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Leave it to Liam to make me blush from an intercom conversation.
The truth is, our schedule would be barren in that area since everything happened. It’s what I requested because of the injuries—not simply because of the physical pain. The bruises made me feel broken and powerless, and I didn’t want that to leak into our intimacy. Liam draws a new type of strength out of me, a strength that comes with unmasking. One that’s enlivening. His lips, his touch, his eyes on me are empowering. I wasn’t willing to lose that to Scott Filmore, so I asked for a reprieve until my body was stronger.
He heard every word I spoke and all the ones I couldn’t. He really does see me. I’ve never been loved by anyone—not in a romantic way—and I’m not assuming that Liam is in love with me, but he’s delivered exactly what I needed every step. He hasn’t coddled or pitied me. He’s respected me enough to offer space while still affording me the comfort of falling asleep in his arms and waking up in the same serenity every morning.
Tonight, I’ll be making up for our lost time. There’s a throbbing between my thighs, and considering the morning wood Liam attempts to conceal, the man deserves a damn medal. I plan to deliver big.
“Freckles,” Ty whines through a chuckling plea that floats through the air as I slip into my cashmere lounge pants and fitted shirt. “I beg you to put a stop to his madness before he starts sharing details that make my ears bleed.”
“I’m reviewing said schedule now,” Liam chimes, always content to instigate. “Based on our latest text thread, barring us from several areas of the house, it seems you and the Chief have left off some extracurricular—”
“Jesus Christ,” Wells hisses, overriding Liam’s goading. “It’s two in the afternoon. I’m trying to work. Shut the hell up, and we’ll meet at four.”
A laugh flows out of my lungs as I twist my damp hair up on top of my head. When the bedroom door flies open, I’m still smiling at the goofy banter that infiltrates each day here.
Until Liam’s resolute hazels land on me. Gone is the gentle guy who’s been cradling my troubles.
He’s all dark angel meets golden god. Cocksure and suave. Ready to pounce.
And I am a willing prey.
In two rapid strides, he’s on me. Long limbs snaking around me, fingers weaving into my hair to tilt my head at his desired angle, breath cascading over my skin.
Chills and bumps. Feverish thirst.
His lips ghost over mine with a hum, as though I’m a memory, the kind that yellows over time. Faded and amber. Memorialized nostalgia. Crinkly edges and staticky sound. Scents deeply rooted and sharp. A returning. I recognize it because that’s how it always feels when his eyes drink me in. Like he’s trying to recall a time that meant everything.
One snapshot of meaning.
And I get it. Why he said, “Let everyone fucking see what I’m doing to you,” at the stables for our first kiss. Why he finger-fucked me in a crowded restaurant. It’s a claiming. Sure. But it’s more than a simple testosterone-fueled marking. And completely contrary to the way I’ve lived with my never let them see mantra.
I’ve been in hiding.
He wants to imprint us on every place, every experience. He’s photobombing my whole damn life, and I love it. Even before I understood what was between us, he was the image I couldn’t ignore, the most stirring part of every frame.
“I thought you had a meeting,” I whisper against his mouth, my fingers perusing the sculpted edge of his chest and back, corded dips of his flexed biceps.
“I do.” His dimple winks at me as his cheek plays with a lopsided grin. “I’m really good at multitasking.”
I arch my back, my breasts serving him a taunt while I refuse to give in to this kiss first. The crackling zaps of anticipation are intoxicating, stealing all the oxygen in the room. “Prove it.”
He chuckles under his breath, as drunk on this lust-filled expectancy as I am. “I’m about to, Ace. Gage said your workout was strong. Feeling good?”
A trace of his distressing worry is laced into that check-in. Finding me in the hotel that night wounded him too. He doesn’t say it because, like all the other men in this house, he carries himself as though he’s impenetrable. But I saw it, felt it—him unraveling when Wells told him it wasn’t his fault. I see it now, swirling inside his moldavite beauties.
The sight of his concern trumps my need to have him fold first. My tongue darts out to lick at his lips before I press into him. He doesn’t hold back, swallowing the whole of me, enmeshing us into one essence as our sultry moans mingle to become a melodic symphony. Every fiber within me is ignited, every insecurity I’ve been harboring disintegrating to ashes. But much to my dismay, he doesn’t linger there with me.
“That tastes like a green light, Carver.”
I bite my index finger, my eyes capering over him in a sheer, torturous pause until I can’t handle my own punishing wait. “All systems go, Mr. Graves.”
In a blinding flash, he scoops me up, cradling me in his arms and pecking my nose. “Fuck, baby. Am I glad to hear that.” Jaunting toward the door, he wrenches it open and carries me into the hallway. His face is bold with purpose, pace ambitious with intent.
“Where are we going?” I ask, wondering why he revved me up and then ditched the perfectly good bed back there.
“You’ll see. Patience, Carver.” He smirks, cuddling me into his steel pecs with a deep inhale. “You smell like cashmere.”
That has a giggle leaping from my throat to wet the skin of his neck. “I’m wearing cashmere, so your olfactory perception is superb.”
