My eyes lower to her legs again, to the bruises, to the way she sits here like danger doesn’t exist.
I turn back to closing duties, anything to keep moving, to stop thinking about how close she is, how good she smells, how my body still hasn’t calmed the fuck down, how badly I want to lose control on her.
“Can you stop doing that,” she says softly, “and come here?”
I don’t look at her. “Let me finish.”
“Jax,” she says, softer this time.
She slides off the counter and steps closer, barefoot now, hoodie slipping down one shoulder. “I know today wasn’t easy,” she says. “You didn’t have to do that alone.”
My hands stay planted on the bar, because if I turn around right now I’m not stopping at talking.And I’m not ready to trust myself around her.
“I was worried sick about you,” I grind out.
“Were you?” she asks, already teasing again as her hand slides slowly up my back.
“Yes.”
“Train was late,” she says lightly. “Someone fell, or jumped. Hard to tell anymore.”
My body tightens as I turn to look at her. “I was about five minutes away from tearing this city apart looking for you.”
She smiles and leans in, pressing a quick kiss to my mouth.
“So protective,” she teases. “I like it.”
She turns, peeling the hoodie off and letting it fall to the floor like gravity stopped applying to her entirely.
The leotard isn’t just clinging to her; it’s a goddamn declaration. Every line, every curve, is a provocation painted in black, and it’s taking every shred of my control not to peel it off her with my teeth.
My grip on the counter is a vise. “You need to start wearing pants,” I grit out.
She glances back, a flick of dark hair over her shoulder. “Or what?” She shifts her stance, angling her body.It’s an invitation to lose my mind, and fuck, I’m close.
“Or I start solving that problem myself,” I say, my voice devoid of warmth. “And you’re not gonna like how little freedom comes with that.”
She grins. “Are we talking about tying me up… or just adding a few more bruises to the collection?”
The heat hits my groin instantly, a physical slap of arousal.She’s fucking impossible tonight.
I turn away again, grabbing bottles, finishing closing duties that absolutely do not need finishing. Anything to keep distance. Anything to keep these fucking hands away from her, to stop the urge to pull her into a chair and make her understand the severity of everything. If she thinks I’m kidding, she hasn’t been paying attention.
The tar hums low beneath my skin—restless, awake, watching, waiting, wanting me to turn around and show her exactly who the fuck is in charge.
I cap another bottle.
Behind me, she moves to the register, pulling out the worn notebook I keep tucked beneath the drawer. The rustle of pages is unnaturally loud in the quiet.
“I dreamt of a mouth that spoke in silk,” she reads softly,
“but bit like glass.
A body colored by bruises,
and the audacity to make it art.”
My shoulders lock. “Those are private, you know,” I say, taking a slow drink just to give my hands something to do. Something that isn’t her.
