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“Love you.”
He released me then walked out.
I stared at his powerful frame as he left, following him with my eyes until he walked past the windows and disappeared from sight.
We didn’t even get through dinner before he threw me on the table and made love to me. He knocked over my wineglass, and it shattered on the hardwood floor. The bottle rolled across the table and met the same fate, but that didn’t stop him from thrusting inside me, his hand deep in my hair and his gaze possessive.
I didn’t give a damn about the mess.
He came inside me then carried me into our bedroom, ignoring the dirty plates and spilled wine that we would worry about in the morning. We got into bed, side by side, with our faces together. My leg was hooked over his hip, and his large hand gripped the back of my thigh. He’d shaved that morning, so his face was clean. I could see his hard jaw better, study the prominent line that separated his chin from his neck.
I could feel his come inside me, feel the hefty weight and warmth. At any given time, I had his essence inside me. When I was at work, I could feel it. When I slept at night, I could feel it. Only rare times in the middle of the day did I not feel it.
He watched me, his chest still sweaty from the way he took me earlier. His eyes were on me like that last session hadn’t been enough. He always seemed to want me, no matter many times he took me. This lifetime wasn’t enough. A thousand lifetimes wouldn’t be enough.
My fingers moved over his chest, sliding across the sweat and the muscles. His black ink was vibrant in contrast to his fair skin. I was dark in comparison, my Italian blood giving me an exotic appearance. My fingers rubbed over the black ink, touching a date he had inked along his ribs. “What does this mean?” I never asked him about his tattoos. I studied them every time we were in bed together, staring at the different artwork that formed a fresco over his body. He never used colored ink, always sticking to black. There was a skull in one place, a snake on the other side of his stomach, a gravestone above his heart. Images were separated by vague symbols. I wondered if every single image meant something to him, or if the only purpose was to hide his broken skin underneath.
He didn’t look at my hand to see what I was pointing at. “The day my mother was killed.”
My fingers trembled against his skin, the jolt of pain slamming in my heart. “Christmas Eve.”
“Yes.”
My fingers moved over his heart, feeling the steady beat. “I’m sorry, Griffin.”
His eyes shifted back and forth slightly as he looked at me. He studied me with the same intensity he always regarded me with, claiming me and watching me at the exact same time. “I know, baby. She was a good woman.”
“Yes, she was. What do you remember about her?”
He paused as he considered my question. “Not a lot. I vaguely remember the way she smelled, the way she would whisper when she was truly angry. I remember the way she made me feel…like I was loved, no matter what. When I became an adult, I learned more about my parents. My mother didn’t love my father. She was a concubine he’d claimed as his own. He knocked her up, but he had no idea she was ever pregnant. My mother loved me anyway, didn’t care that I was the result of a horrible night. We lost everything, but that didn’t make her give up. She kept going…doing the best she could. I would do anything to have her here now, to take care of her so she would never have to worry about anything ever again.”
My heart throbbed once more, hearing the regret in his voice. “She’d be proud of you.”
“Proud of what exactly?” he whispered. “I kill people for a living.”
“You never cared that she was a prostitute. Why would she care that you kill people?”
He watched me, silent.
“She’d be proud of you because of what you just said to me…that you wish you could take care of her. You take care of me. You love me with everything that you have. I sleep well at night because you’re beside me. I’ve never needed a man for anything, but I need you for everything.” I moved my face into his chest and kissed the skin over his heart, feeling his heart pound against my mouth. When I pulled away, he was still looking at me, his eyes even more focused than before.
“There’s nothing that turns me on more than hearing you say that.”
“That I need you?” I whispered, my fingers moving down his hard stomach.
