Chapter 9 #2
“I know.”
“Stop agreeing. It’s annoying.”
“Want me to argue?”
“No.”
“Then I’m boxed in here, baby.”
“You have no idea how much I like hearing that.”
His eyes burn.
I put the coffee down.
He looks at my hand then, and his expression changes. I followed my own nerves and picked at the edge of the bandage until a spot of red has bloomed near my palm. Tiny. Stupid. Enough for him to take one step before he stops himself.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I’ve had quite a week.”
“Let me clean it.”
“No.”
He nods once.
Accepts it.
Turns toward the counter.
That is what makes me speak.
“Wait.”
He freezes.
I hate how obedient he is being. It is doing things to me that a woman with sense would not allow.
“I said no too fast,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches. “That a yes?”
“It’s a maybe with conditions.”
“I love conditions.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
I walk to the sofa, sit, and hold out my hand like I’m granting a favor to a man on death row.
He comes over with the first-aid kit I left on the counter. He kneels in front of me.
That is new too.
Shady on his knees should be a joke. It is not. He is still big there. Still rough. Still dangerous. But he lowers his head over my hand like the little cut is something holy he doesn’t deserve to touch.
My throat tightens.
He peels the bandage back carefully.
“Hurts?” he asks.
“Yes.”
His thumb stills.
“Not all from that,” I add.
His eyes lift.
Bad idea.
Very bad idea.
He cleans the blood with a damp cloth, slow and gentle enough that my skin forgets why I’m mad for half a second. The cloth moves over my palm. His fingers brace my wrist without trapping it. His mouth is too close to my knee. His hair falls forward, and I want to drag my fingers through it.
Instead I say, “You ever been in love before?”
His hand stills.
“Before you? No.”
“Not Cherry.”
“No.”
“Not some girl in Georgia.”
His mouth curves. “You jealous of my first crush?”
“I’m thorough, papi.”
“You’re nosy.”
“I was kidnapped. I get three days of unlimited questions.”
“Okay.”
He wraps fresh gauze around my palm. “No. Not in love. I liked women. Lusted. Protected some. Hurt some. Missed a few for a night or two. But love?” He ties the bandage, then rests his hands on his thighs like he doesn’t trust them near me. “No.”
I swallow.
“And me?”
His eyes hold mine.
“You know.”
“No,” I whisper. “I don’t. That’s the point.”
The room goes quiet.
He sits back on his heels, all rough man and bloodied honesty at my feet.
“I love you,” he says. “I just said, before you, no. You don’t listen.”
My heart stops being useful.
The words are not pretty from him. They are not polished. He says them like they cost him skin. Like love isn’t a poem but a gun put on the table with his fingerprints still on it.
“I love you, Lady. I love your mouth. Your temper. Your bad ideas. The way you turn every room into a stage so nobody sees when your hands shake. I love that you call me gringo when you want to stab me and blanquito when you want to make me forget my own name.” His voice roughens.
“I love that you knew how to leave clues while tied to a chair. I hate that you had to. I love you enough that I should have told you every ugly truth before anybody else could hand it to you like a bomb.”
My eyes burn.
I hate him for that too.
“Make me promises,” I say.
He blinks.
“What?”
“You heard me. I want every pleading promise you have, papi. Let’s see if the road captain can find his way through accountability.”
His mouth almost smiles.
Then he sees my face and sobers.
“I promise no more half-truths because I think I’m sparing you.”
“Good.”
“I promise Cherry doesn’t get private access to me. Not call, not text, not a hallway where grief can pretend it is still owed my body.”
My chest aches.
“That’s good.”
“I promise if there is danger around you, I tell you enough to choose. I don’t lock you down without you understanding.”
“Agreeing.”
“Okay, agreeing.”
“Keep going.”
“I promise I will not touch you when you say no, and I will not pretend not touching you makes me less obsessed.”
He smiles.
Heat rolls through me.
“Keep going.”
His voice drops. “I promise I will stand where you put me, even if every part of me wants to drag the world away from you with my teeth.”
My thighs press together.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“I promise I will make you cum every time I get the chance.”
“Careful. That one sounds fun.”
“It will be.”
I laugh once, shaky.
His gaze drops to my lips.
I should stop.
I don’t.
“You can want me,” I whisper. “You cannot take me. Not one inch I do not give you.”
His eyes darken until they almost look silver in the city light.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“I want you so bad my fucking bones hurt.” His hands curl on his thighs. “And I do not get to have you until you say I do.”
I move before I can think better of it.
Maybe this is me changing my mind. Maybe this is me making a bad decision with both eyes open. Either way, it is mine.
I slide off the sofa and onto his lap, knees bracketing his hips.
His whole body goes rigid. I feel him hard beneath me before either of us says another word, and the knowledge goes straight to my head like tequila. He wants me even now. Bruised, angry, impossible. Not clean. Not easy. Messy. Me.
“Lady.”
“Hands where I can see them.”
He lifts them like a criminal.
I laugh against his mouth and kiss him.
It is not soft.
Nothing about us has ever been soft.
His mouth opens under mine with a rough sound that goes straight through me. I bite his lower lip, and he curses into the kiss. His hands stay raised until I grab them and put them on my waist.
His fingers dig in like he has been given permission to breathe. Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind me that rough does not scare me when I am the one who says yes.
“You sure?” he asks against my mouth.
“No stupid questions, gringo.”
“That is my specialty.”
“Try survival instead.”
His grip tightens. His thumbs press into my robe at my waist, and even through silk, I feel the restraint shaking in him. He could lift me. Flip me. Pin me. All those biker instincts are right there under his skin, snarling and waiting.
He does none of it.
That is what makes me wetter.
Then he kisses me like he has been starving. I forget everything. The bruises. The gossip. Cherry. Carmen. All of it breaks apart under the heat of his slick mouth. His tongue strokes mine, dirty and deep, and I roll my hips once just to feel what I am doing to him.
He groans like I hurt him.
“Fuck, baby.”
“That a complaint?”
“That is a warning.”
“Good. I like warnings.”
His laugh is dark and rough, swallowed by the next kiss. He lifts me with one arm and stands, making my breath catch, then stops.
“Bedroom?”
“Now you ask?”
“I’m trying,” he says against my throat.
I drag my nails into his shoulders. “Bedroom, gringo. If I have to give orders, I want you earning them.”
His eyes go dark enough to make my pulse trip. “Careful, baby. You start giving orders in there, I might start enjoying obedience.”
“Then obey faster.”
“Damn,” he mutters. “Meanest woman in Miami.”
“Walk.”
He carries me to the bedroom. His hands are under my thighs, his mouth is at my neck, and I am tired of fear owning every place on my body. I want heat there. His mouth there. My choice there.
He sets me on the bed like he wants to be gentle and then kisses me like he forgot how.
My robe comes open. His cut hits the floor. His shirt follows. His gaze drops over me, and there is nothing polite in it. He looks at me like I am every bad decision he ever wanted to make twice, and somehow that feels better than being handled like something breakable.
“Look at you,” he says, voice rough.
I lift my chin, even though my heart is trying to crawl up my throat. “Careful.”
“No.” His eyes drag over my body again, hotter this time. Meaner. “You told me to bring truth. That is the truth. You are bruised and pissed and still the sexiest thing I have ever seen in my fucking life.”
My thighs press together.
He sees it.
Of course he sees it.
“That too,” he says.
“What too?”
“The way you like it when I tell you exactly what I am thinking.”
“Depends what you are thinking.”
“I am thinking I want to put my mouth on every inch of you that still feels like yours and remind it who it belongs to.”
My breath catches.
He freezes.
“Too much?”
“No,” I whisper. “Because you said remind. Not decide.”
His jaw flexes. “You decide. I remind.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than lust.
I run my hands over his chest, over tattoos, scars, muscle and warm skin, and when my fingers find the bandage at his side, he hisses.
“You’re hurt.”
“So are you.”
“I’m prettier.”
“By miles.”
“Smart answer.”
His mouth moves down my throat, over my collarbone, lower. He pauses at every bruise like he is memorizing where not to press. It should make me feel fragile. It does not. It makes me feel seen.
When his mouth closes over my breast, over my nipple, my back arches.
“Shady.”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Less careful.”
His breath shakes against my skin. “You sure?”
I grab his hair and pull his face up. “I said what I said, blanquito.”
That snaps something.
His smile turns slow and filthy. “Then hold on to me, Lady. I am done treating want like it is a wound.”
He kisses me harder, rougher, the way I need, all teeth and tongue and dirty promises against my mouth. His hand slides between my thighs, and when he finds me already wet, his groan is almost angry.
“Fuck, Lady.”
“Problem?”
“Big one, growing in my pants.”
“Sounds personal.”
His fingers move, and my smart mouth falls apart.
He works me with the patience of a man who knows roads, exits, and exactly how to make a woman lose her way. Slow at first, like he is learning what I let him have. Then meaner when my hips chase his hand. His thumb circles just right, and I grind into him like I forgot I am supposed to be mad.
“There she is,” he murmurs.
I glare at him. “Do not sound proud.”
“I am proud.” His fingers curl, and my breath breaks. “Proud as fuck. You are letting me touch you while you still have every reason to make me bleed.”