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“I’ve decided,” she whispers sleepily.
“Decided what?”
“Whether I hate you or want to fuck you.”
I smile mildly as I open my eyes, and she moves slowly and carefully, turning over to face me. I reach forward and kiss her nose. “Tell me,” I order softly. Her eyes. How I wish they would burn as intensely as they once did when I put my mouth on her. Anywhere on her.
“Neither.” Her hand goes to my hair and drags through the waves. “I just want to love you and feel that love back.”
“Done deal.”
“Is it?” she asks, and I frown. “Because you seem distant.”
“Do not question my love for you, Beau,” I caution. “Definitely don’t do that.” Breaking away, I carefully ease her to her back. I straddle her thighs and start gently picking at the corner of the dressing on her stomach. I need to feel useful in a world I’m struggling to know how to exist. Look after her. Focus on her. Blood and death have to wait.
I peel away the gauze, flicking my eyes up to her every so often to check her face for discomfort. There’s none. She’s just watching me, quiet and calm.
When her wound is revealed, I’m forced to smother the rage it reveals with it. “I’m okay,” she says quietly as I reach for the antiseptic wipes on the nightstand. She peeks down. “It looks better.”
It’ll never look better, not as long as it’s there. I grunt and start tenderly cleaning around the area, and she relaxes on the pillow, going back to studying me. “What are you plotting?” she asks.
I don’t look up at her, concentrating on my task. “Do you need to ask?”
“No. But I want to hear.”
“All the gory details?” I cast the wipe aside.
“Yes.”
“Savage,” I murmur as I grab a new dressing. I haven’t decided every detail. I keep thinking of more gruesome ways. “How does it feel?”
She sighs tiredly, making her annoyance known. She can express her displeasure as much as she likes. From now on, she’s out of the firing line. “It feels like I’ve been shot.”
I flick her a warning look, taping around the edges of the dressing. “We’re going to dinner this evening.”
“With?” she asks, but we both know she doesn’t need to.
I humor her. “Danny and Rose.”
“The Angel-faced Assassin and his wife.” She looks at the ceiling. “And what will we talk about over dinner? How many people you’ve collectively killed? How many more you will?”
I push my fists into the mattress and lower myself until my mouth is hovering over hers. “You want to continue with the sarcasm?” I hitch a brow, and she rolls her eyes, relenting and pulling me down. I hold my hips high, avoiding resting on her wound. “No, Beau,” I whisper hoarsely, my body coming alive, sizzling.
“Please,” she begs, and it’s crushing. I know our intimacy helps her, but she’s so . . . broken. “I just need to feel a little bit normal.” She reaches between us and seizes my dick, and I jerk on a groan, my head dropping, my breathing diminishing.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t,” she whispers.
Fuck.
I push myself back, kneeling, and reach for the pain killers on the nightstand, popping two out. She opens her mouth, letting me put them on her tongue, swallowing them down without the need for water. Her good hand goes to her knickers and starts pushing them down. Insatiable. This is going to take some creative thinking.
I take over when they reach her knees, not wanting her to strain, dragging them off and casting them aside before pushing my boxers down. I roll her onto her side, getting a pillow and placing it in front of her stomach, before settling behind her and laying my arm over her body, testing the pad of protection. “Okay?” I ask, kicking my feet to get free of my boxers.
She answers by pushing her arse back into my groin. This isn’t creative. This is a necessity. I reach for my cock and wrap a palm around the girth, drawing a few amazing strokes, every muscle buzzing with anticipation. It’s been weeks since I’ve been inside her. I need to maintain my control.
Guiding myself to her pussy, I take in air, preparing, then I slip in slowly, easily, gently. She sighs, subtly bowing. “Are you okay?” I ask, my vocal cords tight, holding still, waiting.
She hums in answer, her shoulder blades pulling in. I dip and kiss each before sinking my face between them, easing out little by little, the friction mind-bending. “Jesus, Beau,” I choke, biting down on my back teeth. “Okay?” I ask again, holding my body back, stopping it from doing what’s instinctive.
“I’m okay,” she grates, frustrated, her hand joining mine on the pillow and applying pressure, holding herself, and I know she’s trying to stem the pain. Stop the blood flow there to kill the nerves. “Move,” she orders.
