14. Angie
ANGIE
I’m drifting off when I hear the door to my room start to open.
Panic floods me. I haven’t seen anyone but Lisa and Colm since this morning. No sign of Connor and no hint that he’s coming back. I texted with Nadia, watched the TV, and took the longest, most boring bath of my life.
Turns out, being a prisoner is both comfortable and monotonous.
I push up on an elbow as light streams in through the hallway.
A figure moves toward me. I want to cry out, call for Colm, scream for anyone, grab for the phone and call Connor, but I can’t seem to move.
I’m in a strange bed in an unfamiliar room and I’m freaking out because a bunch of rich, terrifying mobsters want to kill me.
The light flicks on in the bathroom.
I catch a glimpse of Connor.
His face is pale and deadpan. He’s still in the suit from earlier.
And there’s something red and sticky staining his white shirt.
My guts twist in horror. He closes the door, and what the hell was that? It’s after ten at night. Was that blood? All over him?
I’m not thinking straight when I force myself out of bed.
I go to the bathroom. Am I really worried about him right now? Does it matter if my husband’s stabbed and bleeding all over? But the idea of Connor getting hurt bothers me, like a burr in the back of my throat, and I peer inside to make sure he’s okay.
I find him standing beside the shower. He’s reaching in and turning on the water. It sprays and he steps back, wearing only a pair of dark boxer briefs.
His tan skin is etched with tattoos. Every inch of him is covered: thighs, muscular chest, ripped stomach.
Roses cover the backs of his hands. Vines creep along his neck.
I remember when he fucked me, but this is the first time I’m seeing this much of him.
It’s terrifying, how sculpted he is, how beautiful, and I’m so busy ogling my husband’s gorgeous body that I almost don’t notice there’s more blood splattered all over him.
“Oh my God,” I say, covering my mouth. “Connor, what happened?”
He looks back. If he’s bothered that I caught him half naked, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he runs a finger down his cut chest, smearing the blood, mouth twisting. “Must look bad, doesn’t it?”
I rush to his side, forcing my feet to move. My mouth waters the nearer I get, but I tamp down on the desire pooling between my legs. “Let me look at you.” I reach him and touch his arm, fingers trailing along his skin. Goosebumps rise on my arms. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
“I’m okay, angel.” He touches my wrist to stop me. “It’s not my blood.”
“Oh.” My eyes lock on his. They’re dark and deep, and there’s a reservoir of emotion.
It takes me by surprise. Connor comes off ruthless and careless, like the world’s his toy to play with and to break as he sees fit.
But there’s an exhaustion in him, in the privacy of his bathroom, covered in someone else’s blood. It scares me, but I can’t move away.
“I had business tonight. Go back to sleep.” His fingers touch the small of my back under my crop top. It’s cold and slick. “I’ll be in soon.”
He nudges me away even though he’s hurting.
I can see it so clearly, and maybe he’s physically fine, but something bad happened tonight.
He wants to protect me from it, I realize with a sudden intensity, and even though he terrifies me in ways I’ve never felt before, I don’t want to leave him alone right now.
I get the impossible-to-ignore urge to take care of him. I’ve always been this way despite myself. I take care of my mother, of my coworkers, of Brad back when we were dating. And now I want to look after Connor, although I don’t owe him anything, and I’d be smart to listen.
“Get in the water.” I bend down and tug off my shorts, kicking them aside. “I’ll help wash you.”
His eyes widen. His mouth opens, his tongue licking against his teeth. His gaze rakes down my body and I realize the mistake; it’s not like I can sponge-bath him in some asexual way.
But damn it, he needs me, and I can’t pretend like I don’t want this.
I’m already pregnant and we’re already married.
What’s another stupid mistake? If it helps him?
“Angel—“
“I said, in the water.” I reach down and tug my crop top over my head. I’m bare underneath, my nipples stiff with excitement. I cover myself with one arm, looking away, cheeks burning with embarrassment. If he keeps trying to send me away now?—
He lets out a low groan. “What are you doing?”
“Helping. Get in.” I look up, meeting his gaze. He looks as desperate and as dizzy as I feel. “Please.”
That word does it. He mutters a low curse, takes off his boxer briefs, and moves under the shower spray.
It’s hard not to look down at his dick. I remove my panties and follow him, water brushing against my skin. Pink and red drips down his lean, muscular body, and holy shit, he’s hard right now?—
Stop it, Angie. Stop looking at his cock.
“Turn around.” I nudge him until he complies. One hand leans against the shower wall. I pour soap into a loofah and scrub his back. “Tell me what happened.”
He lets out a low sigh of pleasure, head hanging, water running from his thick hair. “You don’t want the details, baby.”
“Talk to me. You’re tense.”
“I’m hard. There’s a difference.”
My eyes drop. His other hand is wrapped around his base. Fucking hell!
“It’ll help if you talk.”
His shoulders slump. He’s not stroking himself. I move the loofah around, reaching his chest and stomach, pressing myself to his back. My breasts flatten against his skin, my nipples pointing into him. I hug him like that as I wash more blood from his chest.
“They were waiting for us.” He talks low like he’s in a dream.
I wring out the pink soap and clean as he talks, taking my time, lavishing him with attention and careful touches.
“Deck heard some men were hanging around one of our salvage yards so we went to check it out. I figured it was some Gallagher scouts, and I was only half right. When we got out of our cars, the shooting started right away. Killed two of my men instantly. We only survived because I know that yard better than anyone. I let the Gallagher soldiers chase me and Deck, and the rest of our crew managed to get the drop on them. I killed their last man standing, and I took my time, made sure it hurt, but that didn’t help.
Nothing fucking helps and it didn’t bring my men back from the dead. ”
He stops talking. My heart’s racing. I’m holding him now, not bothering to pretend like I’m cleaning. “I’m so sorry, Connor.”
“I knew this would happen when I married you. Every single life we lose is on me. They’re on my shoulders. They’re my fault. I did this to them.”
“Connor.” I lean my forehead against his shoulder. What can I say to fix this? My instinct to take care of him burns in my chest. “You did what you thought was right.”
“I don’t regret it. That’s the sick part. I’d do it again and again if I could.”
I drop the loofah. I reach around him, breathing fast, afraid, my mouth watering as I do it. I move my hand down his forearm, down to the rose on his skin, and further to his shaft. He’s still hard, and thick, and covered in veins, and I let out a soft whimper as I stroke down him to his tip.
“You care about your men.”
“Yes, baby, I care.” He lets out a soft moan. “Fuck, I care too much, but I shouldn’t. A boss like me doesn’t get rewarded for caring. Only for strength.”
“But you’re strong.” I grip his cock. He’s still rock hard. “You survived. You won.”
“How many more times?”
“As many as you have to.” I move again, stroking him in a long, unhurried pull.
“Angel,” he moans.
I bite his back and kiss him. I stroke faster, pausing only to spit into my palm. He groans, the sound incredible, on the edge of losing control. His other hand raises to reach over his shoulder, tangles into my hair, and he twists to pull me up to meet his mouth.
His kiss is blistering. It’s needy and I don’t stop.
I stroke faster, heart pounding at the danger in this moment.
Why am I getting him off? Why am I kissing him?
Touching him? Because it feels good, because he’s so hard it makes me dripping wet, because I want to take care of him despite everything.
His tongue invades my mouth and he moans, breathing my name, eyes glassy with bliss.
“Please,” he says. “Fuck, angel, please, I’m going to?—“
He groans as he comes. Thick spurts coat the wall. I pump him, working fast as he finishes, and when he’s done, I roll my palm around the tip and lift my fingers to my mouth. He turns, breathing hard, dick still pulsing as I lick his cum and swallow what’s left.
“We’re going to get through this.” I don’t know why I say it. I’m not even sure I believe that’s true. “You’ll get through it.”
He drags me against him and kisses me forcefully, hungry, dominant, and I go limp against him, unable to help myself. God, he’s beautiful, his seed coating the wall, his dick still stiff. His tongue slips into my mouth?—
“We should dry off.” I step away. He looks at me with pure lust and hunger.
“Who said I’m finished with you?”
“I did.” I slip from the shower and grab a towel.
“Why are you stopping?”
“You needed a release, that’s all.”
He turns off the water. “So all I need to do is feel stressed and get covered in blood and you’ll want to touch me?”
“Seems easy when you put it that way.”
I disappear into the bedroom. I’m not sure what I was thinking back there, but it nearly got out of control. I wanted to help him, and I thought making him feel good would ease some of his tension, and it did.
But now he wants more. And what’s worse?—
I do too.
That can’t happen. This is complicated enough already. If we start sleeping together, it’ll only spiral.
Once we begin, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to stop.
I dress and get back into bed. He joins me a few minutes later, smelling like soap and oil. His big body is shockingly warm. I curl toward him instinctively in the darkness, thinking about his shudders and moans of pleasure, of how fast he came only from my hands.
“Can I ask you something?” I whisper, not sure if he’s still awake.
“Go ahead.”
“It’s only going to get worse, isn’t it?”
He’s quiet for a long time. I start to think he drifted off, before I hear four words, echoes in the dark.
“Yes, angel. Much worse.”