Page 62 of Ruthless Scar
“Hey.” Her palm on my jaw. Turning me toward her. “Stay here.”
My own words. Returned.
Our eyes meet. And I let the control go. I give her everything I’ve kept from her. Deep. Hard. My forehead against hers.
“Don’t stop.” Her nails biting into my shoulders. “Don’t you dare stop.”
“I’m not.” Rough. Gutted. “Not stopping.”
Her name scraped from my throat. “Isabella.”
“There. Don’t stop. Lorenzo, don’t stop.”
She comes. She tightens around me so hard my skull empties. Nails drawing lines down my back that I’ll feel for days. My name broken apart in her throat.
The orgasm tears through me and I let it. I bury my face in her neck. My spine locks. My hips drive deep. The groan that comes out of me is one I don’t try to contain. Don’t try to hide.
Surrender. Not failure.
Quiet. Her chest rising and falling. My weight on her. I shift. Roll to the side.
The ceiling. White. Blank. My heartbeat the loudest thing in the room.
I should leave. Should clean up. Walk away before this rewrites every rule I’ve ever established.
I get up. Walk to the kitchen. Fill a glass. Carry it to her. She takes it. Drinks half. Sets it on the nightstand.
I find a clean cloth. Run warm water over it. Wipe her inner thighs where my stubble left marks. Her stomach. Careful. I’m halfway through before I clock what I’m doing.
I finish anyway.
Heavy lids. Loose. Every defense undone by orgasm and proximity and the fact that we held eye contact through the entire act and neither of us turned away.
“You draw birds,” she murmurs. Half asleep. The words barely formed. “And you bring me water. And you just?—”
She doesn’t finish. Her eyes close. Each inhale longer. The way her chest rises. Her fist curled on the pillow. The faded purple at the ends of her hair against white cotton.
I pull the sheet up. Over her shoulders. The same instinct as the jacket. Acting before the brain can intervene.
I leave.
In the hallway, my back meets the wall. Gravity wins. I slide down until I’m sitting on the hardwood with my knees up and my head against the plaster.
I’m not praying. Haven’t prayed since I was nineteen and holding a phone that carried the news I already knew.
The compound is quiet. The hall dark. Wrung out. My chest won’t settle.
What I name becomes real. What becomes real can be taken.
17
ISABELLA
He’s gone. Of course he’s gone. The sheets next to me are cold. The pillow he never used is untouched. And the glass of water he brought me from the kitchen is on the nightstand like a receipt.
I stare at the ceiling. He brought me water. Wiped me clean with a warm cloth. Pulled the sheet over my shoulders. And then walked out.
I don’t know why I expected anything else. The man has a pattern. Touch, tend, vanish. Like a field medic who patches you up and disappears before you can say thanks.
