop. I’m not going to drop this.”
She turned away, going back to washing her hair.
“Please, tell me,” I pleaded quietly.
She turned my way again, this time washing her own body.
I deliberately didn’t look.
“I can’t tell you any more,” she finally answered, voice final. “I’ve said too much already.”
“No. You can’t do that. It’s not fair.”
She finished cleaning herself, and stepped out of the shower, sending me one rueful smile before she turned away. “Fair? Who said anything about fair? None of this was ever supposed to be fair, baby.”
On that confounding, infuriating note, she walked out of the room.
I caught up with her again in the kitchen.
She was cooking breakfast.
French toast.
She was shameless.
The smell of cinnamon filled the room even as I stared at her, jaw clenched.
I kept my distance, putting the entire kitchen island between us. “You know I can’t drop this. I get that there are some things you don’t think you can share with me, but I need some sort of an explanation here.”
She kept cooking in silence.
Finally, I went into the dining room, sitting down to wait for her.
She started coming in and out of the room, setting the table, bringing in plates, silverware, syrup, butter, jam.
I was too agitated to even offer to help. Instead, I just watched her and brooded.
Her hair was wet, her face clean and flawless.
She wore a tight tank top (no bra) that read, ‘Are you kitten me right meow?’ and some hot pink cheer shorts that had the waistband rolled so the shorts covered less than most panties.
Well, not less than her panties. But her panties were typically nothing more than lacy strings.
It was a distracting outfit. I tried my best not to be distracted.
She brought in a heaping platter of French toast and bacon, setting them close to my plate, serving me without a word.
We ate in silence, my eyes on her, her eyes anywhere but on me.
She cleared the table when we finished, and again, I didn’t lift a finger to help. I was determined to sit here until she gave me something.
She came back after cleaning up, hovering close to the side of my chair.
I could smell her, mixed with cinnamon. I could feel the heat of her, even when we weren’t touching.
We were waging a silent war, and we both knew she was winning.
“How can I trust you, if you don’t share anything with me?” I asked, voice low and hoarse.
A last-ditch effort.
Finally, she gave me something.
“My life is very messy.” Her voice caught, and that caught me.
I turned in my chair to stare up at her.
I had the sudden and gripping realization that she was scared.
“Are you in some kind of trouble now?”
Her mouth twisted into a rather bitter smile, which turned into a short unhappy laugh. “Yes, you could say that.”
Something tight clasped my chest. “Are you in danger?”
Again that short, bitter laugh. “Yes, Dair, I’m in danger.”
I was pulling her down onto my lap in a flash, stroking her shoulders, her hair, her face, frantic at the thought.
I couldn’t stand it, didn’t know what to do with myself if someone hurt her. “Let me help you. I can help. Tell me what’s going on, and I’ll fix it for you.”
Her face softened, and she leaned into me, nourished with our proximity—a flower basking in the sun. “Oh, Dair. You’re everything I could have hoped for. Just the best.”
“Tell me what I can do. Please. Anything you need.”
She kissed me, her lips soft and hot, her little tongue playing at my lips, her expert hand snaking between our bodies, going for my cock.
I stopped the hand and pulled away from her lips.
I was too worried to go there just then. I needed to start planning the course of action that would get my beautiful Iris out of trouble.
“We need to talk about this. Tell me what kind of trouble you’re in. We need to figure out how to get you out of danger. How can I become involved?”
She tried to kiss me again, and when I held her back, her hands went to the bottom of her shirt, peeling it off, topless for me between one second and the next. “Let’s not talk about this now. I need you.” She moved to straddle me.