13. Micah
Shadows fill the room I wake in—the room I discovered after carrying Tiia through her apartment in search of somewhere horizontal to lie. Fluttering curtains sway in the windows, New York City intensity illuminating the space, and a soft breeze flittering in to touch our skin.
Barely.
It’s hot as Hades still, summer clinging to this city the way Lucifer grabs on to innocent women and makes them suffer.
Tiia’s skin prickles with sweat, her back just slick enough to signal she’s hot, but not so much that she actively perspires.
She snoozes on her belly, using her arms as her pillow; her soft breath, my lullaby.
Bad fucking move on my part.
And yet, I’m not ready to leave.
“Stop staring at me.” Her voice comes out on a sleepy mumble, her words muffled because her forearm smooshes her cheek. “You’re being weird about it.”
“I’m just looking at you.” I rest on my side, my palm cupping my jaw, and my free hand, running a light trail along the valley of her spine. “I’m allowed to look at you.”
“False.” She slurps to keep from dribbling. The least elegant sound I’ve ever heard come from a woman in my entire life. Still, I smile. “You aren’t allowed to look at me. In fact, you’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m looking because it’s too bright in here to sleep. And you’d miss me if I left. Don’t pretend otherwise.”
She snickers, quiet and breathy and not at all with me. “I reckon I’d like the chance to try. You muscled your way into my apartment.”
“To apologize.”
“To get laid.” Slowly, she flickers her eyes open and searches for me. “You wanted sex.”
“I wanted to tell you I was sorry for the way I’ve treated you.” Carefully, I lean over her delicate body and press a kiss to her shoulder blade. “I’ve been unkind to you.”
“Yes, you have.”
“And the other night when I threatened you…”
“Not okay.”
“No.” I inch closer and take her lips with mine. Just a small taste. A quick pass. “So I wanted to apologize for that, too. It wasn’t acceptable.”
She allows silence to hang for a long moment. For our mingling breath to be all we hear, and her pouty lips, all I see.
“Tiia?”
“I held a knife to your dick.” Her entire body vibrates with soft laughter. “I won’t apologize for that.”
“No?” I drop my hand to my cock and remember how close I came to leaving here a eunuch. “You think that was okay? A solid foundation for who we may someday become?”
“I consider it a fair warning.” Turning over, she moves to her back and smiles up at me. So beautiful in her bed. So tempting, always. “You know my boundary now. Should you wish to step on it in the future…”
I spy her bare chest and peaked nipples. So I take one between my lips, and grin when her words stop with a sharp intake of air. “Duly warned. I made a promise to not hurt you again.”
“And now we both get to see what kind of man you are beneath the talk.”
She arches her back, feeding her breast into my mouth. She wants my lips on her flesh. My teeth, biting at her skin. “Do you make promises, purely to hear yourself speak? Or are you a man of your word?”
“I’m a man whose word matters…” I bite down on her nipple and thrill in her groan, “when the person I’m conversing with matters.”
“Sounds like a cute way to skirt accountability and lie when it’s convenient.”
I release her breast and grab her hips instead. Then, flipping to my back, I bring her up and set her on my lap.
Her fiery pussy hovers over my hungry cock. Her body, bare and beautiful, presented to me in the most delicious way.
She panics for a beat, glancing down at where we could connect. Then she brings her eyes to me in search. “Micah…”
“I don’t have any more condoms.” I cup her tit in my left hand and hate how my missing digit stands out in direct contrast to her perfect skin. The brutish stitching, given under unfavorable circumstances. My imperfection, gaudy and blatant in comparison to her pure beauty.
But I steal my focus from what was done to me, and instead, drag my eyes up her long, delicate throat. Along her proud jaw and pointed nose. Finally, I stop on her blistering eyes, and grin. “But I made a promise not to hurt you. This is included in that.”
“No harm?”
“Not now. Not in the future. And not via an STD.”
Her eyes shutter, flashing from wariness to something else… something akin to desperation and acceptance. But she pushes up to her knees and creates a gap between her core and mine. “Help me. And don’t pull me down till I’m ready.”
“Set your hands on my chest and move at your own pace.” I hold her hips and take her weight, lining her up over my cock, and growl when she begins to lower herself down.
Her pussy is hotter than Hades, and when she touches my bare cock, no barrier between us, a desperate moan vibrates at the back of my throat. “Fuckkkkkk, Tiia.”
“I like it when you say that other word.” She lowers all the way, swallowing me up and dropping her head back. “Grah.”
“Grá.” I push up and take her breast between my lips. “You like that one?”
“It sounds nice.” She twines her fingers in the hair at the back of my head and rolls against my hips. Panting, she mewls. “What does it mean?”
“It means beautiful.” I promised not to hurt her. But I never said anything about telling the bald truth. So I drag her against my body and slide my tongue along her delicate neck. “It means you’re the most beautiful fucking creature I’ve ever met.”
“All that in one word?” She rolls her hips, fluid and delicious, and so fucking tight, she threatens to choke me to death. But I would die a happy man. “Grá.”
“Grá mo Chroí.” I flip us over and crush her to the mattress, taking her lips with mine and devouring. “Chroí means creature.” I charge forward and fill her up, sucking her exhaled air into the depths of my lungs and savoring the woman she is.
It might not last.
We’ve been doomed from the start.
But I intend to enjoy what we have, for as long as we have it.
Pleasure drags us toward the ledge of ecstasy as she drops her head back and blindly stares at the wall behind her bed. The veins in her neck stand proud, and her mouth falls open, a silent scream holding her captive.
She’s a succubus, sent straight from Hell to eat me up and destroy the very essence of who I always thought I would be.
I had a mission in this life. A goal. I was born for one very specific reason.
But now I only see her.
Fuck.
“Tiia…”
Idon’t know what time it is. Or how long until it’s officially morning. I don’t know where my brother is, or if he’s okay. And I have no clue why I’m still inside this apartment in the East Village, when the sky outside is black, though the interior of Tiia’s home is littered with fairy lights that ensure she’s never truly in pitch dark.
But I do know I need to piss. And that need fights with my desire to stay right here, dozing under her supple body, with my cock still nestled deep in her pussy.
It’s a good way to sleep, in my opinion. Inside her. Under her. Wrapped completely and totally around her, and acting as a pillow for her to rest upon.
But my bladder needs relief, and once I move, I’m not sure I’m the kind of guy who’ll sneak back in here and slide into bed again.
Locking down the grief already building at the base of my throat, I gently roll over and set her side on the mattress. Her shoulder and hip. Her long, long leg. I inch away and allow her to use her actual pillow as a pillow, and when she begins to stir, I stop.
Freeze.
I study her face, slack in sleep, and the way her long, brown hair dangles over her cheek. The locks that obscure her amber eyes, and the single strand that rests on her pert nose.
She might objectively be one of God’s favorites. Made flawlessly. Beautiful and pure, but with the mouth and attitude of the devil himself.
Despite my DNA, the tendency that runs in my Malone blood to silence strong women, I can’t find a single reason to not like the package Tiia Hale presents.
Sex and revenge, bullshit stories about heirloom Mongolian chests, and an incessant need to call me out, regardless of my preference to keep a low profile.
If I wanted a meek, quiet, affable woman, I could pick one off any street in New York. I could bed her. Breed her. Then keep or dispose of her, depending on my whims once the child arrived.
It could be easy, and I would never have to worry about having my neck slit open in my sleep.
But it’s only as I look at this woman—strong, fierce, iron-willed, and icy cold when ticked off—that my lips quirk up.
Carefully, I crawl out from beneath her body, locking down my groan of disappointment as I slip my cock free, and proof of my release dribbles to the mattress.
Gently, I set her down and consider staying right here. I could ignore my bladder. My thirst. My unquenchable and impossible desire to snoop around in her private space while she’s unconscious.
I could stay here and help myself to her body instead. Put my tongue where my cock was a moment ago, scoop my cum back up, and place it inside her sweet pussy where it belongs, then draw her to her peak, even while she sleeps.
Jesus.
My dick throbs with renewed want. But beneath that, my bladder aches.
Even more pressing, my mind spins.
So I turn on the bed and set my feet on the floor.
Looking down at my own naked form when flickering lights hit my skin, I catch glimpses of the scars marring my body. Stitching on my ribs, after knives sliced through them. An entry wound from a bullet, puckering the flesh inward; if I were to reach around to my back, I’d find where flesh explodes outward, the exit leaving its mark in a whole other way.
That’s only the visible aftermath. In my arm, I still feel where my bones were broken.
I wasn’t fortunate enough to have them reset the way other folks do, inside an ER or an orthopedic clinic. Most regular people have their bones straightened out. A cast fitted to protect the fragile spot while it mends. Or they undergo surgery, to get screws and plates installed.
Not me.
My brothers were more focused on ensuring I didn’t die of infection. So my fractured arm easily went forgotten; out of sight, out of mind. And in the months that have passed since my stint inside Pastore’s home, the bones have found their own remedy. They’ve fused, not necessarily straight, and not entirely structurally sound. But they bridged that gap to make the limb functional again.
I hardly ever notice the ache set deep in my arm, until I’m carrying a beautiful woman across her apartment and carefully placing her in bed.
Rolling my eyes, I push off the mattress and bend to grab my boxer shorts from the shadows where the artificial light from the street can’t quite reach. I step into the silky fabric and set my feet on the carpeted floor, then glancing back, I examine the woman laid out unconscious and naked.
Exposed to me.
She was terrified of me mere days ago… even hours ago. And now she’s bare. Vulnerable, and completely okay with it.
Makes her irresponsible.
And being irresponsible, in my world, is a recipe for disaster.
I turn from the bed and make my way into the hall, then just a few feet later, I find the bathroom without truly looking. Cold ekes from the hard floor, and the air in here is different, bouncing from tile to tile, instead of being absorbed by carpet and furnishings.
Stepping in and closing the door with a silent snick, I feel around for the light switch, finding it after only a moment.
Flipping it on, I squint to combat the sudden, harsh brightness and glaring white walls.
Tiia’s bathroom is hardly bigger than a public stall. The toilet practically touches the tub, and the tub butts up against the vanity. A white curtain hangs over the bath, which means if I pull it back to look inside, it’s a sure bet I’ll find a shower and an uncomfortably small space to maneuver oneself when they want to clean off after a long day.
Though, in Tiia’s defense, I doubt she’s in here washing another man’s blood from her skin.
Spying a small cup on the vanity, and inside it, a pink toothbrush and a three-quarters-empty tube of toothpaste, I take stock of the woman who lives here, seemingly alone. The bra slung over the towel rack, and the hairbrush tossed haphazardly on the counter.
I turn to the toilet and push the front of my shorts down, because the room is so small, I can study a woman’s private space while taking care of business. Saves time and makes me appear less guilty if she wakes up and finds me in here.
I peer down at the small rug scrunched against the base of the tub: sunburnt orange, a little like her eyes, and with a cartoony setting sun sewn into the design, complete with a smiling face.
It says SUNSHINE.
Cute.
As I relieve myself, aiming for the side of the bowl to minimize noise, I twist my upper torso toward the shower. Reaching out with one hand, I drag the plastic curtain aside and find a plethora of shampoo bottles, one in every color of the rainbow. Some with lids on, many with them off. A razor perches precariously on the edge of the tub, and a loofah almost as big as Tiia’s face hangs from the hot water tap.
Bright yellow and fluffy, it kind of ties in to the sunshine theme she has going on in here.
I turn the other way and check the other side of the bathroom, narrowing my eyes when my gaze stops on a drooping baby monstera. Shoots that are supposed to be tall and proud hang limp, and the leaves, supposed to be glossy green, are yellow, and browning on the edges. Truly, they would scream Get me the fuck out of here, if only they could speak.
This is a house of horrors, from the perspective of the flora.
Bringing my focus back to the toilet, I finish up, shake off, and pull my shorts up, then I lower the lid and turn away.
I don’t flush, because that would wake the woman whose very existence bothers me right this moment.
It’s not that fucking hard to keep a monstera alive!
Moving to the sink and flipping the tap on, I pump soap into my hands and quickly wash up, then I step to the suffering plant and stick my finger straight into the soil.
Soaked to the bone, though I know damn well she hasn’t watered it in the last eight or so hours.
“Fucking murder.” I remove my finger and step back, shaking my head as I reach up and bring the pot down from its fateful shelf.
Tipping it over the sink, careful not to dislodge too much soil, I pour the excess water into the crisp white basin and send up my apologies to the plant gods for allowing a woman so inept at keeping a plant alive to buy an innocent monstera and condemn it to a long, painful death.
“What are you doing?”
I jump and spin, sending mud and dirt flying across the counter as I hug the plant to my side and reach for my gun, though I’m not fucking carrying it right now. I lock eyes with the beautiful seductress by the door, her body covered, barely, in a cute little satin slip that reveals pebbled nibbles and… well, pretty much everything else.
Not that I’m upset about that fact. But shit, I’ve never quite understood the desire to buy clothes that don’t actually clothe a person.
“Are you killing my plant while I sleep?” She pushes up to her toes and attempts to look inside the pot. “Micah? You’re hurting it.”
“You’re killing it!” I twist back and continue pouring, because water still laps from the plastic container and leaks along my flesh. “You’re drowning the poor fucking thing, and sleeping just down the hall like a psychopath.”
“It’s not drowning.” She steps into the too-small bathroom and tries to squeeze into the gap between me and the wall. “It was too dry, so I watered it.”
“It’s allowed to be dry. It’s not allowed to be swimming in its own pot.”
“Micah!” She tries again to shove me aside. “Google says it’s a tropical plant! Tropical means humidity. It means moisture.”
“Humans need to drink water to live, too. Doesn’t mean you hold a man down and waterboard him. Jesus.”
“Micah!”
“I’m keeping this plant.” I crush the pot to my ribs and use my free hand to push her face away. It’s a little violent, I suppose. Some might say abusive. But she murders plants for fun, and now she won’t let me help it. So I shove her back and spin out of the bathroom. “You’re banned from buying any living green thing ever again.”
“You are rude!” She stomps after me, heavy-footed and angry, as I move along the hall. “You sneak around my home and snoop on my things, and now you’re stealing from me!”
“I’m saving you from bad karma and a guilty conscience.”
I charge into the kitchen to find our dinner still cluttering one end of the counter, and Tiia’s knife, still laying on the floor. Our history, laid out as a stark reminder of who we were just a few hours ago.
Of course, I knew our recent state wouldn’t last. We argue; it’s what we do. Beneath the sex and shine and raging hormones, we don’t actually like each other all that much.
Passing the oven, I snatch the hand towel from where it hangs over the handle and toss it to the counter, then I set the monstera on top to drain the excess water still dribbling from its tray. “You’re a terrible plant owner, Tiia Hale.”
“Bullshit!” She comes up to the other side of the counter, her nose wrinkling and her lips folding like a cute little bulldog’s. “I’ve owned that plant for a year already. A year! If I was bad at it, it would have died already.”
“A year! And it hasn’t grown a single fucking inch, has it?”
I open drawers one after another in search of paper towels. I find knives and forks. Scissors. Bottle stoppers. Oven mitts. A spatula, and measuring cups. I push the current drawer closed, no concern for the neighbors sleeping downstairs, then open the next.
“Your pot is way too big for a plant this size, but,” I strike gold when I find a full roll of paper towels in the cupboard by the sink. Tearing off a half-dozen squares, I dab at the top of the soil to collect more of the water. “This plant should be big enough to fill this pot. You’ve completely starved the poor thing of nutrients, and probably let the roots rot.”
I shake my head when the wad of paper instantly sucks up enough moisture that it’s dripping, and I have to toss the lot in the trash and tear more from the roll. “You’re pretty, Tiia. And you know antiques.” I purse my lips and meet her gaze. “Stay in your lane, and leave what you don’t know to those who do.”
Her gaze turns fiery in an instant. “Listen here, you elitist jackass. It’s a plant! You water it, it grows and looks pretty for you. I put it in a room that gets high humidity, I water it once a day, and it lives—a whole year so far, so don’t tell me I’m no good at this.”
“You water it once a day?” I press another thick wad of towel to the top of the soil and soak up more of the excess. “Once a day! Tiia, you should be watering it once a week at most. Once every two weeks would be fine. And what about sunlight?”
Her eyes narrow.
“It needs sunlight!”
“It gets light from the…” She moves to her back foot and folds her arms. “From the lights. The bathroom even comes with a heater in them. That’s plenty.”
“I should flog you.” Growling, I cast a look around the apartment in search of more victims.
I didn’t notice any earlier—though, in my defense, I was all about keeping myself alive and making apologies to the one I owed them to. But that was yesterday. That was a whole lifetime ago, when she and I were different people, and earning her forgiveness was my only objective.
Today, I’m ready to piss her off all over again. Because when my eyes lock on a dead palm by the television, rage spears through my blood. “You fucked that one up too!”
“What?” She follows my gaze, and frowns when she understands. “That’s my cordyline. It’s supposed to look like that. The first picture that pops up on Google even shows them with bright red leaves.”
“It’s a lady palm. It’s supposed to be green. And that’s not ‘red,’” I glare at the side of her face. “It’s dead.”
“You’re an ass.”
“You’re a neglectful and bad plant owner.” I toss my paper towels aside and set my hands on the counter. “I’m taking the monstera home. You’ve lost custody.”
“You have a tendency to steal, and you’re not even man enough to be discreet about it.”
“It’s not stealing. It’s being humane. The plant did nothing to deserve this kind of treatment.” I leave the monstera behind, having done all I can until I get it home and set up beside its ivy friend, then I circle the counter and stop only when my chest touches Tiia’s.
She folds her neck back, afraid, and yet, completely and fearlessly challenging.
“Please stop buying plants,” I grit out. “You can’t take care of them the way they deserve.”
“Please stop being condescending.” She pops a brow high on her forehead. “It’s not sexy. And it’s three in the morning! I don’t appreciate being woken at such a god-awful hour to find a man fleecing my bathroom.”
“I needed to pee, and I was being quiet.” I bring my hand up to stroke her neck, placing my fingers around to touch the bumps of her spine, and the pad of my thumb against the front of her throat, so when she swallows nervously, it’s all I feel. All I see. “You didn’t have to get up. I didn’t disturb you.”
“I fell asleep with you beside me.” She stands on her toes and studies my lips. Her body warmth, seeping into my skin. “I woke alone.”
“You fell asleep with me inside you.” I draw her higher, until only a hair’s breadth separates our lips. “You missed me.”
She looks to the left, her eyes the only movement, since I hold her face still. “Did not. I don’t miss men in my bed. That’s stupid.”
“Uh huh.” I slide my tongue along her lips, and grin when she opens up. “You missed me. You actually like me, huh?”
“No.”
“Yes you do.” I bring my free hand around to cup her ass, kneading it in my palm until she whimpers. “You hate it. You absolutely loathe the idea of liking me. But here you are, practically naked in your kitchen at three in the morning, wanting me to come back to bed.”
“No.” She turns her face and closes her eyes, but her lips brush over the veins in my wrist. She kisses me, even when she wishes she wouldn’t. “You could leave now and that would be okay. I have to work later, which means I need to sleep now. You don’t have to be here for that.”
“Alright.” I lean in and press a kiss to the very corner of her lips. “Since you’ve made your stance so clear.” Another kiss. “I’ll take my monstera and go.” Releasing her so she stumbles back and her eyes pop open, I sweep up my new plant and turn toward the door. “It was nice fucking you, Ms. Hale. Thanks for dinner. You made for the perfect dessert.”
“No, wait!” She sprints across the space and plasters her back to the door, her chest heaving, and her little slip, lifting and falling with every breath she takes. Her long legs are bare, and my cum, I’m certain, marks her thighs. “I mean…” She gulps. “It’s dark out, right? Super late.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark.”
“But I am…” She looks left. Then right. Anywhere but at me. “If you wanted to stay until morning, I suppose that would be okay.”
I have to swallow my laughter. Choke it down and keep it in the depths of my lungs, or risk another visit with the sharp knife glinting from the other side of the kitchen.
She’s crazy if she thinks I was leaving in my boxer shorts; wandering the halls with no shoes, no wallet, no weapon, and a dying monstera is not really my MO. But I want her to eat her ego and ask me to stay. Stop being so fucking proud, and show me a little affection, so I can stop thinking this is all on me.
I’m not the guy who catches feelings. I don’t stay once we’ve fucked and the deed is done.
But I care about her.
And that reality, that fucking weakness, makes me a little sick to my stomach.
This particular weakness, for a Malone, is essentially a death wish dressed in silk.
“Stay,” she pleads. “Come back to bed with me. For as long as it’s night, we can pretend this isn’t a big deal.”
“And tomorrow?” I turn and set the plant back on the counter. Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I wonder out loud, “What happens when the sun rises?”
She draws a deep breath, filling her lungs so her body rises from the door, then exhales again as I glance over my shoulder.
“We go back to you being Micah Malone. You’re the guy whose family isn’t exactly… ya know…” She worries her own lip. “Legal. And I’m the woman who works in antiques and kills plants. We don’t fit together. I’m not allowed to want you. But here, in my apartment…”
“We fit?” I look her seductive body up and down and meander forward, stopping only when her entire frame becomes an inferno, burning my flesh. “For as long as it’s dark, we can pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist?”
She nods. Short, sharp, and jerky enough to let me know how nervous she is.
I set my hands on her hips. “How tired are you?”
“Not at all.” Her eyes flick between mine. “You?”
“Not at all.”
I pick her up, and groan when her legs automatically go around my hips. She was made to wrap around me. Created to fit against my body the way puzzle pieces click together.
I spin us away from the door and walk back into the hall. But instead of stumbling to her bed and throwing us down, I detour to the tiny bathroom and risk both our necks when I set her on the vanity and reach into the shower to flip on the taps.
The cold plastic curtain sticks to my wrist as soon as water touches my flesh, but I bring my focus back to Tiia. To her supple body waiting for me. To her legs, still cinched around my hips.
While the water warms, I stare down at her creamy thighs. Push up the silk of her nightgown and reveal her core, already wet, already waiting for me.
Best of all, already claimed by me.
“Fuckkkkk.” I let the room fill with steam, while I drop to my knees and eat her up.
“Micah!” She throws her head back and fists my hair. “Oh shit.”
“Mine.”