Page 72 of Diamond In The Rough

Idon’t know what time it is. Or how long until it’s officially morning. I don’t know where my brother is, or if he’s okay. And I have no clue why I’m still inside this apartment in the East Village, when the sky outside is black, though the interior of Tiia’s home is littered with fairy lights that ensure she’s never truly in pitch dark.

But I do know I need to piss. And that need fights with my desire to stay right here, dozing under her supple body, with my cock still nestled deep in her pussy.

It’s a good way to sleep, in my opinion. Inside her. Under her. Wrapped completely and totally around her, and acting as a pillow for her to rest upon.

But my bladder needs relief, and once I move, I’m not sure I’m the kind of guy who’ll sneak back in here and slide into bed again.

Locking down the grief already building at the base of my throat, I gently roll over and set her side on the mattress. Her shoulder and hip. Her long, long leg. I inch away and allow her to use her actual pillow as a pillow, and when she begins to stir, I stop.

Freeze.

I study her face, slack in sleep, and the way her long, brown hair dangles over her cheek. The locks that obscure her amber eyes, and the single strand that rests on her pert nose.

She might objectively be one of God’s favorites. Made flawlessly. Beautiful and pure, but with the mouth and attitude of the devil himself.

Despite my DNA, the tendency that runs in my Malone blood to silence strong women, I can’t find a single reason to not like the package Tiia Hale presents.

Sex and revenge, bullshit stories about heirloom Mongolian chests, and an incessant need to call me out, regardless of my preference to keep a low profile.

If I wanted a meek, quiet, affable woman, I could pick one off any street in New York. I could bed her. Breed her. Then keep or dispose of her, depending on my whims once the child arrived.

It could be easy, and I would never have to worry about having my neck slit open in my sleep.

But it’s only as I look at this woman—strong, fierce, iron-willed, and icy cold when ticked off—that my lips quirk up.

Carefully, I crawl out from beneath her body, locking down my groan of disappointment as I slip my cock free, and proof of my release dribbles to the mattress.

Gently, I set her down and consider staying right here. I could ignore my bladder. My thirst. My unquenchable and impossible desire to snoop around in her private space while she’s unconscious.

I could stay here and help myself to her body instead. Put my tongue where my cock was a moment ago, scoop my cum back up, and place it inside her sweet pussy where it belongs, then draw her to her peak, even while she sleeps.

Jesus.

My dick throbs with renewed want. But beneath that, my bladder aches.

Even more pressing, my mind spins.

So I turn on the bed and set my feet on the floor.

Looking down at my own naked form when flickering lights hit my skin, I catch glimpses of the scars marring my body. Stitching on my ribs, after knives sliced through them. An entry wound from a bullet, puckering the flesh inward; if I were to reach around to my back, I’d find where flesh explodes outward, the exit leaving its mark in a whole other way.

That’s only the visible aftermath. In my arm, I still feel where my bones were broken.

I wasn’t fortunate enough to have them reset the way other folks do, inside an ER or an orthopedic clinic. Most regular people have their bones straightened out. A cast fitted to protect the fragile spot while it mends. Or they undergo surgery, to get screws and plates installed.

Not me.

My brothers were more focused on ensuring I didn’t die of infection. So my fractured arm easily went forgotten; out of sight, out of mind. And in the months that have passed since my stint inside Pastore’s home, the bones have found their own remedy. They’ve fused, not necessarily straight, and not entirely structurally sound. But they bridged that gap to make the limb functional again.

I hardly ever notice the ache set deep in my arm, until I’m carrying a beautiful woman across her apartment and carefully placing her in bed.

Rolling my eyes, I push off the mattress and bend to grab my boxer shorts from the shadows where the artificial light from the street can’t quite reach. I step into the silky fabric and set my feet on the carpeted floor, then glancing back, I examine the woman laid out unconscious and naked.

Exposed to me.

She was terrified of me mere days ago… even hours ago. And now she’s bare. Vulnerable, and completely okay with it.

Makes her irresponsible.

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