Either way… I felt the difference in him.
That’s the thing, though. Right now? I trust him. This man beneath my fingertips, he’s steady and strong. I trust him to hold me. To keep me safe. To love me. To put me first.
But I don’t trust addiction.
I don’t trust alcoholism.
I don’t trust the disease.
Because it comes back like cancer, quiet and lethal, biting you in the ass when you least expect it.
I won’t be a casualty again.
Jensen’s fingers brush against my shoulder, my arm, my side, warm and comforting. I love his hands. They’ve always done something for me. He’s so damn good with them. The way he’s rough but gentle, making me feel desired and fragile all at the same time.
And his tongue—holy shit, his tongue.
I roll my bottom lip between my teeth, rocking into him without thinking. He trails a finger along the side of my breast, and between the sensitive sensation and the memory of what that man can do with his mouth, a flutter pulses deep in my core.
It was all so overwhelming, his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me. I was feeling so much. Like everything I’ve been holding in came rushing to the surface all at once. The fears. The memories. The heartache.
One big, messy—but incredible—release.
No wonder I broke down. I know it’s only Jensen, but still, crying after sex? It’s mortifying.
He was great about it. Handled it perfectly. I couldn’t have asked for a better response.
My hands press against his muscles.
Goddamn.
Jensen has always looked good. Seriously. He has. But this? I practically melted in his arms like molten lava the second he took his clothes off.
And the tattoo? Yeah. I’m a sucker. I bit.
It’s hot. It’s really, really hot.
Combine that with the body? There was no stopping it.
But that’s all just extra. It’s not what matters. What matters ishim,and how he’s made mefeel.How we’ve laughed all night and fallen into this rhythm that almost feels like it did before.
Flirtation. Friendship. Comfort.
And mind-blowing sex.
I lift my fingers to his bicep, the arm draped across his stomach and teasing the crap out of me. I trace the lines of his tattoo, and he stills beneath my touch.
I haven’t really gotten a good look at it. Even now, it’s dark. There’s only a faint glow from the hallway and city lights slipping through the windows. Just enough to make out the larger images. There’s a lion. An owl. But I can’t make out the rest. It’s too shadowed to tell.
I haven’t asked Jensen much. Not about the tattoo, or rehab—or anything deep, really, unless it involves my dad.
I keep thinking I’ll bring it up, but the fear of what he might say lodges in my throat every time I get close.
So instead, I go for something easier. Something safer. Something that won’t dig up old scars I’m not ready to face.
I draw in a steadying breath, heart pounding a little harder. “Tell me about your tattoo,” I say softly, lifting my head to look at him.
His lips curve into a smile, and I instinctively kiss them. His fingers find my hair and pull me in closer, deepening the kiss. He scrapes his teeth along my bottom lip in that dominating, almost possessive kind of way.
