Except. Except.
Except I felt that jolt of electricity when he?—
I grip the sink, breathing hard. I need to get out of here, not because I'm afraid he'll hurt me. No, at this point, I'm pretty sure he won't.
Now I'm afraid of what I'll become if I stay.
I should be furious, plotting another escape. Instead, I'm wondering what he's making for breakfast. What he's wearing.
And Ihatemyself for it.
I mean, the man did bring me Lancelot…
As if summoned by my thoughts, the cat weaves between my ankles, purring. I scoop him up and bury my face in his soft fur. At least someone here makes sense.
I emerge from the bedroom, hobbling.
Ashland's in the kitchen. Today he's wearing a black tee that stretches across his shoulders, and I can see the full scope of the tattoos running down his arms—vines and thorns, dark and somehow beautiful. Woven through the ink are symbols that make my stomach twist: brass knuckles on his left forearm, a Celtic cross wrapped in barbed wire on his right, shamrocks positioned at his pulse points like territorial markers. On his knuckles, I catch the edge of more ink disappearing under his fingers when he flexes his hand.
These aren't decorative, but a résumé written in ink—violence, loyalty, a life I was raised to fear.
Aw, fuck, he looksgorgeous.
And I'm trying to remember where he slept last night.
Why does he have to look so beautiful? Ofcoursehe fucking does.
“Morning.” I keep my voice husky.
His gaze turns to me and sweeps over me—slow, thorough, possessive. My skin pebbles into goose bumps. He looks at me like he wants to devour me, as if he's been starving for six years and I'm the only thing that can satisfy his hunger.
“Morning, lass.” His Irish accent wraps around the word, making it somehow sound filthy.
He walks to me and throws his arm around my shoulder to help me across the room.
“I'm fine,” I say.
“Stop that,” he says with authority. I instantly respond to it, which pisses me off.
“Coffee?”
“Aye.” He pulls the chair out. Once again, I ask myself—if I'd sprained my ankle, would Marcus have carried me to thechair?
No. I tripped once, off a curb, and he scolded me for being clumsy.
Iamclumsy. Why didn't I even question that?
When Ashland steps aside, I can't help but look at his muscles, wondering what they would feel like under my fingers—flexed biceps when he is over me, under my tongue.
Jesus Christ, am I ovulating?
He pours me a cup without asking how I take it. Two sugars, a heavy dose of cream. Perfect. His hands are so large, wrapped around the mug, scarred knuckles brushing my fingers when he passes it to me. He holds it out gently, like I'm something precious.
I imagine his hands on me—gripping my hips, tangled in my hair, spreading my thighs.
I take a scalding sip of coffee to shock myself back to sanity.
It doesn't work.
