“I’ll clean this up a bit before fixing the stitches.”
He was explaining what he was doing, now?
“You didn’t seem the nurturing, gentle-touch type,” I started, and then paused, not knowing how to proceed.
He chuckled. “I fought a lot as a kid, so I had to get good at it.”
I hummed, watching his tattoos undulate. This was the first close-up I’d gotten of his ink where I could take in the image. I focused on the tips of the angel wing poking from under his sleeve. It stretched until the middle of his bicep, then it became a collection of chrysanthemums. Their base turned into smoky tendrils, leading to the dark, shadowed section where there was a lit candle. The same smoke curled down to his wrist, as if reaching for his fingertips.
With the angle of his wrist as he finished tending to the stitches, I managed to read the word across the inner side.
“What doesArohamean?”
His shoulders tightened along with the line of his lips.
“It has multiple meanings.” He paused. “Love and shite like that.” There was a pinch in my arm.God, that hurts.
“And it’s important to you?” I tried to keep the wheeze out of my tone. As curious as I was, I was trying to distract myself. My grunt turned into a hiss. I bit the inside of my cheek.
“My parents used to say it all the time to me,” he finally said. “Before they died in a car accident.” I stiffened, stunned to stillness. “You pity me.” He didn’t ask.
I stopped myself from denying it. “It’s more empathy than pity.”
A flicker of something crossed his features, furrowing the sharp turn of his eyebrows.
Whatever was going through his head didn’t seem pleasant.
“Are you okay?” I touched the back of his hand, and he reacted as if I’d put a taser to him. His nostrils flared, and his honey-brown irises were overtaken by the expanding pupil. He inhaled in a gust. A visible tremble shook his body. I started to retreat, but his hand flipped and grabbed hold of mine.
Warmth seeped from his skin. Unmistakable hunger flickered over his expression, calling to me like a magnet. Iswayed toward him, and he mimicked my move until his minty breath puffed against my lips.
“Does the rest of the tattoo mean anything?”
He leaned even closer. “Nope. I was pissed.” His lips grazed mine with his explanation, making it take a moment for me to understand that he meant he was drunk. Kiss . . . kissing him was a bad idea. A flash of his mouth fused to the other woman in The Bordello invaded my head.
I turned just before his lips met mine, and they pressed to my cheek.
Not out of jealousy, nope, not even a bit of that. It was pure self-respect; they weren’t mine, and they would never be.
Still, his warmth leached into my cheek, and warmth flooded up. I hadn’t blushed like this since I was in high school. And why was he lingering?
Such an innocent touch from a vulgar man. He slowly lifted his lips from where they’d connected with my skin. Were those butterflies from a kiss on the cheek?
I blinked at him, his gaze as intense as I’d seen it. His lips were slightly parted, the curve of his Cupid's bow softened. I met his intense gaze, and as I watched, the glaze disappeared.
He sucked in a gust of oxygen like he was trying to reset himself. He finished cutting the thread, busied himself by putting everything away, and then slapped a bandage on the stitches, making sure the sides adhered to my skin.
It was a good thing I’d be leaving soon. I wasn’t going to be able to protect my heart much longer.
And I did not want to give my heart to Greymont Pack—I wasn’t a masochist.
Pain would accompany any relationship with them. I had no doubt about that, but despite knowing that to my core, it didn’t take away my temptation.
“All done—wait.” He narrowed his eyes, some of the humor returning. “You have something . . .” He trailed off, and his handsomehowfound itself on my ass. He groaned, his fingers squeezing the flesh.
“How many times has that move worked?” I drawled. Thank God there was a blanket between his skin and mine. Sinclair gave another squeeze and chuckled; the deep sound fired lust through my already sensitive body.
“I don’t need tricks,” he murmured against my ear huskily. “Only this delectable arse in my hands.”
