He cups my face, his thumbs brushing over my jaw. His blue eyes are bottomless, drawing me in, deeper and deeper, until I can’t look anywhere else.
“With that said…” His voice drops an octave. A sexy, possessive growl. “You belong to me, and I’m not sharing you. Not now. Not ever.”
There’s the Cross I know and love.
I toy with the fabric of his shirt, my voice rippling with mischief. “What are you gonna do? Mark me like I’m your territory?”
One strong hand curls around my waist, tugging me closer. “Youaremy territory.”
“Oh really?”
“Yes, fucking really. And if anyone doesn’t know that yet, I’m more than happy to educate them.”
“You’re cute when you’re jealous.”
“Don’t test me, Dove.”
I shiver at his imposing tone. I’m obsessed with this side of him. The intensity, the raw need on his face when he looks at me, his possessive grip on my waist. The sharp pull of desire it evokes is more than welcome. The weeks apart almost made me forget the way his presence overtakes a room, filling it with sex and magnetism. I forgot the way he makes my head spin.
He didn’t come in uniform, no captain stars on his sleeve, and his all-black getup only adds to his imposing air.
“I missed you,” Cross rasps, brushing a lock of hair off my forehead. His touch is infinitely gentle, but the uncontained fire in his eyes tells me he’s barely holding on to control. “You have no idea how much.”
His lips hover for a teasing, heart-pounding second before crashing over mine in a kiss so fierce, my entire body goes weak from the force of it. It’s like coming home. The familiar heat, the taste of him, the greedy plunge of his tongue.
“I forgot,” I groan against his lips.
“Forgot what?” he mumbles between drugging, hungry kisses.
“How much I crave you.”
“I didn’t forget at all.”
His hands slide down to cup my ass, squeezing it, and then he lifts me into his arms, while his mouth devours me. It’s more than a kiss. It’s all-consuming. A reminder of how utterly and completelyhisI am, and how fiercely he’s mine.
We have a lot of talking to do, I know that, but kissing him feels more crucial right now. Like I’ll die if we stop. He smells so good. Feels so good.
Next thing I know, I’m being lowered onto the bed. I yank his head down for another kiss and he winces before masking the response. But not fast enough.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.
“Nothing. Just a little sore.” But when he twists his head, adjusting the collar of his tight black shirt, I catch a glimpse of color.
I tug the collar down and find a bruise blooming there. A faded purple. I gently run my fingers over his collarbone, grazing the skin just below it.
Alarm flickers through me. “What the hell, Cross?”
“I’m fine,” he insists, but I’m already pulling off his shirt, ignoring his pained grimace because I know if I don’t look for myself, he’s going to minimize whatever I find underneath.
And what I find underneath are bruises.
Everywhere.
He’s been beaten.
I run my fingers along his warm flesh, finding more bruises in various stages of healing. Purple ones on his ribs. Yellowing at the edges on his stomach. A bluish green on his shoulder.
“You said he just knocked you around,” I accuse. “Baby. This is bad.”
