Page 23 of Beautiful Savage
"It's nothing."
"Shirt. Off." Each word lands separate, final.
I pull the black cotton over my head.
Her breath catches. Barely audible, but I hear it. She goes completely still, eyes darkening as they move across my torso.The full sleeve tattoos on both arms. Scars across my chest and shoulders from nine years of Delgado work. The fresh bruise blooming purple across my left ribs. I'm monstrous, I know, people have told me that my whole life. But she doesn't flinch or look away. In fact, her gaze is hungry, lingering on the V of muscle at my hips, and I watch her throat work as she swallows.
My cock hardens further. Christ, just her looking at me like that makes me ache. Like she wants to touch every scar, trace every line of ink.
She moves to my left side. Fingers press gently along the bruise, checking for fracture. Her touch burns hotter than the injury. Each point of contact sends electricity straight to my groin. I breathe through it, trying not to let her see how affected I am. She nods. Bruised, not broken.
The mini-fridge opens. She wraps ice in a clean dish towel and hands it to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and her pupils dilate slightly.
"Hold this against your ribs."
I hold it. The cold burns, then numbs, but does nothing for the heat pooling low in my gut.
She steps between my knees again with a fresh swab. Closer now. Her body fills the space between my thighs, and I'm hyperaware of every inch of her. The soft swell of her breasts at my eye level. The way her hips are perfectly aligned for me to pull her against me. Her face hovers six inches from mine as she works on the temple cut. The concentration line appears between her brows. Her tongue touches her upper lip when she's being careful.
Fuck. That small pink tongue. I imagine it on my cock, imagine those careful movements applied elsewhere. My hands clench on my thighs to keep from grabbing her.
I haven't ever been this close to a woman's face without paying for it.
My peripheral vision tracks everything except her eyes. The angle of her jaw. The curve where her neck meets her shoulder. The spot I want to bite until she moans. The wisps escaping her hair knot that I want to pull free. Below us, muffled through the floor, La Sirena's music throbs. All that life and noise while we exist in this bubble of charged silence.
Her left hand shifts from my shoulder, slides down to my upper arm. The trail of fire her fingers leave makes me suppress a groan. Her fingers hesitate for a heartbeat, trembling slightly, before moving lower. Her thumb finds the tattoo on my right forearm. The swab in her right hand pauses at my temple.
"Who is this?" Her thumb traces the armored figure's wings, and my cock jumps at the innocent touch.
"Saint Michael."
"And he's the patron of…?"
"Warriors."
"That's all?"
The question cuts deeper than she knows. Nobody ever asks a follow-up, they just look at my face, my body, my job, and assume I'm nothing more than a warrior.
"Justice," I admit. "Patron saint of justice."
Her thumb stays on the tattoo. Three weeks after my dishonorable discharge, I had this inked. Nine years carrying it as my only protest against what they named me. The warrior who fights dragons, not the dragon itself.
She doesn't respond with words. Just keeps her thumb on the saint while her right hand resumes cleaning. Slower now. No hurry. Deliberately drawing this out.
And she looks at my face.
Not the clinical assessment of wound care. Not sliding past like everyone else's gaze does. She looks at me. Exact. Sustained. No flinching, no fear, no agenda except the cut she's tending.Her eyes are dark, almost black in this light, and I see desire there. Raw want that mirrors my own.
The looking continues. Ten seconds. Twenty. Thirty.
Our breathing synchronizes without either of us meaning it to. The space between us charges with something electric, dangerous. I can smell her arousal now. Sweet and musky beneath her clean scent. Can see her nipples hardening through her t-shirt. My cock strains against my jeans, and I know she can see it, this close.
My discipline starts to crack. Heat floods through me. Not just physical, but something deeper, more primal. The gaze I've been refused lands full force. A woman between my knees, thumb on my patron saint, looking without fear at the face that makes mothers pull their children close.
She shifts slightly, and her thigh brushes against my knee. The contact is electric. I see her breath hitch, watch her pulse flutter at her throat.
I cannot bear it.
