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I went still at the guilt in her tone I didn’t want her feeling. I’d shoulder that burden for the both of us. She didn’t need to carry it.
Witnessing the trepidation in her expression had me realizing there was nothing more important to me than her. Not even stopping an attack. That should’ve sent me back upright. The problem was, it didn’t. I was hooked on this woman.
Lifting my head, I keyed in on the inside of her wrist, the tattoo she claimed to have inked there because of me. I considered opening up, confessing that the wings on my back were because of her.
I felt an unyielding need to give her something, to tell her some piece of truth that justified the way she looked at me. But instead of sharing the deeply intimate part of our shared reality, all I could bring myself to admit was, “Those two men in the shed are still alive.”
Her eyes went wide, and she sat a bit, reaching for my cheek. I’d swear I was as bad as Dallas, yearning to lean in, to bop her face with my own, and beg her to touch me. To love me.
“You didn’t kill them because of me?” She blinked and shook her head. “That sounded?—”
“Exactly as it should.” My shoulders collapsed, unsure what this all meant, and how messed up it actually made me.
“Thank you.” She kissed my cheek again, and before she could retreat, I caught her wrist and dragged my lips over the tattoo and worked my mouth up her arm, kissing the inside of the elbow.
I wanted to kiss every part of her. Distraction was pitifully inadequate to describe what this woman was, and what she did to me. “We should get dressed. Focus,” I finally pushed out, relenting to what I was supposed to say. “We need to see what they found out.”
Appearing a little frazzled, she nodded. “Right.”
I helped her to her feet, and we dressed quietly side by side, as if somehow it was the most natural thing in the world. Sharing the same space. Eyes on each other while putting on our clothes, hiding the evidence of what we’d shared in there.
We went into the bathroom next. I rinsed my face and hands while she used the toilet right next to the sink. No shyness or hesitation. I grabbed a paper towel to dry off my hands, making room for her at the basin without leaving the bathroom.
Combing her fingers through her hair, she met my eyes in the mirror from where I stood behind her. “Your cross. Don’t forget it.”
“It’s not mine. Not really.” I tossed the paper towel into the trash. “The priest put it on me back at the rectory. Said I needed it more than he did.” Guess he was right.I went into the room and looped the chain around my neck, noticing how oddly weighed down I felt without it.
“I know we’re short on time, but promise me we’ll talk about what happened here.”
I slowly faced her, finding her waiting by the door. Thank God I’d had the good sense to lock it, not that Griffin would’ve barged in. “I suppose it’d make sense to do that.”
I joined her, intending to reach for the door handle behind her, but against my better judgment (that I clearly lacked around her), I shifted her hair to the side and leaned in to kiss her cheek as softly as she’d kissed mine.
And then I did the unthinkable—I let her know she wasn’t alone in her feelings over the years. “I have a tattoo because of you, too,” I confessed.
Before she could respond or react, I pushed the door behind her open and sidestepped her, trying to find a way to walk away from my desire to undo any damage our time together may have done. To her. To myself. To the whole fucking world.
41
DIANA
I hung back in the doorway, my body numb as my mind processed what he’d shared. My legs were already weak from the orgasm, jaw sore, and now my head was spinning (for so many reasons). Which tattoo? Why? When?
Carter stopped in the aisle, leaned over an empty seat and picked up a black ball cap, pulling the brim down over his eyes as he put it on. Was he trying to prevent anyone from getting a read on his thoughts? Keep what went down in the bedroom strictly between us?
He stole a look back at me, the intensity in his stare going straight to my heart. He nodded, his eyes never leaving mine.
I swallowed and nodded back, giving him whatever reassurance he seemed to need from me.
Once Carter about-faced, my shoulders fell. Why’d the loss of his attention make me feel so alone? I was teetering on the edge. Skirting the line between the quiet sanctuary of the bedroom (and what had just happened in there) and a cabin full of people (working together to save the future). But without Carter at my side, I felt isolated. And my thoughts—about him, us, everything—if not organized and focused, could be disastrous.
I peered over at the couch, catching Mya’s eyes. She had to be wondering why I was braced against the doorframe, tense and wary, rather than jumping in to assist.
You can’t stand like a statue in the doorway and be unproductive when you’re at the center of all this. The little mental pep talk managed to get my hands down by my sides at least. Step two: walk.
An unwelcome thought pushed to mind, keeping me from budging. Rebecca’s family money had paid for this jet, and I’d just given her husband (ex-husband? widower?) a blow job in the bedroom, and . . .
Damn the guilt. I couldn’t handle that plus everything else happening in my life.
