Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Mina
It’s been twenty-four hours since I cut my mother off, and I’ve learned something: it’s possible to not have tense shoulders.
There’s no weight on my chest, my mind feels clearer, I’m more awake, and I feel like I’ve stepped out of a two-hour body massage, still drunk on the rush of being relaxed.
I finish typing up the text to Joyce as I hear the shower turn off upstairs.
Mina: Does 6 work?
I reached out to her a couple days ago and apologized for my behavior. She understood the moment I blamed it on Mom and was over the moon when she found out I pulled the plug. I’ll be forever grateful for how quickly she forgave me and went back to acting like nothing happened.
Joyce is, of course, skeptical about me moving to another city with Leo, but supportive enough to promise bodily harm against him if he hurts me.
I figured we can catch up tonight before Leo and I head off in two days.
Joyce: Fuck yeah. That Korean place with the bomb cheesy tteokbokki?
Mina: For the nostalgia.
I send my response just as Leo descends the stairs freshly washed, shirtless, and with gray sweats that hang dangerously low around his hips. My mouth starts watering like I’m a teenage girl who’s never seen a man before.
Leo’s been shirtless in front of me a great many times in the past week and a bit, and the outline of his cock beneath his sweats will never not get me going like I’m some sex machine.
I swear the bulge grows bigger with every step he takes toward me.
If his cocky grin tells me anything, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
A wave of guilt dampens the ache in my lower stomach. My uterus has been too crampy to handle any type of action because the very bodily response of arousal causes a stabbing ache to start up.
We haven’t done more than kiss here and there, and beyond a good old-fashioned ogle, he’s been a gentleman in making sure I want to keep it in my pants.
But right now, none of that discomfort is here, and I very much wouldn’t mind climbing him like a tree.
Unfortunately, he has to go to work, and a dead man is being lowered into the ground.
That reminder has me shifting on the couch as the need to wash my hands builds. Whenever I think about that night, I’m certain if I look down, I’ll still have his blood on my skin. I don’t regret what I did. I’d do it again if I had the chance. I just need to accept this is the price I must pay.
Clearing my throat, I lower my phone onto the armrest of the couch. “Are you sure you don’t want to go to the funeral before you head out? I can come with you.” He has to do a media appearance for one of his smaller sponsors before his contract with them ends.
He quirks a brow. “Certain.”
I’ve asked him several times over the past few days, and his answer is always the same, so I don’t know why I bother asking again.
“Is the fact that your parents will be there impacting your decision?” He told me they’ve been under the same roof and crossed paths multiple times, but they haven’t spoken since he left home.
The last thing he gives a shit about is the PR of going. The Serpents’ coach and his agent have been pressuring him to attend, and honestly, it would be better from a get-away-with-murder perspective, but Leo said he wants to wash his hands of it all and start fresh.
With me.
And the apartment in Chicago that we’re going to move into at the end of the week now that he’s been officially traded.
Leo shakes his head as he settles into the empty seat beside me and pulls me to his side. It’s an immediate response to lean into him and nuzzle my cheek against his shoulder.
“I don’t care if strangers will be there. Not even a bottle of absinthe will get me through half a day of the Jack show.”
I nod in understanding. The threat of getting caught will never be completely gone, but I get where he’s coming from. He’s been forcing himself into uncomfortable situations for too long, and he doesn’t want to do it anymore.
“How long until you need to go?” I wrap my arms around him and glance up at him through my lashes.
There’s a pause before he answers. “Three more hours.”
Before I can get another word out, I’m hauled over his shoulder with a sharp, swift smack to my ass.
“Leo!” I screech, trying to find my balance by pushing myself away from his back. “What are you doing? Put me down.”
He crosses the living room, passes the kitchen, and carries me up the stairs like I weigh nothing. “Killing time.”
Huh?
Oh.
I understand his intention loud and clear when his hand slides up the back of my thigh, and his fingers find home at my center, rubbing me through my leggings. I squeal, kicking my legs against his chest because I’m far from mentally prepared for that type of contact.
He unceremoniously throws me onto the bed, and a smile splits across my face as I scramble back, making him grin down at me as a predatory glint lights up his eyes. The lack of physical contact gives my mind a second to come to terms with the amount of skin-on-skin that’s about to happen.
Leo stops, standing too far away for my liking. “Are you sore?” His voice dips with concern.
I shake my head once as the guilt rises up my chest.
“Mina—”
“I’m not. I promise.”
He studies me for a moment, and I repeat my promise. The last thing I want is to start crying mid-sex again.
The mattress dips as he crawls toward me and grips my ankle to draw me closer. I explode into a fit of giggles. He gropes my flesh as he continues up my body until he’s hovering over me, and I playfully try to fight him off.
Moisture pools between my legs when his hard length presses against my sex, and my back arches to feel his chest brush against my nipples.
“Don’t you want to help me get a pump on before my photoshoot?” He yanks my leggings down my legs with surprising ease. “Remember how good you are at working out?” He winks, teasing me about my lame excuse when he called mid–towel ride.
I still. My face flames as I realize he would’ve witnessed the whole thing whether or not I accepted his video request. “What else did you see?”
Mischief dances in his eyes. “Baby, you don’t want to know.”
That’s mildly alarming. I filter through my memory, trying to remember all the weird shit I’ve done in my room, which is a lot. Bad outfits, strange meals, odd poses because I can’t sit still, and don’t even get me started on the countless times I’ve masturbated.
The only feeling I can muster is embarrassment.
Not to mention, there’s video evidence of the one time I saw him without clothes, and I had to go ahead and screw it up.
“I guess that makes up for ruining our first time.” My response doesn’t dampen the mood like I thought it would.
He stills, a coy smile playing along his lips. “That wasn’t our first time.”
What did he just say?
I must have misheard. No. Nope. There’s no way he’s telling me that the one time he put his dick in me was in fact not the one time.
“I told you that you’ve always been such a heavy sleeper.”
My jaw drops as I stare up at him. That means . . .
A hesitant frown wrinkles his forehead. “Are you upset?”
The rational answer would be to say an absolute, hundred percent yes. I was asleep and unaware. Therefore, on paper, he violated me. I should be upset about that.
But fucking hell, I’m getting wetter at the thought. I can practically feel my pupils blowing out imagining him sneaking into my bedroom, pushing my panties to the side, and gently sliding into me.
I shake my head in answer, breathing hard as that imagery plays on repeat. If he looks at the state of my panties, he’ll know that upset I most definitely am not. Frankly, I’m impressed . . . and a little mortified that someone else could’ve done it, and I would’ve slept through it.
“Do I want to know what else you’ve done to me while I’ve been asleep?” I bite the inside of my cheek, waiting for his answer.
My brows draw together when he leans back. Not the answer I was looking for, but I don’t mind reconvening this discussion when I’m tempted to hump his leg just to get friction.
Except he doesn’t pounce on me. He twists his torso to show me the ink on his ribs. There, in tiny letters, is JSD.
“I had it done three months ago,” he explains.
“What does it stand for?” The way he’s looking at me tells me I should know. I’m coming up blank.
“Jasmina Santos Duval.”
I blink. “Duval?”
He shrugs. “Might as well have all the initials right the first time, so I don’t need to get any removed and corrected.”
My stomach hurts from how frantically the little butterflies are swooping. God, I’m about to turn into a giggling mess. That’s a red flag, right?
Fuck it, I’m colorblind where Leo’s involved.
He hooks a finger in the waistband of my panties and tugs them down, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the side of my hipbone. He reverently rubs the spot his lips were just on, gazing up at me as he says, “We’re matching now.”
Matching? What does he mean matching?
I push myself up onto my elbows to peer down at what has his focus. My jaw drops because right there in black are Leo’s initials.
I dart my stare between the tattoo, him, and back to the tattoo. How in the fuck did this man manage to fucking tattoo me without waking me up? Jesus Christ. He must have showed up at one of my appointments because I’m notorious for sleeping through those things.
“What—”
Actually, I don’t want to know because I’m not even mad. He’s just as fucked up as I am. We truly are a match made in Heaven—or Hell, depending on how you see it.
I try to peer closer at the ink. It’s slightly raised, and the line work a bit uneven. Shit, I can’t believe he actually tattooed me.
I glare at him, but it lacks any anger. “I want you to know I’m mad that I’m only finding all of this out now.”
Leo chuckles, kissing a path up my lower belly, pushing my top up as he goes. “We’ve been busy.” He grins against my skin, ghosting his fingers over my core.