My inner thighs burn from being spread open wider than my legs have ever gone. My hips throb where his fingers dug in hard enough to leave bruises I'll wear for a week. My scalp tingles where he fisted my hair and pulled my head back to expose mythroat. And my shoulder. I touch the spot where my neck curves into muscle and wince at the sharp sting. The skin is tender, swollen, already darkening into a bruise the exact shape of his teeth.
He bit me. While he was buried inside me. While I was screaming his name loud enough for the entire city to hear.
And I liked it.
My thighs press together and the slick heat between them confirms what I already know. My body is a traitor.
I need a shower.
The bathroom is already warm from the hot water I let run, steam clouding the mirror as I strip off the t-shirt I slept in. His shirt. The fabric carries his scent and my stomach does a low, tight flip that pisses me off.
Get it together, Malone.
The shower spray pounds against my shoulders, hot enough to redden my skin. Water sluices down my spine, washing away sweat and sex and the lingering sweetness of rooftop roses. But it doesn't wash away the memories. His mouth on my throat. The stretch and burn of him pushing inside me. The way he growled my name when he came.
My hand drifts down my stomach before I can stop it.
I shouldn't. This is ridiculous. I spent an entire afternoon wrapped around the man. My body should be wrung out and wholly satisfied.
My fingers find the swollen bundle of nerves between my thighs and I circle it once. Twice. The orgasm hits so fast it catches meoff guard, punching through me in sharp, bright waves that have me gasping against the tile with his name on my lips.
Embarrassing. That was embarrassingly fast.
I stand there for a long moment, water beating against my back, staring at the drain and questioning every life choice that led me to coming in a mobster's shower forty-five seconds after touching myself.
When I step out and wipe the steam from the mirror, the woman staring back has flushed cheeks and swollen lips and a bite mark blooming purple on her shoulder. I look thoroughly wrecked. Because I am.
I dress in armor to keep myself from crawling back under the Bratva Beast. I know myself and with how my body is still humming, I'll want a replay of yesterday. The best way to do that is to put layers on my body. I opt for a pair of black jeans that hug my curves. I match the jeans with a cream-colored blouse with a high collar that hides the mark on my shoulder. Boots are next. I grab a pair with a low heel I can run in because a woman in my situation should always be able to run.
I find an assortment of makeup in the bathroom drawers. I pick some powder, mascara and a nice lip balm that smells like vanilla. Once I’m done, I practice a neutral expression in the mirror until none of my inner chaos shows on my face.
I grip the edge of the bathroom counter and lean in. Ugh. Dark circles mar the skin beneath my eyes. I grab the concealer and work on those, but I don’t hold out any hope of erasing them when the source of my stress hasn’t changed.
He didn't come to my room last night. Nor did he knock on my door this morning.
I grab my computer bag and pull out a burner phone. There’s no way he hasn’t logged all three numbers from all three phones. I check each of them but there’s no text. I look toward the door to my room.
There’s also no note slid under the door, either. Nada. I don’t know what I was expecting from him, but… But nothing. I’m not here for some love story romance. And yet, my heart squeezes. “What kind of message is he trying to send me?”
There’s no message, Malone. It means you held up your end of the deal and he's moving on to the next item on his agenda.
I tuck the blouse into my waistband, smooth the high collar one more time to make sure the bite mark stays hidden, and head for the kitchen wearing the most unbothered expression I've ever manufactured.
The smell of coffee and something savory tickles my nose. I stuff one of the burners in my back pocket and head for the kitchen.
I round the corner to find him standing at that stove with his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of a black henley, dark hair pulled back, his trimmed beard catching the morning light as he works the spatula.
He doesn't look up when I enter.
"Coffee's ready."
My step falters. My stupid heart does the same. So, that's it, huh? That's all I get from him. No acknowledgment that twenty-four hours ago I was spread beneath him on a rooftop chaise, screaming his name while he fucked me into oblivion? Not this man. He just stands there with his back to me, shoulders loose,spatula in hand, like this is any other Monday morning and I'm any other woman sitting in his kitchen.
Didn’t I just tell myself not to care?
Frustration and an unwanted hit of defeat settle over my heart.
"Thanks." I pour myself a cup and settle onto a barstool, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic and letting the heat seep into my palms. The coffee is just as bitter as yesterday and I drink it without flinching, holding the burn on my tongue like a small act of defiance he'll never know about.
