33. Eleanor
33
Eleanor
This is what gets the tears?
“Is it—are you hurt?” he asks in an urgent tone.
“No. I couldn’t… I can’t cry. Aren’t—don’t people cry when they’re scared? Or when they see…” I shiver, remembering the pale skin and sightless eyes of those two men. And the knives… covered in so much blood…
I didn’t expect him to come into the shower. And I could barely see him through the glass doors with the steam and running water, so I didn’t expect him to look so beat up. But he doesn’t give me a chance to get a good look at the bruises or blood stains. He sits on the floor next to me, pulls me into his lap, tucks my head under his chin, and drapes my legs over his.
“Shh.” He sweeps a hand up and down my back in a comforting gesture. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry.”
I swallow and shake my head. Why is he sorry? I flatten my hand against his chest, watching as the water beads against my skin and slides down towards my arm. The warmth of the shower helped with the shivering at first, and it felt so good that I didn’t want to get out. I’m probably using up all the hot water. I’m the one who should be sorry—
No, I shouldn’t. What a weird thought.
God, I feel so weird. Like I’m going to float away.
“You’re hurt?” I ask, trying to tilt my head back to see. I thought I’d caught the outline of bruising and swelling on his jaw. He hugs me tighter, not letting me pull back.
“Not badly. ”
“Good. That’s… good,” I whisper. I feel like I have to tell him, like I need to confess. If their whole mission is screwed up now, it was my fault. “I was so stupid, Mac.”
“Shh,” he repeats gently.
“I saw him—Rossi—and I stayed at the table because we hadn’t paid… Dimitri had to come in to get me… God, I was so dumb. I should have left.”
“Eleanor, stop. I know you were scared. You didn’t know what to do and I wasn’t there. I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault, baby. I should never have taken you out.”
“You didn’t know that would happen,” I argue.
“It’s no excuse. Your safety is my responsibility.”
I wipe the water out of my eyes—tap, not tears—and blink. The declaration warms me from the inside in a way the hot water hasn’t been able to touch, but it doesn’t really make much sense. I’m an adult, my safety is my own responsibility. Sure, he knows more about the dangers than I do in this particular situation, but he can’t feel responsible for the stupid choices I make.
“Why?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything, so I tilt back and look up at him. I’m not surprised to find the intensity in his features but a little taken aback by the level of it.
“Because I…” his eyes flick back and forth between mine. “I care about you. And I got you into this.”
I feel my lips stretch and part a little. He cares about me. It feels ridiculous that this is the first thing that’s broken through the weird, cold numbness. “I care about you, too.”
He smiles and winces, then I see the swelling on his jaw. I trace it gently, skimming the area with the very tips of my fingers. “What happened?”
What he tells me is surely the abridged version, but I appreciate that there are enough details that I’m sure he didn’t leave out anything important. I shift away to make room so I can unbutton his shirt, and hiss in sympathy at the blue skin—that’s going to make a colorful bruise tomorrow. I take his hand, and examine the cuts on his knuckles.
Finally, I feel ready to leave the heat. I stand awkwardly, and shut the main valve. He’s out of the shower and holding open a towel for me before I can offer him my hand up, and I have to contain a smile at the sight of him trying to help me dry myself while he’s making a puddle on the floor. I let him wind it around me, then watch as he drops his sopping clothes before getting one for himself.
The sight of his toned ass makes me look away and busy myself with giving my hair a rough towel dry. It feels wrong to be lusting after him when he’s injured.
I grab his clothes—which, wet, weigh a ton—from the floor for him and deposit them on top of mine in the washer, and crank it. Dimitri told me to wash my dress, but I’d waited for him.
“Go sit on the bed,” I instruct him as I turn to rifle around in the supply baskets in the closet. I know I saw some first aid supplies. At his quizzical head tilt, I explain, “I’m going to put antibiotic ointment on your hand and bandage it.”
His answering smile is tender. “Darlin’, you don’t have to—”
“It’s not a request,” I say, lifting my chin, echoing his words when he first applied the medicated psoriasis cream for me. Even though I’m not sure I’m even capable of the same amount of confidence he’d had when he’d said it, it feels like the right thing to say.
He steps towards me and brushes his lips against mine. There’s no real heat to it, it’s more of a thank you, and he goes to do as I asked.
When I exit the bathroom, I see that he’s stretched out on the bed. His towel is still tucked around his waist, and he’s slightly upright against the padded headboard. I expect him to move over to make room for me to sit, but he doesn’t. He looks at me and gestures to his outstretched legs. “You know what I’m going to ask. Darlin’, I need this. For once—”
I cut him off by climbing up next to him, balancing myself against his chest for as long as it takes to throw my knee over his legs, and settling back onto my heels. He’s been injured tonight, but he knows his limitations. He won’t let me hurt him. I am careful of the area on his stomach where he was hit, though.
His towel is against my bare skin and I can feel every movement underneath me. It’s almost distractingly arousing, but I try to focus. He needs this.
His left hand grips my hip and he presents his right to my inspection. I uncap the ointment and lay the roll of gauze on the bed next to me until I need it. “What happens now? With Rossi and everything? ”
He inhales and watches my fingers move gently over the broken skin. I keep glancing up, expecting a wince or some sort of indication of pain. There is none.
“It’s a bit of a waiting game. Most of his men are dead now, so he may retreat. At least we have some idea of where he is, though.”
“Do you think he’s been staying in that house you followed him to all along?”
“Possibly. Wes will need to do a little digging on that property—it didn’t show in our initial search under his name and we also checked properties registered to his wife and kids. We might have missed one he bought for another family member or something.”
I screw the cap back on the ointment and lay it on the bed next to us. The gauze is next, and I break open the sterile seal. He holds his hand up, wearing a patient expression, as I try to find the end of the roll. “Why do you think he was there with the mayor? Especially so late—so close to closing.”
“He’s probably in Rossi’s pocket. Bribes, that sort of thing.”
I consider that as I start carefully winding the white fabric loosely around his hand. “It’s weird. I didn’t even recognize the mayor, but I knew immediately it was Rossi.”
“It’s not that strange—lots of people don’t follow local politics.”
“I guess,” I allow. I don’t follow local politics that closely, but I’m pretty sure I could pick out our Attorney General and the office of Mayor is at least that important. “It just seems strange to me. Rossi’s face is everywhere—bus stops, billboards, stuff like that—and the mayor’s isn’t. It’s like he doesn’t want us regular people to know who he is.”
“He may not. If people know who he is, they’ll ask for things. I’m sure he’s just coasting—running unopposed and taking money under the table.”
I tuck the end of the gauze into the wrapping I made and Mac drops his bandaged hand to my hip, gripping loosely. I let my gaze settle onto the outline of trauma on his stomach. My lower lip quivers, so I press it against the top one as I run my fingers gently over the ridges of his abdomen.
“It’s okay,” he assures me, covering my hand with his uninjured one. “It’s a little sore, but it doesn’t really hurt. ”
“ You ,” I correct. “It doesn’t hurt you . It would hurt me. And that makes me wonder what happened to you that being punched in the stomach doesn’t even register.”
“It’s not worth wondering about.”
I look up, aghast. “How can you say that? Someone was trying to cause pain! To k-kill you—” All of the sudden, my eyes fill with tears. It surprises me so much that I gasp.
Mac sits up, wrapping a thick arm around my back and cupping my cheek with the other. “Hey, no. Baby, stop. There’s no real damage.”
But I’m rattled. This is what gets the tears? Not the dead men, or the blood, or the fear, or the worry… It’s the thought that Mac was hurt, that he’s been hurt so bad in the past that he barely perceives it, and that he’s so unbothered by it that I know he’s accepted that it will happen again in the future? The ache that makes in my chest is deep, stealing my breath.
I slide both hands to frame his face, lean forward and kiss him, tasting the salt of my tears. I meant for it to just be emotional—an apology for whatever he’s been through, an assurance that I feel for him, a promise of some kind that I can’t even identify—but his hand slides to the nape of my neck and he deepens it. I feel his cock hardening under me, pressing the soft towel harder against where all the heat and need is pooling, and I can’t help myself as I rock against it.
Realizing what I’m doing, I pull back, shocked at myself. But with a growl, he fists the terrycloth at my hip and yanks it, jerking the whole thing to the ground before I can grab onto it. My hands drop to his chest as he flexes a thick arm and uses his grip in my hair to bring me back in.
I allow myself to pour what I’m feeling into him because it feels so good to let it go. Fear, anger, horror, dread, cowardice, self-loathing, everything becomes a spiral of passion and yearning that he takes from me and gives back to me as only more heat. Raw lust zings through me, bringing a rush of moisture, readying my body.
I have to tear myself away this time. “Wait, but you’re all bruised,” I protest.
“Not being inside you is what hurts.”
He bends his neck, dropping his head at the same time that he grabs my breast. Taking the sensitive peak into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around it and the skin tingles, hardening painfully. I cry out, letting my head fall back, and he repeats the action on the other nipple. I stroke his soft, still damp hair as he teases me with the pleasure-pain that sets my body on fire.
His left arm snakes down, winding under my ass and lifting me slightly. Then his towel is open. This time when I lower my pussy against him, it’s only searing, unyielding flesh against me. I moan as I roll my hips, rubbing the length of him through my lips.
His torso falls back a few inches, resting against the headboard again. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need. Give me that beautiful body.”
The tip of his cock against the hardened, pulsating center of my desire is almost enough to get me there. But I need him inside me more than I need to come. I rise on my knees and reach down to align his head with my entrance. Then I slide down slowly.
We both make long noises of hunger and satisfaction as I sink onto him. I barely maintain the presence of mind to make sure his noises aren’t also edged with the wrong kind of pain. They’re not. On his face is nothing but lust and awe. I lean forward, pressing against his chest and needing my lips on his as I start slow movements with my legs and pelvis.
He answers me with an all-consuming longing that matches my own. We kiss, exploring each other’s mouths, as our bodies rock together. He’s unbelievably deep inside me, each small motion nudging him to the very end of what I have to give. It’s like being glued to someone, not allowing an inch of space between us. I feel like I’d crawl inside him if I could.
I break away when the need for air and more pressure gets the better of me. He takes both breasts, squeezing then rubbing rough thumbs over my nipples, and I find a rhythm that gives us both a little more. More impact and stimulation and pleasure.
“I was really scared when you were gone,” I say, letting the emotions well in my throat and spill out however they want. Now that we’re so connected again, it doesn’t feel as hard to do.
“I know. Never again. I’m never leaving you like that again.”
“Never again,” I moan. “Mac, you feel so good.”
“Fuck me, baby,” he urges. “Use me to feel good.”
I almost argue—that’s not what this was supposed to be about—but a wave of pleasure crashes down over my shoulders as my fingers find my clit. His hand—the injured one—pinches my nipple and I cry out.
“Mac, please—”
“Do it, come for me. My good girl.”
Between the gentle friction of my fingers exactly where and how I like, the not-so-gentle pressure of his cock deep inside me, and the words—the reminder that I’m his—I’m done. The orgasm barely builds before I’m tumbling over the peak. The pleasure is extraordinary, shooting out from where our bodies are connected and, for a brief moment, my senses get all mixed up. It fills every limb of my body with colors. It feels loud.
I open my eyes and see nothing but so much tenderness as he watches me come down from my high, I almost lose it again. His abdomen is tensing, forcing his hips and cock up inside me as much as he can, prolonging the pleasure. I fold forward to kiss him again, and rise.
“Okay, now you come for me.”
I set a steady pace, up and down, enjoying the feeling as much as I enjoy watching him fall apart under me. His eyes are locked where his cock sinks in and out as I ride him. I’m not sure what kind of dirty talk he really likes, since he’s usually the one instigating, but I do know a few things he likes to hear…
“It’s all for you. Only you.”
His eyes fly up to meet mine, wide and surprised, like he’s checking if I’m serious. “Eleanor—”
“Yours,” I promise. “Yours, yours, yours, yours.”
I barely make it all the way back up and down before his body is tensing under me. His mouth opens wide as his head goes back, though the sound that escapes is choked. His legs jerk underneath me, his fingers dig hard into my hips, and every muscle in his chest and abs comes into stark relief. God, he is stunning.
He finishes, and I can feel the effect of gravity on our mixed fluids as I climb off and fall to my side next to him. I’m a little sore, tired, and drunk on pleasure, the way only really intense sex makes you.
“I didn’t think I could come if I was on the bottom,” he says as he turns towards me .
“Have you never before?” At his shake of the head, I smile. “I do like being on top, but I have to admit that I love being under you.”
He grins and settles his hand in the valley of my waist. “Then don’t be surprised if that’s how you wake up in a few hours.”
Even though we just did all that, my body instantly responds to it. I feel my nipples prickle and my sex pulsate. “My favorite way to wake up.”