“I’m fine.” I pull away, push my hair out of my face and try to straighten my dress. I’m a mess. A sweaty, sticky mess. And I’m still filthy from the mad race to escape; suddenly self-conscious. I want to cross my arms over myself.
His powerful chest heaves as he catches his breath, his eyes moving over my face. He tilts forward and brushes his lips against my forehead. The gesture is so tender it makes me want to cry.
Why is he doing this to me? Why is he making this so goddamn hard?
“I need to wash up,” I say hoarsely. He doesn’t let me go though. He dips slightly, then scoops me up against him as he picks me up yet again.
“I don’t need you to carry me,” I protest. I need distance, dammit. I need to get the hell away from this man.
“Quiet.” He strides toward the bathroom, sets me down, then begins to undress me. It doesn’t take much. I’m half naked, anyway. A quick exploration has him finding the zipper at the back of my dress and then the fabric is pooling around my bare feet. My dirty bare feet. My shoes are long gone. I shudder without realizing it until he rubs his hands up and down my arms.
He's still completely dressed aside from where the front of his pants hang open, exposing him in a way that should be obscene, but somehow makes my mouth go dry. His cock nestles in the dark thatch of his coarse hair. Even flaccid it’s impressive and I’m overwhelmed by the bizarre urge to drop to my knees and press my face there. I know I’d smell myself on his skin. I want to roll in the scent of us and let it soak into my pores. Then I could hang onto this moment, even when I’m not around him.
Because I can’t be around him.
He keeps his eyes on me as he shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket. It lands on the floor beside my dress as he tugs his bowtie loose, then begins unbuttoning his shirt. I sense him toeing off his shoes, but my eyes are too firmly fixed on the expanse of chest that’s exposed as his shirt falls open.
His torso is swathed in tightly wrapped bandages from below his nipples to beneath his ribcage. When I shoot a look up at his face, it occurs to me that his cheek and temple are marred by fading bruising.
“Oh, dear God.” I lift a hand, fingers running down his face. “What did they do to you?”
“It’s nothing.” He presses my hand against his face, then turns his lips into my palm. I swallow hard and squeeze my eyes shut.
“Hey…” His voice is husky. I feel him cup my cheek and I look into his face. “We’re gonna be okay.” I nod because I want to believe it, then keep watching as his shirt falls away. It’s followed swiftly by his pants and undershorts, and finally a heap of bandaging as he unravels it. I try not to whimper at the sight of blue and purple skin where bruises mottle him. They broke his ribs. It explains why he was flinching when I held him so tightly. It couldn’t have happened more than a couple of days ago, and those slight flinches were the only sign of it. As a doctor, I know that had to hurt like a bitch.
Jesus, he’s a tough motherfucker. He’ll fight to the death.
He’ll fight for me…and get hurt. It’s already happened. And it's my fault. I got him into this mess. Everyone I care for gets hurt, eventually. Or worse.
I want to weep.
“Don’t,” he says as if reading my mind. I want to argue. I want to tell him this thing I’m doing may leave him dead. Like Kyle. More blood on my hands. But I’m so tired. When he starts leading me to the shower cubicle, I simply follow. I watch silently as he adjusts the faucets to get the water temperature right.
Beneath it, I slowly warm up, feeling sensation returning to my hands and feet. He soaps me up, hands sliding over my skin and washing me with such infinite care I can’t process it. He even kneels at my feet, lifting each one in turn and washing away the grime there. I stand motionless as he reaches for shampoo and lathers it into my hair, washing the strange stench of that club away. Washing everything away.
The fight’s left me now. All the days of hiding, hating, plotting… They’ve left me drained. So has this night. The fear of facing Mark, knowing what I had to do. Then having it dashed from me. And seeing Mateo facing me again, when I’d given up on having him in my world.
It's too much.
Without realizing it, I’m crying. Sobs build and then rack me as the water runs down my shoulders and back. Without realizing how, I’m against him once more. Weeping into his wet skin as he folds his arms around me.
“Baby…” he whispers, the sound almost lost in the streaming water. His lips press against the top of my head. Again, so much tenderness. It almost breaks me. I wish he wouldn’t do it. Wish he wouldn’t make me feel this…weak.
But there’s no fight left, so I let him. And when he turns off the water and wraps me in a plush towel, I let him lift me again. Let him carry me to his room and sit me on the edge of the bed. He unwraps the towel and pats me dry, my skin warm and pink as he begins to dry my hair. When he presses me back into the soft pillows of his bed, I let him do that too.
“I’m going to take care of you,” he says, staring into my face as he kneels over me. “I’m going to take care of everything.”
I’m sure my eyes must be huge as I stare up at him. And I allow myself to believe him. Believe he can do it, as I look up at him. So strong. So purposeful. Purposeful as he starts to run his hands over me again. But now he’s so gentle with it. More of that tenderness I’ve worked so hard to resist.
He’s touching me like something fragile and precious and it’s breaking my heart. But there’s still no fight in me. If anything, the gentler he is, the weaker I become. When he moves to kneel between my thighs and runs his hands over the curves and valleys of my body, it’s like he’s seeing me for the first time. And I see him. So beautiful.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” There’s a catch in his voice as he says the words I’m thinking. He bends forward and presses his lips to the inside of my knee. Lips that move up the sensitive flesh of my inner leg. My breath hitches as his mouth hesitates over my mound and his tongue slides along my slit. But he doesn’t stop there. I almost protest. Almost beg him to bring me another of those crashing orgasms. Moments of oblivion where I can stop thinking while he consumes me.
But he moves up further. Hands, lips, tongue, fingertips exploring, delving, seeking…until I’m writhing again. Reaching for him, so damn needy it makes my throat hurt. He slides up my body, hovering over me as our faces line up. I can feel the hardness of him pressing against me and I want to beg him again. Not beg…demandthat he fuck me. Tell him to drive into me and knock the breath from my lungs. To force the thoughts from my mind because there’s no room left inside me for anything but him. But he cups my face instead, his eyes searching mine. I squeeze them shut, feeling my heart stutter as his lips move over my eyelids.
“Stay with me, baby,” he whispers against my face. “Don’t go to that place in your head where you hide from me.” I open my eyes, and press my lips together, feeling the hard heat of him between my thighs. I lift my knees and hook my ankles behind his back, urging him forward. I want him inside me. And finally, he relents, my body stretching to accommodate him as he fills me with himself. But he doesn’t claim me like I need. Instead, he slides in gently, my aching heat consuming him greedily, but not getting the brutal hammering that I’ve learned to crave.
It's so sweet. It makes my heart feel like it’s going to burst with it.
