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"Okay." I manage to tug his sweatshirt off. He flinches.
I drop it on the counter, then pull off the thin T-shirt he’s wearing underneath.
“You need to take off your jeans.”
“Eh?’
“Your jeans.” I gesture to where blood stains the fabric over his left thigh.
“You sure about this?”
I roll my eyes. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, remember?”
His cheeks flush. “I think it’s better I keep them on.”
I stare at him. “Okay, this is really weird. And now I’m curious. Also I can’t tend to your wounds unless you undress.”
He searches my features, then gives a resigned nod. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He unfolds his length, grimaces, then toes off his boots, before lowering his zipper and shoving down his jeans. He kicks them aside—keeping his boxers on—then straightens.
My breath catches. I’ve dreamed of this man on me, inside me, all over me but the impact of his almost naked body is a force that slams into my chest and sends my pulse-rate shooting.Focus. Focus. You’re not here to gawk at him; you’re here to take care of his wounds, remember?I square my shoulders, take in the massive expanse of his chest, and the blood that dots the cut in his side.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t ogle those cut abs, the smattering of hair between his pecs, the ridges of his eight pack, which are more defined than when I last saw them, the moon-shaped tattoos he must have recently added on his shoulders and at various points across his torso.
I jerk my chin toward the markings. "What’s that?"
77
Gio
"Tattoos…" He says this as if he's goading me to ask more, so I do.
"I can see that. What I don’t understand is what or why." I take in how my fingertips fit perfectly in the circular marks on his torso and his shoulders, presumably where I’ve dug my fingernails into him in the throes of passion. Some are smaller than the others, in the shape of a string of quarter moons. They look like bite marks. "Are those…" I tip up my chin in their direction. "Are those also mine?"
He nods.
I swallow. "When did you do this?"
"After the last time we made love, I knew I was falling for you. I knew I had to tell you why I married you, and it was not only about Grams or to help you get back at your douche-ex. I knew I was going to break your heart… and mine. I couldn’t see a way out. I was at war with the need to stay true to the memory of my sister and yet…and yet"—he curls his fingers into fists at his sides—"I knew you were my future. That what I was feeling for you was something more powerful, more monumental than anything I’d ever felt in my life. More all-consuming than the need for revenge that had engulfed me since Diana’s suicide. More compelling than the grief that gripped me when my parents died. More forceful than the disappointment in myself for not making it to the finals of the Cup in the NHL.
"When you touch me, I feel it in every part of my body. When I kiss you, it’s as if my heart absorbs every sensation, my skin drinks in every whisper of your breath, and every part of me feels more alive than ever before. And when I’m inside you, I know I’m home. When I’m with you, I—"
"Stop." I jump to my feet. "You’re killing me with your words. You’re slicing me to pieces, and I’ll never find a way to put myself back together. You’re changing me by what you’re saying, and I can’t stop it, I can’t."
He cups my cheek. "I don’t want to cause you any further grief or upset you…or unduly influence you. It’s why I didn’t want to take off my shirt or my jeans."
"Too late," I mutter. There’s a thread of bitterness running through my tone, and he hears it for his gaze narrows.
"I am so sorry for everything I did. And I promise you, I got the tattoos for myself. I want to wear your touch on me for every second I'm alive. I want to feel you close, want you to become a part of me. I needed to ink your touch into my skin so I could carry you in me forever."
A shudder grips me. Something hot coils in my chest. Every part of me insists I lean into him, melt into him, fuse our skins together and become one with him, and yet…I can’t. I can’t.I shake my head, take a step back, then stop. He’s bleeding, I need to focus on his wounds. I’m not curious where else he had himself tattooed. I’m not.
He looks at me from under his thick eyelashes. His jaw is tense, and his muscles are coiled. He holds my gaze, and the air between us shimmers with unsaid words, emotions, and that chemistry which slithers down to coil in my lower belly. Even hurt, the power of his presence doesn’t lessen. If anything, it adds to his appeal. He shifts his weight from foot to foot. He’s in his underwear, but the power inherent in every dip and jut of his body turns him into someone who’s not quite mortal. Someone who’s larger-than-life.
Someone I can’t stop loving, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.
I retrieve another clean washcloth, then walk over to the sink and wet it. I return and press it into the wound at his side. I don’t intend to be rough in my actions. Well, maybe subconsciously, I do want to punish him for everything he’s done. Either way, I must hurt him, for he hisses. I glance up to find sweat beading his brows. Pain clings to the edges of his eyes, but he doesn’t make another sound.
“It’s okay to show you’re in pain,” I say around the ball of emotion in my throat.
