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Revealing Us Lisa Renee Jones Pdf

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We have to talk. We have to work through what happened last night before we leave for Paris. With a jerky movement I reach for my phone, punching the button to auto-dial Chris. My heart hammers in my chest as I wait for him to answer.

Then his voice, deep and raspy in that sexy way, ills the line. My ingers tunnel through my long brown hair and helplessness rolls through me. This is not happening. How can Chris not know this is too much right now? I want to scream at the phone. I dial again, hear the unbearable ringing tone over and over, and I get his voice mail again. I jump to my feet and rush for the door, my hand shaking as I lip the lock closed.

I pray that Ella will return safely from her trip to Europe. Wishing I could forget the hell of Ava killing Rebecca and then trying to kill me. And they are good ones.

The drive to the apartment I share with Chris is less than ifteen minutes but feels like an eternity. By the time I pull into the drive in front of the fancy high-rise I am one big ball of tension.

Not yet. Not like this. I barely see the lobby as I rush through it and step into the elevator. The doors close and I am suddenly, ridiculously nervous about seeing him.

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This is Chris. I have no reason to be nervous with him. I love him. I love him as I have never loved another human being.

Lisa Renee Jones

I know this is one of his tests. I know he needs this to be my decision, not influenced by his words. Realization hits me hard: I know this.

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I know what he is thinking. I know him. The words are comforting. In the ways that matter, I know him.

I turn and look at the clock near the kitchen entry to my left and I swallow hard. One hour. I have one hour to make it to the airport if I decide to go. I need a shower.

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I need sleep. My heart is in my throat. I have a bag on my shoulder. I have a boarding pass. I just feel so damn out of control. My name is called over the intercom.

I have to board. When will I finally not be this weak? I round the corner, and my heart skips a beat.

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Chris is standing at the door of the plane waiting for me, and he looks deliciously male and so perfectly him in his jeans, navy T-shirt, and biker boots. With one-day stubble and his longish blond hair a wonderful finger-rumpled mess, he is rugged perfection.

And everything else fades away but him, and everything in my world is right. I start running toward him and he meets me halfway, pulling me into his warm, strong arms. His addictive rich, earthy scent invades my senses and I am alive, breathing freely, my feet on solid ground, with no doubt left in me.

I belong with Chris. I wrap my arms around him and press into his hard body. His mouth comes down over mine and the taste of him, spicy and male, overwhelms me in all the right ways.

I am home.

And I believe he is. He has always been the answer to the question of what was missing from my life, even before I met him. He tears his mouth from mine and I want to pull him back, to taste him just a little longer. He brushes my silky, freshly washed hair from my face and stares down at me with earnest green eyes.

Instant understanding fills his face, seeping into the depths of his probing stare. This man lives in a tormented state I burn to make go away. He hesitates. I just needed— I know what you needed, I whisper, my fingers curling on his jaw. I understand what I should have before now. You needed to know that I love you enough to do this for you.

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Merit, we need you to board now, a stewardess calls from the doorway. Neither of us looks at her. And that means everything to me. Last chance to back out, he says softly, and there is a raw, hesitant quality to his voice, a dash of what I think is fear in his eyes.

Fear that I will back out? Yes, I think so, but there is more there, too. What awaits us in Paris? What is it that he thinks will rock me when I discover it? Merit— he says sharply, without looking away from me.

Sara— Whatever it is, I say, "I can handle it. We can handle it. I lace my fingers with his. Chris motions me forward and I sit by the window, while he fits my bag into the overhead bin.

My gaze traces the handsome lines of his face, the broadness of his shoulders, the flex of muscle beneath his snug T-shirt. I love him. My decision to travel to Paris with him was absolutely the right one. As Chris settles into the seat between me and our companion, I glance at the Band-Aid on his forehead and then at the bandage covering his arm.

My stomach flutters at how easily he could have died, crashing his bike on the lawn to try to save my life. How are you? I ask, gently covering the bandage with my hand. The head was more minor than I thought. His hand covers mine—big and warm, and wonderful. His name comes out as a silky rasp of pent-up emotion. I— Laughter from the row behind us cuts off my words, reminding me of our lack of privacy.But he wants us to, and so do I.

Refresh and try again. He captures my hand and holds it. He has always been the answer to the question of what was missing from my life, even before I met him. He wants me to move back in with him, to get rid of my apartment and the backup plan it had been.

I dial again, hear the unbearable ringing tone over and over, and I get his voice mail again. I swear to God, if this Rebecca chick isn't dead, I'm going into fictionland and killing her myself.

Just as Sara and Chris seem to have everything in their relationship straightened out, a tragedy threatens to send Chris into a downward spiral. And everything else fades away but him, and everything in my world is right. I dial again, hear the unbearable ringing tone over and over, and I get his voice mail again.