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His memory wouldn’t let me go. He refused my freedom, and though it hurt, I wouldn’t trade it now. As long as that grieving is over, as long as I get to keep him now, I will happily accept those two decades of torture.
Gunner’s hungry gaze slides along my body. Bright blue eyes that would have had no clue how to react to this as children, now belong to a man, and he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Slowly, torturously, he slides his shirt off to reveal a perfect chest. Smooth, strong, and defined. His tattoos trail around so parts of his lion wrap around his shoulders. Protection. A silent promise to guard his blind side.
His right arm continues with the design right down to his hand, and on his left… nothing. His left side has been left bare.
He peels his shirt off with slow movements, tosses it aside, then lets his bare hand trail along my abs. He follows the lines I’ve worked so hard on. The ridges I painstakingly carve in the gym day after day.
He appreciates my body and silently acknowledges my discipline. But then he unbuckles his belt, and I don’t care about my body anymore.
From having no clue that he was back in town, to him peeling his jeans away and sliding inside me, only ten minutes have passed. My breath races out on a desperate sigh, and his hands hold me so tight that I can’t even be sorry for the bruises I know are coming.
It’s worth it. To be with Gunner Bishop, it’s all worth it.
* * *
It’s dark out.My windows are black, my hallway black, but in the corner of my room, a desk lamp is switched on, pointing away, with my shirt draped over the top to minimize the harsh light.
I fell asleep with my legs tangled in Gunner’s. With my cheek pressed to his heart, my fingers intertwined with his, and his lips pressed to the top of my head.
Heaven.
It’s the very place I dreamed of, and the only place I can’t live without.
But now my bed is empty, my body cold, as I crack my eyes open and look toward the light in the corner.
“Keep still.” Gunner’s voice is low and gritty, as though he hasn’t used it in days.
In the corner opposite to the lamp, he sits back on one of the stools from my kitchen, his back pressed into the corner, one foot resting on the steel bar at the bottom of the chair, his other ankle resting on his knee. He wears gray sweatpants, but nothing else. His eyes are bright, but the bags beneath them speak of exhaustion.
“What?” Laying on my stomach, I push up until I’m on my elbows, and that’s when I notice the sketchpad in his lap. The gentle, rhythmic movements of his right hand over the paper as he sketches, and the way his jaw ticks.
Just like the other two Bishops, his jaw ticks when he’s mad, sad, scared… or concentrating.
It’s the single most intriguingandfear-inducing feature they possess.
“Lay back down, Lib. I’m not done.”
“What are you doing?”
“Drawing.” His voice is bland, monotone, as though he’s in a trance. His eyes race back and forth, from his paper to my lower back, as I lay naked and barely shrouded by a sheet.
My hair is wild. I don’t need a mirror to see what I can feel; strands hang in my eyes. My body sings from our time together, muscles flex and stretch from sex that is equivalent to time spent in a gym. My stomach rumbles, but it’s too late at night to eat.
When Gunner refuses to expand on his answer, I flop back down and snuggle into my pillow. If I just closed my eyes, I could probably drop off again. My clock reads 2:47am, which is both annoying and gratifying. It’s annoying that I’m awake, instead of deep into my eight hours. But gratifying, because he’s still here, and we still have hours until it’s time to wake up.
The book in his lap is twice the size of a legal document, spiralbound, and the page he sketches on is as least halfway through the book. The pencil pinched between strong fingers is a gray so dark that it’s barely a shade away from black.
His shoulders flex as he works. The rest of his body is utterly still, but his right side, his hand, his forearm, his shoulder, they flex and move as though he’s moving a barbell, not a lead pencil.
“Gunner?”
His chest lifts with a grunt. “I literally went twenty-two years without hearing that name, and now you won’t shut up about it. You make me panic every time, so quit it. My name is Theo. Get on board.”
I fix my pillow, plump it a little, and snicker at the annoyance in his voice. “Never gonna get on board with that. It feels weird.”
He rolls his eyes, but continues with his task. “You’reweird. Keep still.”
