Page 43 of Red Flag Bull

“What if I don’t want to make you cry?” he asks, his expression serious.

“I still want to see.”

“What if they caused me a lot of pain?” His eyebrow hitches. “What if you hate them? Or love them? Will you feel guilt, either way?”

I swallow hard. “I still want to see. I want to feel your skin against mine when you’re near me. I want to be allowed to touch you, the way I let you touch me.”

“You want to suck my tits and fuck my ass with your fingers?” He smirks and leans closer. “I’m not really into being penetrated, and I was going to rub you down and put you to bed, but if you want to stay awake and play the interrogation game, you can come over here and play. Maybe tug on my nipples, while we talk.”

“Will you take off your shirt?” I ease closer at the idea of gaining access to the unknown — even if it’ll take being interrogated to get it. If I can’t get my words out, I’m pretty sure I’ll hold up okay under torture. In a way, I’ve been doing it most of my life.

“I’ll think about it.” He swipes his tongue behind his lips, like he’s running it over his teeth, then lunges forward from the waist, grabs my hips, and pulls me in, to straddle his lap. “Stay,” he commands and reaches for the soap. He uses it to massage my arms, shoulders, and breasts, before he lathers one of my hands into a bubbling, slippery state and slips it up under his soaked T-shirt.

The fabric is heavy and suctioned to his skin, so it takes some effort to work my way to his chest, but it’s worth it. His pectorals are defined and smooth under my fingers, with ridged or gnarled transitions that mark the difference between clear skin and scars.

I circle his left nipple, and then try to grip it between my fingers, but they’re too slippery.

Jason smiles at me, his eyes dancing with amusement. “Problem?” he asks, swirling soapy circles over the globes of my ass. He’s getting closer and closer to my asshole, making it no secret where he’s heading.

“No problem.” I press my ass more firmly into his hands. He can put his fingers in or on any part of me he wants, if it means I can touch him too.

I slide my hand up to the bulk and strength of his shoulder, loving the feel of his skin beneath my palm instead of the T-shirt. He gives a sexy rumble when I sink my fingers into his sturdy muscles, and I rub my pussy against his clothed cock, as it strains beneath me. His slippery fingers tease my asshole, and I remain open to him, as I explore more of his body. I run my hand over his left pec and measure the size of it in my palm, as he would my breast.

It’s then that I encounter a series of unusual Braille-like bumps on his skin beneath my fingertips.

He stiffens slightly, but then acts as if all is well. He strokes my asshole and then breaches, but I clench and jerk forward, away from his prying fingers.

I stroke the strange pattern of scarring on his skin and frown down at him. “What are these?”

He grips my fingers through his T-shirt, to hinder my movements. Then he shoves my hand out of from under there, all together. He flips our positions and presses me to the bottom of the bathtub without the possibility of escape, my face barely above the water.

“Why did you leave me?” he asks, his eyes full of sadness and anger.

“You first,” I croak.

He searches my eyes a moment, and then releases me. He pulls his shirt over his head, to reveal the scars he’s been hiding since the day he made me his. They’re as beautiful as I remember, but there are definitely new ones, and it’s those that draw my gaze and make my heart ache.

My name is tattooed on his skin. Mandi. With a tiny pink crown standing in for the dot over the i.

And below that, etched into his skin with an implement sharp enough to scar him, are score marks. Nineteen of them. Three sets of five, and one set of four just waiting to be stricken through.

One scar for every year since I left, each nearly an inch in length.

I stare at them in both horror and awe. “What did you do?” I whisper, moving closer.

“I missed you.” He climbs out of the bath and walks away, dripping wet.

I follow, chasing the footprints he left on the carpet. They take me out the bathroom door and across a large room, through the open door to the balcony, but I stop short.

Not because he’s here. Not because I’m naked, and someone may see me. But because of the lake.

I can’t breathe.

The view is quite literally breathtaking. Because it’s my fucking view.

He bought my house.

My parents’ house. The one my dad loved, but Mom won in the divorce. Her consolation prize, for getting saddled with me, when neither of them wanted the burden.

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