“Besides,” she draws out the word. “Endorphins are excellent for speeding up healing, you know that.”
I’m seconds away from yanking down my zipper and hoisting her on my dick. Then I remember my conversation with Mason and Kai. Miss Kevin’s pointed reminder.
Taking her hips, I hold her still. “I want to show ye something.”
Ach, her smile is sugar sweet. “Okay.”
“Unbutton my shirt.” There’s some light shining into the room from the open door to the hallway, but we’re both half in shadow.
She likes this request, loosening my tie quickly and then unbuttoning my shirt. After getting it free from my pants, she pulls it off, running her hands over my shoulders and my chest. “I’ve wanted to trace every one of these tattoos,” she murmurs, “ask you about them.”
“I’m an open book.”
The look she gives me is filled with derision. “Open book. You.”
“Aye,” I spread my arms. “Fully transparent.”
Leaning forward, she gently kisses and nibbles one nipple, then the other. Feck, I dinnae know how sensitive they were, that clever little tongue is just making me harder to the point of pain. I’d thought having to tell her would be the instant end to any stonner, but I’m calm. Almost at peace.
“Now, my pants. Take ‘em off.”
Rising up, she unbuckles my belt, pulling it from the loops before setting it aside and unzipping me. I lift my hips to help her, but as she pulls my boxers and pants down my thighs, I take her hand.
“Stop for a moment.”
She sits back, putting her hands on her legs, giving me her full attention. It’s always been a mix of flattering and unsettling, it has. I’m used to people paying close attention because it could be a matter of life or death, or I scare them shiteless. With Sophie, though, she always seems eager to understand me.
“I got injured on a mission.” My mouth is dry. “Two years ago.”
“Was it serious?” she asks, concerned. “I didn’t hear about it, usually, Maisie tells me if something went south on a mission.”
“She dinnae know,” I say. “No one knows but the people with me, Kai and Mason. And my father.”
Carefully resting her hand on my stomach, light as a butterfly’s wing, she asks, “What happened?”
Chuckling mirthlessly, “Who knows? It could have been our feckup. Or the squad of Don Montero’s men being a little too early. At any rate, we were caught up in a firefight. I pulled Mason behind an overturned car when he got shot and some stupid bastard with an AK-47 let loose. I ended up with eleven bullets in my leg.”
“Which one?” Her hands are on my thighs now, gently patting them. I’m not sure if she knows she’s doing it.
“My left. We got out, Mason and Kai did their best, but… everything below my knee was a mess. The surgeon they called in was considered the best rehabilitative surgeon in Europe. He had to amputate my calf and foot.”
Feck. Her eyes are glinting silver with tears but she keeps any expression off her face. No pity. “And you kept it a secret for two years.” She absently pats my leg again. “Is that why when we have sex, you’re always dressed?”
“Aye.”
“Can I see?” Still, no pity.
“Aye.”
Pausing, she looks me in the eye. “Thank you. For trusting me with this.” Pulling down my pants, she slides them carefully over my knees and then gets them off my feet. The prosthetic gleams, silver and flesh-color in the dim light. Her finger delicatelytraces down the complex pattern of Celtic prose covering my thigh, and continuing down my prosthetic, connecting the two parts of me together. “This ink is beautiful.”
“My father did it. I’d no idea how much talent the man had with a needle.” I put my arm behind my head, watching her. My heart isn’t pounding, no self-disgust curling in my gut.
Her fingers lightly brush over the puckered skin below my knee. “Your skin is inflamed.”
“Aye, it’s part of it.”
“Does it hurt?”
