Even if I am the one she needs to be protected from. I’m the one who hurt her dad, and, well, hurt her too.
“Dad?” she screams, rushing toward the corpse.
My heart tugs. Emotions I didn’t even know I had suddenly swell. I thought I was fully savage. Way too past undomesticated to feel a damn thing. But I want to bring her into my arms, kiss her as tenderly as a man like me can. As only a man like me can.
But still, under it all, there’s something else.
When she opens her mouth to scream, her face flushes, her tears well. Her body trembles so that her curves jiggle seductively. Just a little. Just for me. Her lips, round, voluptuous, soft, inviting. Glossy.
It is too easy to imagine sliding my aching, rock-hard dick between those pouting lips. Way too easy, and way too intoxicating.
I close my eyes. Take a breath.
I’m fucked!
2
MARA
Two Weeks Later
Isit cross-legged on the guest bed, sorting through the wedding photos.
Kate says I can stay here without working. But I need to keep busy.
Before the home invasion—before I was the one who found Dad—I was trying to get my photography business off the ground. It gives me focus.
The photos shift and warp in the light. Suddenly, Dad’s there instead, a bullet hole in his head. Blood splattered on the floor and the walls. I close my eyes. Breathe slowly.
I refuse to have another panic attack.
“Need anything from the store?” Kate says, knocking on the door.
“No, thanks,” I reply.
I’m trying to be as little trouble as possible. Kate only has a small place. This was her office before we pulled the bed in here. She’s the closest friend I’ve got. I’m grateful. I don’t want to take advantage.
I keep going through the photos, looking for places to touch up. I stop when I see him. Not in the venue. Standing across the street, just about visible behind the glass.
A strange, tingly sensation prickles over my skin. My body tenses. My nipples tighten, and a shimmer dances over me. I’ve been living inside a glass bowl of grief for two weeks. I never thought I’d feel anything else again.
But now …
This man is tall. Huge. Wide shoulders stretching his leather jacket. Unruly black hair with flecks of silver, and colorful tattoos going up and down his neck. He stares at the venue, at the camera, at me. Glints of streetlight in his dark, brooding eyes.
Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe he was looking at somebody else. Just passing by.
But as I stare at him and he looks back at me, I don’t think so. It’s like he’s staring at me.
I squeeze my legs together. Roll my eyes at myself. What the… I’m letting my imagination run away from me.
My lips are aching, though. Aching. My panties rub against my point, grinding, making me sizzle. I bite my lip. The escape is so tempting. A welcome distraction. To be able to think about something non-Dad-related feels like heaven.
But the guilt is too ugly. I push it aside. I don’t deserve anything other than grief.
I leave the studio,my photos tucked under my arm. I had some time booked from before the home invasion and the horror. Figured I might as well use it.
The day is sunny,warm, fresh. Across the street, there’s a park. Kids laughing, playing. Couples walking hand in hand. Sun glistening off a water feature. And, yes, bees hovering.
