Page 53 of Heathen

Guilt becomes a part of my anatomy as I run my hand down the length of my hardening cock, and I swear my face flames with disgrace when I get myself off at the memory of that two-second kiss.

I take as long as possible to dry off, feeling as if she knows exactly what I did in the bathroom.

The egotistical side of me wonders if she did the same when she came into the room.

I know she bathed. The shower floor was wet when I came in here.

I spend another five minutes just staring at my reflection because of what the idea of her using the same two fingers I was teasing her with does to my body.

The woman might possibly be the death of me. I don't know if someone can actually die from craving someone as much as I seem to crave her, but it feels like I can.

What started out as a way to get her away from Dima and that warehouse has turned into marriage to a woman I can't seem to resist and who apparently doesn't have the same level of struggle as I do.

I'm not supposed to like her. I'm not supposed to think about her in the way my head seems to with every waking minute.

I did what I did to protect her.

She's beautiful. I knew that the second I knocked over her display at the grocery store. I see beautiful women all the time, although I've never met one who sent such a rush of need up my back before.

I've let too many thoughts inside my head, and the most concerning one is that I'm not totally sure that I want the marriage annulled. As crazy as it sounds, even in my head, I don't see spending more time with her and getting to know her better as a problem. I don't know that we're star-crossed lovers or anything, but there is this twist in my gut when I think about parting ways with her. As a man who has always listened to his gut, I know that if she wanted to go to the courthouse tomorrow to sever this bond between us, I'd have to argue the point.

The air in the bathroom only seems to thicken despite the water being turned off for several minutes now, and it forces me out of the room.

The lights in the bedroom are now off, and I quickly turn the bathroom light off, half of me praying she doesn't roll toward me when I get into the bed and the other half wishing she would.

Kaylee doesn't move a muscle when I pull back the sheet and blanket on my side of the bed.

I swear all she'd have to do is run her foot up my calf and I'd break down and beg her for just an ounce of attention. As much as I want that, I also hate the fact that I do.

I've never been a man who needed anything from anyone. I guess it's one of those consequences of growing up in a family where you've always been a prop rather than loved the way a child should be. Now I just seem to be projecting my mommy and daddy issues, something I thought I came to terms with long ago.

I sigh in frustration and put my back to her, knowing just how impossible it'll be to actually fall asleep with her so close.

But then I focus on the sound of her even breathing and somehow it carries me right into dreamland.

Chapter 22

Kaylee

How is it possible to sleep like a baby and still wake up feeling as if I got hit by a truck?

As much as I'd like to forget exactly how my dreams went last night, they're the only things that I seem capable of focusing on.

I miss the days when my dreams faded like smoke minutes after I woke up, but since I had the same dream on repeat all damn night long, they seem to be clinging to me like a rash. The worst thing about this particular rash is that I know I'm in a losing battle, trying to fight the urge to scratch the itch. Doing so would complicate everything. With the teasing I endured yesterday in the hot tub combined with the relentless teasing from my dream, complicated seems to be the only answer.

As if the man knows just how to torture me, he walks into the kitchen, half an hour after I settled at the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in gray sweats and no t-shirt.

I look over at one of the other guys who introduced himself as Twisted earlier this morning. Although he's not looking in my direction, I can't help but read the crooked smile on his face as if knowing just how much Ellis affects me.

I curl my lip in irritation at my husband as he walks closer, thinking he's going to go past me and grab his own cup of coffee.

He doesn't. Of course, he doesn't. Why would he do the only sane thing?

Instead of getting coffee, he walks up to me, placing his hand on my cheek like he has every right to do so, and when I look up at him, questions in my eyes, he bends down and presses his lips to mine.

It's a quick kiss, a fraction of the one we shared last night, but it somehow has the ability to reignite that same fire he started with that single damn finger last night.

When he pulls back, he doesn't go far. He turns me on the bar stool, the thing not bothering to even make a groan of protest as he spins me into position, and then the insane man wraps his arms around me and buries his face in my neck.

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