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“We still have to get it back. Stash it somewhere safer.”
“Yeah,” I agreed.
“I’ll go with you,” he told me. Because he somehow knew it was hard to go back, to see her stuck in the same old cycle.
“You don’t have to.”
“Let’s try this again. I’m going with you,” he told me, making a small smile tug at my lips.
“Okay,” I agreed.
“I know a thing or two about addict parents,” he said. “My old man hit the bottle. And shoved shit up his nose when there was money for that. He was the definition of a mean drunk too.”
“Was he the reason for the scars?” I asked.
“Yeah. Though, in his defense, he didn’t do it on purpose. I was fucking around with friends. He was pissed that I wasn’t home, so he came to find me. He forced me into the front seat of the car when he was wasted as fuck. Peeled out of there and promptly slammed into a guard rail. I went through the windshield.”
“Jesus Christ,” I hissed, pressing up to look down at him. “How old were you?”
“Eleven,” he told me. “Unfortunately for me, as I grew, the scars just kept stretching,” he said, waving toward his face.”
“I know they have probably been a source of a lot of trauma, but I like your scars.”
“Don’t gotta say that,” he said, shaking his head. “I can accept that you might be into me even if you aren’t into them.”
To that, I sat up, sitting back on my heels, so I could reach my hand out to him.
“Hi, it looks like we haven’t met. I’m Nyx. And I’ve never been known to blow smoke up someone’s ass.”
He didn’t actually reach for my hand, but a small smile did tug at his lips.
Redirecting my hand, I touched the very top of the scar near his hairline, gently tracing it down.
His body was ramrod straight below me, his gaze watching me.
Finished, I leaned down, pressing a kiss to that edge of the scar, then following it down to where it disappeared off of his jaw.
“I like them,” I told him, holding eye contact until he broke it. But only because he was pulling me closer, so he could seal his lips to mine.
It was like that kiss we’d shared downstairs.
Soft, sweet.
I’d never really considered myself a soft or sweet kind of woman. But, perhaps, that was because all I allowed myself to experience with men was hard and rough. Because those things were easier. Primal, even. They didn’t require any of those soft, sticky, complicated things we called emotions.
For the first time, though, I wanted soft. I wanted complicated. I wanted intimate and deep andreal.
And, it seemed, so did Slash.
His hands weren’t impatient. They didn’t grab at flesh and pull at clothes.
For a long time, actually, his hands just rested on me. One on my neck, the other at my hip.
Then he was rolling us both onto our sides.
And while my leg hooked over his hip and I could feel his hardness pressing against me, the kiss stayed sweet, deep, intimate.
My lips actually felt like they were tingling from it as it stretched on and on. And it wasn’t long after that before my chest started to have that same sensation, then my whole body.
