Page 67 of Dance with the Devil

Okay. I know I freaked him out. Anyone who knows me knows that I’m a whirlwind of emotions. I don’t hide them. I don’t keep them back. I’m an open fucking book, and I can go from one extreme to the other, swinging like I’m a goddamn pendulum. But tears? I can’t tell you the last time I cried.

Cross has never seen my tears. Then again, the last time I was with him, he didn’t have that massive butterfly on his chest.

Outside of the Playground… the entire time he was fucking me, he took me from behind. Sure, I looked up and over at him, but I was watching his face. I noticed it last time. When Cross is fucking me,heis open book. He doesn’t put up that guarded expression, and his eyes… his eyes seem to come alive. Not even the circle shadowed the love and affection andneedthat was in his eyes.

Did I look at his chest. Fleetingly. I appreciated what a gorgeous piece of man he is, but I was too distracted by the sensation of him hitting every single nerve inside of me while strumming my heart at the same time. The lights at his back silhouetted him. He has so much ink on him, I didn’t notice that he added more.

And then he finished. His possessive yet soft touch as he stuck his finger back up inside of me sent another shudder of pleasure through me, but it was when he got up and turned me into him that I saw the butterfly on his chest.

It’s the exact same design that he drew for me the night we met.

He told me once that tattoos are permanent, regardless of things like laser removal. He would never put something on his skin that wasn’t a permanent fixture in his life, and yet… that’smybutterfly.

To see that, then to hear him call me his andmeanit? I broke down. It happened. I wouldn’t have done it if I wasn’t cruising ona shit ton of endorphins from my orgasm, but I cried and Cross held me the whole time I did before wiping away my tears.

If he’d suggested I go home, my emotions would’ve swung all over the place again. He didn’t. He asked me where I wanted to go, I said his place, and that’s where he brought me.

That’s where I am now.

After I told him I was done with the orange juice, he took me by the hand and led me to his bed. Cross shook his head when I asked if we we’re getting undressed.

“I just want to hold you,” he murmured. “I can only sleep when I hold you.”

And that’s how I found out his insomnia has been even worse since we were separated. I couldn’t even gloat. All this time, I thought he was living his life, happy to be rid of me, but he suffered as much as I did. Worse. Savannah knew he was skulking around the manor, but according to Cross, so did Vin and Frankie and a couple of other Dragonflies.

He didn’t sleep. Oh, no. He came to watch my window instead, confirming that I was at least safe, even if he couldn’t be with me.

And why couldn’t he be with me?

Damien.

My stupid fucking older brother was the one who put the idea in Cross’s head that I would be better without him. There were no threats. Damien’s too smart for that. Why threaten Cross, knowing that if it got back to me, that would only push me away when he could use Cross’s own insecurities to keep us separated on the guise of being the doting older brother.

Doting?

Trycontrolling.

If it wasn’t for Cross grabbing my hand after I jumped up off the bed, prepared to storm all the way back to the East End toconfront Damien, I might have. This time, it was his turn to beg as he pleaded with me to stay.

Cross da Silva wantedmeto stay.

How could I refuse?

Especially when, after I crossed my arms and plopped back down with a huff, he distracted me by pulling his shirt off again. Not the pants, which is a downright shame, but he yanked off his shirt, letting me look my fill at the butterfly on his chest.

When I finally got my tears under control, I admitted almost sheepishly that the surprise of seeing his tat was what turned me into a weeping fountain in the first place. He changed the subject then, reminding me that we were both naked and anyone could stumble on us at any moment, but as I turn into him, tracing the wings on his chest, I won’t let him change the subject now.

Beneath his decorated skin, his heart beats. As he breathes softly, already halfway to sleep now that he has one leg thrown over mine, his hand nestled possessively on my hip, I swear I can see the butterfly’s wings flapping.

I press a kiss there.

It’s not a fresh tat. After hanging out with Cross at his studio for those six weeks straight in the beginning of our ‘friend’ship, I can tell the difference between a fresh one and one that’s healed some. This one is at least a couple of weeks old.

He confirms it. “I couldn’t have you with me. Stupid, I know that now, but I honestly believed it. So I did the only thing I could. I gave you the place of honor on my chest.”

I remember thinking how odd it was the first time I saw Cross without a shirt that every inch of his torso and back had various different types of tattoos on them except for the space over his left pec. I never asked because, well, it didn’t seem appropriate then, but now?

“I always wondered why you kept this part of your chest empty.”

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