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We sit there in silence, and I’m wrapped up in his warmth, his arms snug around my back and over my hip.
After a while, he nuzzles my hair. “Can you tell me more?” he asks softly. “About who this guy is and why he’s after you?”
He makes me feel safe, and that’s probably why I start talking—to this guy who has refused to give away anything about himself to me.
I tell him about Philly, about the danger on the streets where we lived, and Mom’s drinking habit. About my dad, a Greek, owner of a restaurant below our apartment, until one fine day, when I was maybe four, on which he sold the restaurant and moved away without leaving an address or phone number.
About Mom’s next boyfriends, assholes, every single one of them, guys who liked beating her to hear her scream before they fucked her and then vanished again from our lives.
But I don’t tell him about the baby. I can’t. Telling him everything else already hurts too much, opening wounds I thought had healed, but as it turns out they were only scabbed over.
“And this last boyfriend?” Rafe quietly asks after I’ve stopped talking and just curled into him, needing a moment to convince myself it was over, and I was okay. “The one after you?”
“Carson. Carson Ames. Told you, I turned him in. He’s in prison.” I swallow hard. “He has a rose tattooed on his cheek. Mom thought it was romantic.”
His arms tighten around me until I whimper, and yet it feels so good. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
And I believe him. I know he’ll do all he can to protect me, just like I know about the dark shadow of pain in his eyes. The key is his past, I realize, as it is for me. What he suffered through when he was young has marked him in indelible ways, has branded him, and somehow, instead of destroying him, instead of turning him into a bad person, has made him into the strong man he is.
Anyone else would have buckled, I think. Anyone else would have lain down to die, put a bullet through their brain.
But not him. He takes care of everyone, and everyone relies on him. His tattoo shop is a haven for those who have been adrift, and Zane told me he’s feeding an army of street kids and homeless people from his salary.
I admit I hadn’t taken his words too seriously at the time. Zane tends to talk when he’s drunk, and I don’t trust drunk people’s words, but now… Now I think it’s all true. He does take care of everyone in need.
I wonder who takes care of him, though. Even the strongest have moments of weakness.
There’s so much I want to ask him, but I’m reluctant to break the moment, to miss the light in his eyes. I think he could open up if I take my time, if I’m careful. He’s like a big golden cat, like a tiger, powerful and yet distrustfu
l, skittish. I don’t know if I’d like to try and tame him, if that’s even possible, or run away with him.
“So… Philly, huh?” he mutters. His voice has this deep rasp that sends shivers over my skin. “Ever thought of going back there?”
“Sometimes I do. Mom’s still there, and despite everything…” I choke on that. I miss her. Time blurs her bad decisions, her bad moments, makes me wish for her. Makes me think everything will be perfect if I go back. It’s dangerous, how memory works. “But I don’t think I will. And with this stalker here…” I sigh. “Maybe I’ll leave, move to another state.”
His hold on me tightens again. “Leave? Really?”
The note of alarm in his voice has my heart racing. He doesn’t want me to go? I reach up to touch his face. “We’ll see.”
His lashes lower as I stroke his jaw, my fingertips rasping over the light stubble, then reaching up to tangle in his silky hair. A sharp exhale, and his eyes turn almost black as his body responds to mine. I can feel him hardening underneath me. He shifts uncomfortably, and I wiggle thinking to help him accommodate his growing erection, but it only makes him groan and pant.
“Oh God, Meg.” Then he leans over me, and this time his mouth closes over mine without hesitation, warm and hard and delicious.
He lifts me up and turns me to face him, helps me straddle his lap, my jeans-clad legs folded on either side of him. Boy is so strong, he lifts me like I’m filled with feathers, and when I sit down…
A moan rises in my throat at the sensation of his hard length pressed between my legs, into the most intimate part of me. Even through the layers of our clothing I can feel the heat he gives off, can feel how he’s still hardening, growing bigger. I’ve never experienced anything so sexy.
Never wanted anyone like I want him.
I roll my hips, a light grind, and we both gasp. Pleasure skitters up my spine, need pools in my belly. When I do it again, his hands tighten on my hips and his breath hisses out. I run my hands over the hard planes of his chest, over the small hard nipples.
I love to see the raw need in his amber eyes, the shivers of delight running through his frame, the way his grip grows painful as if he’s about to lose control for good. I want him to lose control, lose that terrible tension in his shoulders…lose himself in pleasure.
Focused on his reactions, the subtle shifts in his expression, the slight movements of his body, I miss the moment he decides to reverse our roles. Suddenly, the world tilts and I’m lowered on my back on the sofa, Rafe bent over me, those long-lashed, pretty eyes gleaming.
“What…?” I begin, breathless.
“Today’s your birthday,” he reminds me as if I care about that right now.
