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“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
His arms wrap around my back, squeezing me tighter into him. “Yes, doll. I’m going to kill him.”
Declan settles me into the bubble bath, then kneels on the floor beside it. He dumps a cup of water over my hair, then lathers in shampoo before rinsing it out. I haven’t spoken much, still in shock about what happened.
I want to tell him to leave, that I can take care of myself, but every time I open my mouth to say it, the words don’t leave.
He moves onto my body, scrubbing the blood from my fingers with a bristle brush. I remind myself who Declan is. That I’m mad at him. But my body still wants him, and my stupid, stupid heart lurches forward with the gentle way he cares for me.
He’s broken, and I am too. Yet our pieces fit together when I don’t want them to. He isn’t safe, even if my heart thinks he is.
His hands drag a soapy washcloth up my arms, over my breasts. The rag scrubs me beneath the water. My torso, thighs, down to my ankles, then back up to the apex of my thighs.
I can feel myself growing wetter, a tingling emptiness inside of me when he brushes the washcloth lightly over my pussy. It’s wrong, and I know it. But I open my legs for him anyway.
The muscle in his jaw ticks, and he moves to pull his hand away, but I stop him, my nails digging into his forearm. He’s going to kill the man who’s been haunting my sleep.
That thought should disturb me, but it doesn’t. It turns me on, and clearly, I need my head checked because I want to thank him for it. Want to take his pierced cock deep in my mouth and suck him until he’s ready to combust with my name on his lips.
The need to forget what happened just an hour ago drives me to do stupid things, and he’s here with his intoxicating spicy scent that always seems to calm me. My hand wraps around his wrist, and I slide lower until I’m guiding his finger inside of me.
“Sammy,” he warns, his body stiff. The edge of the rolled sleeve falls under the water, and he yanks his hand away from my center.
“Please,” I whisper.
He makes eye contact with me, searching for answers to questions he hasn’t asked. Answers I don’t have for him. His hands move to cup either side of my face and he strokes the rough pads of his thumbs against my cheeks. We stare at each other in silence for a long moment. Then he pulls the tub stopper, and the water drains.
“I have something I want to show you.”
I grip the edge of the tub to stand. “What is it?” I ask after he pulls me out.
I don’t get an answer. He doesn’t let me move a muscle as he dries my body with a towel. Then he’s carrying me into my bedroom. I’m dropped on my bed, his body looming over me, and I stare up at him. Dark hair is tousled, ocean blue eyes peer down at me with lust, and that need to be with him causes me to arch my back off the mattress.
“When will the kids be home?” The question is breathy.
I lick my lips. “I’m driving there tomorrow and staying a few days.”
My eyes travel to his chest as he unbuttons the white dress shirt and reveals hardened muscle painted in colorful ink. Dark ink splatters his chest and torso in shapes of skulls and flowers. There’s a snake on the inside of his forearm that I hadn’t noticed before. I prop myself up on my elbows to soak in every glorious inch of him.
“What do you have to show me?” I ask.
The shirt slides off his body, and I reach for the belt looped around his waist. He doesn’t stop me, doesn’t respond, just peers down at me through hooded lashes, pupils blown. I undo the metal prong and yank it free from his pants.
With a flick of his wrist, he unbuttons them and slides them below his waist. His hand disappears into the boxers and returns a second later, hard cock in hand. The piercings are still there, angry veins throbbing as he fists himself.
He takes my hand in his other one and tugs me forward to grab him. I wet my lips in anticipation, pulling myself up to my knees. Then I see it. The dark ink scattering across the shaft of his cock. Letters scrawled in cursive.
Samira.
My chest inflates with something I can’t quite place a finger on. It isn’t a jealous emotion, nor is it one of excitement. It’s almost like . . I enjoy my name, my mark on him, but not if someone else put it there. My mouth falls open and my neck snaps up to stare at him.
“Who did this?” I release my grip and shoot out of bed.
“What?” he asks, turning to get a look at me.
“Who the fuck put my name on yourdick?”
