Page 223 of A Vicious Love

She hesitated, then turned her back to me.

I gathered the dark length carefully, threading it through my fingers. It was cooler than I expected, thick and soft, holding the faint scent of her shampoo. My hands looked wrong with it. Too large. Too scarred. Accustomed to more violent work. I took my time anyway, pulling it together at her nape, keeping the touch gentle because gentleness from me still felt new enough to startle her.

She sat very still.

I tied the ribbon once, then twice, making the bow sit straight. The memory of another bow tried to surface, pale blue satin around her waist, her thanking me as if one decent movement from me deserved worship.

She reached back and touched the ribbon. “You’re good at bows.”

“I have many talents.”

“How many involve tying things?”

My hand paused.

She froze as if she had surprised herself with the question. Heat moved through the room so fast it could have been another lightning strike.

I leaned closer, mouth near the side of her neck. “Enough to make that a dangerous question.”

Her breath caught.

I let her sit with it for one second.

Then I kissed her.

Only the side of her neck. Only once. A tiny inhale from her that nearly ended my saintly era on contact. I drew back before I turned worship into conquest.

“Good night, baby.”

She did not move for a moment. Then she turned only enough for me to see her cheek.

“Good night, Jamison.”

No Jamjam.

No hand.

Still, my name sounded less cold than before.

That would do for tonight.

She lay down facing away from me. I switched off the lamp and lay on my back with a measured distance between us, though every part of me wanted to drag her into the curve of my body and lock the world outside until it learned manners.

Sienna slept first.

It took time. Her breathing stayed light for a while, changing every time I shifted, then gradually settled when I kept my hands to myself and my mouth shut.

I stayed awake.

Fucking feelings found me in the dark.

Guilt came first, thick and useless. I hated useless things. Anger could be aimed. Desire could be fed or denied. Guilt simply sat in the chest and made a man listen to echoes he would rather bury. Sadness followed, quieter and more offensive, because it had no enemy attached. No throat to close a hand around.

Beside me, she slept.

I did not. She was inches away and years away at the same time. I stared up at the ceiling.

Emotional growth was fucking disgusting.