23. Robin
ROBIN
Cruz’s jaw drops.
Actually drops.
For one perfect second, the man who kidnapped me, guarded me, threatened me, helped me escape, and then walked me through a brothel forgets how to close his mouth.
The pink towel falls in a puddle around my feet.
He’s already seen me nearly naked, but not like this.
Not with lamplight spilling over my skin.
Not with clean sheets behind me and drops of water still clinging to me from the shower.
Not with my hair damp around my shoulders and my body warm and bare and free of the disgusting grime from that cell.
I’m not vain enough to think beauty makes a woman safe, but I’m not stupid enough to pretend it isn’t power either. I’ve been looked at by men my entire adult life. Dismissed because of it. Underestimated because of it. Wanted because of it. Sometimes hated because of it.
I know what desire does to men.
It makes them careless when they’re usually careful.
And Cruz is careful.
Too careful.
That’s one of the reasons I need to do this.
No lie, I want him.
I hate that I want him, but I can’t deny my feelings. I want the weight of him against me again. I want his hands. His mouth.
But wanting him isn’t the whole reason. It might not even be the biggest reason.
The biggest reason is simple.
I need him close.
Cruz is the only thing standing between me and Vega’s men right now. He can dress it up as guilt or honor or some sudden moral resurrection, but I’m not na?ve.
Men change their minds. Men get scared. Men will choose themselves when the bullets start flying.
If Cruz wants me badly enough, maybe he won’t.
If Cruz thinks I might choose him, maybe he’ll keep choosing me.
That’s how I survive. It’s how I survived in Romania, and it’s how I’ll survive now.
I know how to turn a man’s attention into armor. That’s not the problem.
The problem is that I’m not usually stupid enough to want the armor.
Cruz swallows.
I step away from the towel, toward him. “What?” I ask.
His jaw goes rigid. “Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
His eyes flash.
He knows exactly what.
“You don’t have to,” he says.
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Instead, I look at him. Catalog him. His shirt is rumpled with dried blood near one sleeve. His black hair is unruly, and his full lips are slightly parted. And his expression? Unreadable. Something between guilt, desire, and possibly fear.
God, what a mess.
A beautiful, dangerous, morally compromised mess.
It should repulse me.
It doesn’t.
“I know I don’t have to,” I say.
“Do you?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Cruz. I understand the concept of choice.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know what you meant,” I say. “You’re very interested in my defense for a man who helped lock me behind bars.”
Pain moves across his face. “You’re right,” he says. “I did.”
I wanted him to deny it. To excuse it. To tell me he had orders, that he had no choice, that he didn’t know Vega’s true plans.
I wanted him to give me something easy to hate.
Damn him.
I turn and walk to the bed before he can see too much on my face.
I sit on the edge and let the mattress dip beneath me. I stretch one leg out along the quilt and lean back on my hands.
Cruz doesn’t move.
I tilt my head. “Are you going to stand there all night?”
He locks his gaze on to mine. “Maybe.”
“Suit yourself.”
I shift on the bed, just enough for the lamplight to move across me.
He curls his hands into fists.
And I’m fucking thrilled.
It would be so easy to pretend this is all part of the plan. That I’m perfectly calm. That every breath I take is measured, every movement calculated.
But the truth is my pulse is racing. My skin feels too tight. I want him closer.
The last time we did this, after the belly dancing, was reckless.
This is different.
This is me making sure he doesn’t walk out that door and decide saving me is too expensive.
This is me keeping the ball in my court.
And if I happen to fall in love with him in the process?
Oh, well. I’ll get over it.
Damn him.
Damn him for making this complicated.
I raise my hand and crook one finger. “Come here.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.
“I didn’t ask if it was a good idea.”
“No. You didn’t.”
“I told you to come here.”
His mouth twitches. “Bossy.”
“You say that like you’re surprised.”
“I’m not.”
“Then come here.”
Still, he hesitates. A muscle ticks in his jaw. He looks to the door, to the bathroom, to the towel on the floor, to my face.
“Robin,” he says.
I lean back farther, letting my hair slide over one shoulder. “Cruz.”
His nostrils flare. He takes one step. Then another. When he reaches the foot of the bed, he stops.
“Closer,” I say.
“Why?”
I smile. “You need me to explain the birds and the bees to you?”
“I need you to tell me the truth.”
“What truth would you like?” I ask. “That I want you? Fine. I want you. That I don’t trust you? I don’t. That I’m using the fact that you want me because I’d be an idiot not to? Sure. I’m doing that too.”
His expression changes.
I don’t know what I expect.
Anger, maybe. Revulsion. Disappointment.
Instead, he looks almost relieved. “You admit it.”
I lift my chin. “I’m not ashamed.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That throws me. “Good?” I repeat.
“Yes.”
“You’re not offended?”
“Should I be?”
I cross my arms. “I just told you I’m manipulating you.”
“You told me you’re trying to survive.”
My throat tightens.
No.
I don’t want that.
I don’t want understanding from him. I don’t want him looking at me like he can see the scared parts I shoved down and buried under defiance.
I want desire.
I know how to handle desire.
So I rake my gaze over his body, taking my time. “Are you going to make me survive alone?”
His eyes darken. “No.” He reaches the side of the bed but doesn’t touch me.
I hate him a little for that.
I love him a little for that.
No.
Not love.
He stands there, beautiful in the lamplight. His muscles are twitching and he’s almost wincing. It’s clear he wants to touch me.
But the thought doesn’t satisfy me the way it should. Despite everything, I don’t just want to use him.
“Take off your shirt,” I say.
He grips the back of his collar and pulls the shirt over his head.
My breath catches.
I’ve seen attractive men before. I’ve slept with attractive men before. A hard chest and broad shoulders shouldn’t be enough to ignite my flesh.
But Cruz is not pretty in a polished way. One scar runs diagonally across his chest, right over his left nipple. Another, clearly from a gunshot wound, sits above the other. A faint bruise shadows one rib. His body looks like it has taken violence and given it back.
I push myself up onto my knees on the bed, bringing us closer to eye level. I reach for him.
He catches my wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop me.
I look down at his fingers around me. “Careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds like a warning.”
“It is.”
“I’m naked on a bed and you’re warning me?”
He sears his gaze into mine for a moment before replying, “Yes.”
“About what?”
“About me.”
A shiver moves through me before I can hide it.
“Don’t pretend,” he says.
My mouth goes dry. “I’m not pretending.”
“Yes, you are. You’ve made it clear, and you’re good at it, Robin.”
“I said I’m not.”
He loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “Then say you want me because you want me. Not because you think it keeps me close. Not because you think it keeps you safe. Not because you’re afraid I’ll walk out that door and give you back to Vega.”
I sigh. I do want him. More than my next breath, to be honest. But I don’t know what to do with this version of him. The man who won’t let me reduce myself to a bargain.
I don’t know whether to trust him. But I can’t deny the hunger pulsing through my veins. For him.
“I want you,” I say. “I want you because I want you. I also want you because I need you close. Two things can be true at once.”
He releases my wrist, lifts his hand to my face, but stops before touching me. “You’re allowed to want things without turning them into weapons.”
I swallow. “Shows what you know.”
“Maybe nothing.”
“Definitely nothing.”
His mouth curves. It’s barely a smile. “Then I’ll show you what I know.”
Oh hell no.
I’m supposed to be the one with the upper hand here. I’m naked. He’s half-dressed. I invited him over. I set the pace. I have the ball in my court, damn it.
But then he says something like that in that low, rough voice, and I want to hand him the ball just to see what he’ll do with it.
No.
Absolutely not.
I lean forward and press my mouth to his chest.
He gasps.
Good.
I kiss the warm skin over his heart. He slides his fingers into my damp hair. He doesn’t pull. He just holds.
I drag my mouth lower.
“Robin.”
I look up at him. “Yes?”
“Don’t start something you don’t want to finish.”
A laugh slips out of me. “Seems I’ve heard those words before.” I drop my eyes to his crotch. “No worries. I always finish what I start.”
His eyes flare. I ready myself for him to let go. But instead of pushing me back onto the bed, he cups my jaw and tilts my face up.
“Last chance,” he says.
I meet his gaze, look into the dark fire in his eyes.
He bends and kisses me.
Not like last time.
Not at first.
This kiss is slower. Deeper. Like he’s giving me every chance to pull back.
I don’t. Instead I grab him by the shoulders and pull him down with me.
I slide my hands down his back, feeling his muscles tense under my palms. He kisses my jaw, my throat, the place beneath my ear that makes me go insane.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
“Not planning on it,” he grits out.
Something inside me twists. “Then take off those fucking pants.”