Page 107 of Devil's Tulip

Little by little, my breathing slows, and the fire beneath my skin dims to a warm, lazy glow. I stay like this for a while, nestled against him, tracing absent patterns over the inked flesh of Michael’s chest as the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulls me into contentment. “Do all your tattoos have some special meaning, or do you just like looking badass?”

His hand rubs up my spine, the other settling into my hair, idly playing with the strands. “Some do, others don’t.”

I shift slightly to glance up at him. His face is relaxed, eyes half-lidded with satisfaction, and a mop of dirty blond hair falls over his brows. I brush it back, then let my fingers drift to the dark ink lining the side of his scalp. “What about these?”

“They’re lines and bits of code fromStarQuest, the video game I created that went viral and made HartSphere global.”

“That’s so cool,” I murmur, examining the cursives and little numbers with fresh eyes. I know of the game, obviously—who doesn’t?—but I’m not really much of a gamer. I should download it sometime. See what all the fuss is about.

Lifting up a little, I press a kiss to either side of his smooth scalp. The movement makes his cock slip wetly inside me, andI feel it twitch, stirring back to life. Heat floods my core in response.

I cock my brows at him, and he raises his hands in surrender, chuckling. “You can’t blame me. You’re naked with my cock inside you, and you’re moving around, shaking your tits in my face. Of course I’m going to get hard.”

As if proving his point, he gets even harder inside me, stretching me deliciously, and I swallow my low moan, not wanting to encourage the rogue. I start to get up from him, dragging his cock out of me, but he grips my hips, holding me still. “No. Stay. I like this.”

“It’s distracting having a conversation like this,” I protest weakly, but I settle back down on him anyway, shivering as goosebumps erupt all over my body, because—who am I kidding—I like this too.

Clearing my throat, I let my gaze wander back to his tattoos. The ones on his scalp continue down his neck in the same intricate pattern. I run my fingers over them, gentle and curious. “It must have hurt to get tattooed here.”

“Like a motherfucker,” he agrees bluntly, and I feel a rush of tenderness. I lean down and press a kiss on his throat—a kiss of empathy, of admiration for the pain endured. The strong pulse beneath my lips reminds me that for all his power and danger, he’s human too. I move my attention to his sternum and chest where the tattoo of the phoenix is. “I got that because I think of myself like the bird. Rising from the ashes of my past to establish the Michael I am now.”

I hum thoughtfully, curiosity burning through me about his past, his parents. From Gracie, I’ve gleaned that his father was probably not a good man, but his mother remains a complete mystery. Gracie never mentions her, and Michael avoids any reference to his parents altogether. I wonder if I can ask now…

“I can hear your thoughts loud and clear, Gianna. Ask your questions. I’ll answer the ones I’m comfortable with and ignore the rest.”

“Alright,” I murmur, but at the last second of asking about his parents, I chicken out. Instead, my gaze drifts to his left arm where an elaborate garden of different flowers twines down from his biceps to his wrist and fingers in striking black and white—with one vivid exception. A burst of red, orange, white, pink, and yellow bulbs with green stems.

Tulips.

I trace my fingers over the flowers, lingering on the colored tulips. “Did you know that my middle name is Tulipa? You probably do. What a coincidence, right?”

“It’s no coincidence, it’s because you were born to be mine.” His voice brooks no argument, and warmth blooms in my chest.

I like that thought—the idea of cosmic forces creating me specifically for him, of some divine hand nudging my parents to name me Tulipa after flowers that clearly mean something to him.

“What do they mean? The tulips?” I ask, desperate to understand this piece of him.

His hand resumes its hypnotic stroking of my spine, and I shiver, instinctively snuggling into him as I wait for his answer.

“It’s complicated. A long story,” he says after a weighted silence, and I sense his withdrawal. I move to get up from his chest, but his arms tighten around me, keeping me captive. “The flowers are a symbol of the connection between the guys and me. My brothers.”

Oh.

Something about the way he says it makes my throat constrict. I press a hand over his heart, sensing there’s a sad story behind those simple words. Why else would a bunch of men with no blood ties become so fiercely loyal to one another—and not only refer to themselves as brothers but truly believe they are family?

“It’s so long, I’m not even sure where to start. And we sure as hell can’t talk about it here,” he finishes evasively.

Oh no you don’t, I think, pushing away from him with a determined shove. I will not let him retreat now, not when I’m finally getting a glimpse behind the curtain.

“Tell me, right here, right now. Pete is gone, and he’s going to stay gone until we leave this office.” And I have a disturbing feeling in my belly that if I let Michael dodge this now, I’ll never get him to tell me about it again.

His hips shift beneath me, stirring his cock inside me?—

I narrow my eyes on him.

Oh, you asshole.He’s trying to distract me with sex?

“This isn’t fair, you know?” Frustration leaks into my voice. “I’m an open book to you because you already know everything there is to know about me. Hell, you probably even know things I don’t know about my own life.” That last part is meant as a guilt trip, but something flickers in his eyes that makes me believe hemightknow something I don’t.

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