Page 221 of Forced Vows

"Spending time with me is not a punishment," he informs me in what is probably supposed to be a teasing haughty tone but is too gravelly for any real humor.

Turning my head, I rub my cheek against his chest. "No, it's not."

Without warning, Miceli steps back far enough to rip my shirt up over my head and unclasps my bra.

Still damp, the stretchy lace clings to my skin. My nipples pebble as he peels it away.

Pupils dilated with desire, he yanks the rest of my clothes off.

Craving reconnection with him at the most primal level, I tear at his clothing too.

Off. I want everything off.

Nothing between us. Just naked skin ready to meet naked skin.

It takes seconds to divest us both of our clothing and Miceli of his weapons. Including the time it takes him to slash through the sides of my underwear. He's not the only impatient one. His shirt is missing a few buttons too.

With nothing between us, he pulls us into the shower under the hot spray.

I can't help but notice one of his knives makes it into the shower with us.

Heat pulses between my legs, shivers of desire cascading along the backs of my thighs.

There are words I want to say. Words I want to hear. But right now, what I want most is to feel.

Him. Me. Us.

Grabbing his wrist, I bring the hand with the knife between my breasts and press his knuckles against my skin.

His eyes darken with primal heat and he drags the flat of the blade along the curve of my breast so lightly there is no chance he will cut me. Part of me wants him to, wants to be marked by him. As his.

"No," he growls. "I'm not cutting you."

I'm not surprised he knows what I'm thinking. He gets me like no one else does. Not even my grandmother and cousins.

"There's a scar from the day my mom died." A permanent reminder of that day. "Why can't I wear your scar?"

"I will not hurt you, vitù." There's no give in his voice.

"Tattoos hurt. People still get them."

"You are mine to cherish and protect. I will not give you pain."

I don't want pain. I want the result. The permanent mark.

"Then I'll get a tattoo."

"If you do, it had better be of my bloody thumbprint."

My arousal spikes. "Yes, that."

"For now, this will have to do." He presses his thumb against the tip of his dagger, drawing blood.

Then he presses it against my left breast. "Mine."

I nod, my throat too tight for words.

His hand travels down and presses against my center. I can't see the bloody print he leaves behind, but I know it's there.

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