Shit.
I caught a glimpse of his tight ass before he disappeared from view. Not because he closed the door, no, he left it wide open, but because he stepped behind the gaudy shower curtain.
I fell back onto the bed, covering my face with my hands. I was turned on. Hot, wet and throbbing. I was turned on by a guy’s legs and ass. But Jasper didn’t have just any ass; it was rock hard and round and curved perfectly into his sculpted thighs. This was mortifying. I was wearing his boxers, wet and feeling emotions I never knew I had. And the worst part was he knew it.
I’d never been concerned what others thought about my scars, but suddenly I was. Now it mattered. Now I wanted to keep myself covered from him and I hated feeling insecure about myself, but Jasper looking at my marred skin . . . it raised my awareness of what I looked like.
I heard the crinkle of paper and suspected he’d found the cheap soaps I’d thrown in the trash along with the one I used.
“Fuck, that’s cold,” Jasper shouted.
I bit my lower lip and smiled. I didn’t realize how good it felt to smile, how much I missed it until I did it. It was like I was lighter, warmer and the dredge of blackness faded for a single second.
Then I locked it away again. Because with one emotion came others. Others that would break me wide open.
I got up, yanked the comforter off the bed then threw a pillow on the floor beside it. I tugged back the white sheets, crawled underneath and curled on my side, my hands beneath the pillow. The sound of the shower mixed with the steady drone of a newscaster’s voice on the television lulled me to sleep within seconds.
I TOWELED OFF MY HAIR while standing naked beside the bed watching Max, curled up fast asleep. A strand of hair fell across her nose and when she exhaled, the fine hairs lifted then fell back. I reached forward to push them aside then stopped myself.
What the fuck was I doing? Jesus. I had no business touching her like that. No business liking this chick and yet . . . I did. At first, I thought it was lust and it was; I wanted to fuck her, still did, but after watching her . . . seeing how she held back the smile as she ran her fingertips through the wildflowers every morning. How she blew on her coffee every single time before that first sip. The way her brows drew together when she was practicing with her blades. It was the only time I saw that hidden determination in her. She hid it from Xamien with the way she bowed her head and quietly spoke to him, but there was always tension in her shoulders. And once when he walked away from her, I saw the flicker of sadness in her eyes as she stared after him. And that I didn’t like. I knew there was nothing going on between them, but I still didn’t like the fact she felt something for the powerful and noble-as-hell Taldeburu.
What I loved was fucking with her, seeing her hackles rise and the heat in her cheeks. It was the only way I could get a reaction from her and I craved it. Needed it. And fuck if I didn’t want to kiss every inch of her until she purred in my arms.
But I don’t soothe.
I fuck.
Fucking wasn’t emotional. It was a basic need. But for some screwed-up reason, the idea of fucking her was all-consuming.
I stepped back from the bed and my foot landed on the comforter. My eyes hit the pillow next to it. Like hell I was sleeping on the fuckin’ floor. This chick really had a few lessons to learn in how this all was going down.
But Max had boundary issues. I didn’t do well with that. I liked to peel the layers back, make them bleed then if I needed to I could use what I had to against them to get what I wanted.
I was good at breaking boundaries, rules and whatever else. Living my way of life there was no time for personal bullshit. Mine was locked down so tight, not even a Scar Reflector could reach my secrets.
The way Max subtly flinched when I touched her—boundary issue.
Wanting her own room—boundary issue.
Comforter and pillow on the floor—boundary issue.
Fuck that.
I broke that boundary with the kiss. She’d been stiff under my lips at first and I guessed she’d had fuck-all experience or if she did, it was with some piss poor kisser who couldn’t take what he wanted. I made no mistake about showing a woman what it was like to be taken. Shit¸ they wanted that and if they didn’t, then they weren’t a chick I cared to sink my cock into.
I’d purposely undressed before going into the bathroom. If she’d seen my smirk or my hard-on from thinking about her watching me—because I sure as hell knew she was from the sound of her racing heartbeat—she’d have run for the door. I almost wished she had because then I’d have had to catch her. My cock stirred at the thought of holding her struggling body up against me.
I had no doubt she’d fight me the first time. It would be a battle of wills, but she’d be wet as hell and throbbing for me. I’d feel the leashed desire pulsing through her veins, needing to be set free. And I was going to be the one to unsnap it while I drove inside her.
I ran my hand through my damp hair, and then kicked the pillow. Fuck. I needed to get laid. I hadn’t been with a chick for months.
Months. Yeah, fuckin’ six months.
I was always clear to any chick I sunk my cock into—take and leave. My motto. I’d give her the best sex she’d ever had then leave. I didn’t see it as selfish, the opposite in fact. I gave her the best pleasure she’d ever had then left before she ever got to know me—I was doing her a favor by leaving. Sometimes, I came back for seconds, months later, but staying too long in one woman’s bed led to attachments. Attachments led to caring and caring had no business in my life. It would get me killed and anyone else close to me.