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I watched his skin slicken with sweat and his cheeks flush with heat. He pounded into me, relentless, without mercy. Finally, Slash clutched me tighter and came with a shout of his own. He crumbled on top of me, sweaty and breathing hard.
I wrapped my arms around him and brushed a kiss along his shoulder.
He raised himself up and peered down at me, a smile drifting across his face. “How the hell am I supposed to get anything done with you around?”
“I could ask you the same question.” I squeezed him, and he shuddered in pleasure.
Slash kissed me and then gently pulled out.
He got up and turned his back to me. The lights were on in the bedroom, and I studied the ink on the canvas of his back. It was one giant mural, several pieces melding together to form a morbid yet beautiful picture. There was the classic reaper with a scythe in his hand. On a chain around the reaper’s neck was a broken hourglass. All the granules of sand had poured out of the damaged glass and spilled onto the ground, collecting in a pile. Out of the mound of sand rose a tree with a tire swing. At the base of the trunk was a ring of daisy flowers. The branches of the tree embraced both his sides.
I trailed a finger over one of the branches and tacitly asked Slash to turn so I could follow the twigs. They wound up his ribs toward his heart. On his left pectoral was a heart-shaped alarm clock, reminding me of the Tin Man fromThe Wizard of Oz.The hands of the analog heart clock showed the time of two-thirteen. On the right side of his chest was a skull with angel wings, which I knew was the Blue Angels logo.
His hazel eyes were locked onto me.
“What do they mean?” I asked.
“I’m not ready to talk about them.”
“Why do you do that?” I demanded.
“Do what?”
“Always put up a roadblock when the conversation turns to you. I’ve told you so much about my life, Slash. I don’t feel like…”
“Like what?”
“Like you want to let me in.”
“One minute you’re overwhelmed because of how fast this is moving, the next you want me to spill my guts. I’ve been on my own for fifteen years. I don’t check in with people. I haven’t had to do that in a long damn time.”
“Well, you’re checking in with me,” I stated. “Because if we’re doing this, then I need more from you than just furniture and cars. I need something else from you. Something real.”
“That doesn’t come easily to me.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that,” I snapped.
“You asked for time, yeah? Well, maybe you can cut me a break and give me some time. I’ll tell you about my tattoos. I’ll tell you what they mean to me—they tell a story. You gotta decide if you’re willing to wait for me to tell you when I’m ready.”
“It’s not fair,” I said quietly.
“I know. But that’s the way it’s gotta be right now.”
His ink obviously concealed something truly personal. Maybe something dark. Did I have it in me to be patient? To have a little faith? To not push when pushing wouldn’t get me what I wanted anyway?
“You don’t look like a Stryker,” I said finally.
He let out a long exhale, like he was relieved that I was willing to accept his explanation for now. “What do I look like?”
I traced his scar across his brow. “I don’t know. But not a Stryker.”
He rested his hand on my belly and stared at it for a moment. “Have you thought about names?”
“Names? No. It’s so early. I haven’t even had an ultrasound yet.”
“Superstitious?”
I shook my head. “Not even a little bit.”
