I uncork the bottle, and Javier’s grin is far too charming, but it’s the vulnerability in his eyes that makes him truly dangerous to someone like me. Despite my years of clinical training, I still want to reach for this fragile part of his soul and fix it.
He holds up his glass, letting his hand drift lower to my waist. “Don’t believe everything you read. If you’re impressed, I’m sure they exaggerated.”
“So you didn’t stop a trafficking ring at its source in Rio?” I ask, raising my brow as I pour the wine, trying to keep my thoughts on track. “Just went, saw the Jesus statue, and came back home?”
He shrugs modestly, the move far more sensual than it has the right to be. “I had help.”
“Yeah, right. You had”—I recork the bottle and pull up my phone, scrolling to the op in question—“the mother and grandmother of one of the girls who’d been taken.”
“You don’t have to be physically impressive if you know how to handle a gun,” he cracks, the lines around his bedroom eyes angling up in a smile.
Everything about him is impressive. He’s got this tall, rangy build that’s equal parts strength and flexibility. Well-groomed, with white taking over the hair at his temples and beard, but not stuffy. He has a set of serious cheekbones and a sharp jawline but expressive eyes that melt into crinkled half-moons when he smiles. Gorgeous tan skin shows both his age and beauty. Layer that on top of the heart-pounding details in this report, and you’ve got a badass on your hands.
A badass who needs to be loved on and cared for.
Stop it, Lev.
I’m feeling rather unimpressive with my limited experience. I would’ve tapped out early on had I been through what Javier’s been through, but he kept going, like his sister said, straight through hell.
“Uh, Lev, you gonna save some of that carrot for us?” Bram asks with a hint of humor.
I look down and laugh, having whittled it down to nothing. Grimacing, I hand it to my brother. We share a look and an entire conversation.
Yes, he’s flirting.
No, I don’t think he means anything by it.
Stop looking at me like that.
Oblivious to our silent gossip, Javier toasts us with his refreshed glass and wanders off. Thankfully, my brother is willing to focus on the cooking and doesn’t give me any shit.
Despite my distracted carrot peeling, dinner is wonderful. The food is delicious and, more importantly, I’m seated next to Javier. We’ve had an energy between us all night, and his incidental touches have become progressively less incidental.
We started off the meal by reaching for the same glass of water. After, he skimmed the tops of my hands with his fingertips, admiring the tattoos. Halfway through the meal, I dropped mashed potato on my lap, and he insisted on helping me clean it. Now, his hand is resting on my thigh.
I’d worry that the others would notice, but Bram and Nacho are not nearly as subtle as they’d like to believe. That’s not a complaint. Watching my brother’s stoic demeanor give way to a softness around Nacho—even as he corrects his posture and places a napkin on his lap—is wonderful. Mostly.
Bram’s happiness makes me happy, even as it makes me achingly aware of the lack of love in my life. Honestly, I’m surprised Bram was even open to a long-term relationship and was shocked when he fell head over heels for a former patient.
That kind of head-over-heels love is all I’ve ever wanted, yet never once have I stumbled into my Hallmark moment. For a long time, I thought men were the fun I could have on the side until the right woman came along. I’ve dated plenty of women, but I’ve recently concluded that while I’ve always enjoyed friendship and sex with them, I see myself long-term with a man.
I don’t know if you’ve tried to date a man recently, but long-term is generally not the vibe. Even less so when you consider that most of the guys interested in dating me hope that the tattoos, piercings, and body mods translate into dominance in the bedroom.
I’ve disappointed countless men when I tell them I prefer my partner to take the lead and that I like bottoming as much as topping. More damning, is the ache in the center of my chest, the need to curl up in someone’s arms and grow old with them.
What I’ve got—for tonight—is Javier’s hand on my thigh.
Don’t get it twisted—I like his hand on my thigh and may have spread my legs to make it easier for him to put his hands wherever he’d like. Given what he does, I’m guessing sex is a solid release valve for the intensity we’ve all experienced in the last twenty-four hours.
Honestly, as an option B, I could do worse. But I know what this is and what it isn’t.
“You’re seeing this, right?” Javier whispers, his fingers skimming high on my inner thigh with one hand as he passes the rolls with the other. “Your brother’s not being an asshole, is he? That’s Dom behavior, no?”
Bram’s admitted that he and Nacho explore light kink but keep it limited to the bedroom. I’ve decided against pointing out that we’ve all heard him call Nacho agood boyon multiple occasions and that most people would be annoyed by his constant corrections.
Only…they’re not corrections. I know this because Nacho’s eyes dilate and his breathing gets heavy every time Bram palms the back of his neck and whispers something that makes Nacho sit up straighter.
Perhaps the napkin on Nacho’s lap is meant to cover exactly how much he loves my brother’s very particular attention and praise.
