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22
You
Jay
Whenshepullsback from the kiss, there is a fire in her eyes.
”Is it wrong that I’m getting turned on right now?” she asks.
To say I’m shocked by her words is an understatement. I don’t expect my confession of torturing and murdering a man to get this kind of response. If anything, I thought she would be appalled.
Fear ate at me for weeks. Fear I would tell her what I’d done, and she would see me as a monster. Every day we were separated, I thought about her reaction.
“What, from the torture and murder?” I laugh tentatively.
“No. Well, yeah, kinda.” She rearranges herself on the bed so she’s tucked tighter against me, but now she can see me fully.
I don’t really have an answer for her. So instead, I shrug.
“Legality aside, did it help?” she asks while reaching for my hand again.
I don’t have to think about it for a single moment.
“It’s how we found out where you were,” I confess. “Rosie’s become a broker of sorts. She’s good at it too. We hired the mercenaries through a third party after that. Paid them their fee, and now you’re here. It’s all I wanted. I wanted you back, and the details didn’t matter.”
I’m tracing my fingers across her arm with my free hand. It feels good to touch her. To have her in my arms. To breathe her in.
I’ll lose myself in this woman forever if she lets me.
Burying my face in her hair, I voice the fear tormenting me. “Do you think it makes me a monster?”
“No. I don’t think it does, Jay. The world isn’t quite so black and white as I used to think.” She bites down on her bottom lip, and the blush rising on her cheeks makes me long to kiss her again. “It’s kind of like one of those ‘touch her and you die’ things. Which is pretty sexy.”
“Of course you would find some connection to all those books you read.” My Cheshire grin makes her giggle.
“What can I say?” she mocks. “I’m a sucker for a good romance.”
“And what, this is one of those stories?”
The weight of the moment shifts as we both remember our kiss from only moments before. It feels so easy between us. Shifting from confessions to intimacy to jokes.
“It can be,” she says.
The emotions flashing through her expression are a mix of longing and sadness. There’s hope there too. I lean in closer to her to draw out the hope.
“Does it make me the hero here? You’re my damsel in distress?” I realize my mistake immediately when she tenses in my hold, the strain evident in her jaw. “No, not that. You’d be the badass who takes over the world,” I correct.
The relief washing over her is a salve to some wound festering in me. I see it wash over her before she responds, and it soothes me to see her relax.
“Yeah, I think I could be. Or…” Seeing her worry her lip makes me ache for her in a carnal way, but I know it’s her way of processing. I can’t get distracted. This is about her. “What if the devil whispers in my ear and I become the bad guy? What if I end up the villain of the story?”
Not knowing where she is coming from makes my heart ache. I mean… what on earth would make my perfect girl think she’s the villain?
“I think if there’s one thing we learned from our four years in school, it’s that villains are rarely what they appear to be. Underneath it all, they’re as human as the rest of us,” I say.
“It feels cold. The anger, I mean. Not raging like everyone says it’s supposed to,” she says.
The change in her demeanor mirrors the change in topic. She’s scared.
