He’s closer than I anticipated and our noses nearly brush. I subtly turn to face him, ensnared by his dark, beautiful eyes, framed with the longest, thickest lashes I’ve ever seen. He inhales sharply.
This isn’t the first time he’s come into my personal space, not by a long shot. I take down dangerous people and am frequently injured. He overreacts to every injury—regardless of severity—using it as an excuse to touch my face, to stare into my eyes, to touch my hair. I love his overreactions.
Case in point: his eyes drop to my lips and, instinctively, I tongue the small split that is already healing.
“Is this a new injury?” he asks, thumbing the sensitive skin.
“Not an injury,” I answer, unable to tear myself from his gaze. “I was sparring with Arye yesterday, and he got one in on me.”
“Arye from Wimberley?”
I nod, and he grumbles, continuing to stroke the lip as if his touch will magically heal it. “He should be more careful. Why hasn’t your brother given you the serum? Will it scar?”
I dare not tell him what the serum is actually made of, but Anders and I agree that for small things like busted lips, it’s best to just let them heal naturally.
“We try not to use the advanced tech on tiny issues.”
He doesn’t look happy with the answer and, what’s more, he’s still in the crowded electrical closet with me, stroking my lip. I don’t think he’s aware he’s doing it, but every part of meis. My breathing gets a little heavier and his eyes focus in on mine.
I’m not sure what makes me do it, but I wink at him and take his thumb—just the tip—and suck on it ever so lightly. He inhales sharply, staring down at his thumb in my mouth. On another breath, he strokes it in and out, just the barest amount, but enough that I know he’s done it on purpose.
We’ve never touched like this, ever.
If I had only one word to describe his expression at this moment, it would behungry.
“DB—”
He cuts me off with the hot press of his lips to mine, the kiss desperate and overdue. Euphoric. Pushing me against the closet door, he adds pressure and, god help me, his tongue. When he doesn’t immediately pull away, the only word in my head isfinally.Finally, we’ve gotten to the point where we can acknowledge what is actually happening between us. What’s been happening between us for years.
I angle my head as his lips touch my jaw then trail down my neck.
“DB…” I pant.
“DeShaun. I like it when you call me DeShaun,” he says, stroking my hair with a reverent, if pained, look on his face.
I’d blurted out his name in a meeting a while ago, but not even Jake, who worked closely with him for years, calls him DeShaun. I don’t think anyone else has ever called him that.
“DeShaun,” I whisper in his ear. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
“You too,” he says, holding me tight. His eyes devour me, and I feel utterly flayed open before him. He groans, dropping his cane to fist my hair. I adjust my stance to keep the pressure off his knee. “This hair of yours. I’m mesmerized by it. I’ve been wanting to do this for years,” he says, scraping his cheek against my beard.
He gets back to the business of kissing me, his arms like strong bands of iron around me. We kiss for an age until I can’t stand it for a second longer. I sink to my knees, pulling his track pants down with me, anxious to get to all of him.
The soft swish of fabric reveals horrific scarring.
My breath catches in my throat.
I obviously knew his knee was bad and was prepared for a surgical scar, but his skin ismangledfrom his knee to his lower belly on the opposite side. He’s wearing navy briefs, and it’s dark in the closet, but the heavily ridged and burned skin, in some places pink and in others darker than his already deep-brown skin, continues under his briefs.
I reach for him, but his strong hand covers mine as he pulls it back.
“No. Fuck.Stop,” he says, his voice raised. He grimaces in pain as he retreats, trying to pull up his pants.
I lift my hands, immediately wanting to give him back some control. “DeShaun, I don’t care—”
“Don’t.” He closes his eyes, shaking his head.
“DeSha—”
