Page 24 of Dirty Love

At the moment, it’s fucking her silly, but since we’ve gotten real for a second, that’s on the back burner. “That we didn’t lie about. We’re investigating Gerome Lively.”

She stiffens. “I really don’t have anything to do with him.”

“Does your manager?”

Her face pales. “How good are you at your job?”

“The best.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll figure that out soon enough on your own.” She sticks me with a cold look and leans back against the console. The ivory silk of her robe is a luxurious frame for the perfection of her body. Heavy breasts. Dark pink nipples. Enough curve to her belly to be interesting, but she’s all muscle. And then there are those wings across the lowest curve, framing her bare pussy. I drop to my knees and press a kiss there, on the ink, and she tangles her fingers in my hair, urging me lower.

I’ll get there soon enough. I’ll make her scream, because I want to consume her. I want to devour her taste until her scent is permanently imprinted on my skin. But right now I’m more interested in the tattoo. I trace my fingers over the edge of it, using two hands. When she squirms, I shift one hand to squeeze her hip. Hold her in place.

Lighter now, I brush over each wing with my fingers.

It’s when my touch slides from one wing to another, over the scrolling heart in the middle, then I feel the faint ridge of scar tissue.

She freezes.

Has nobody else ever touched her like this? Obviously she’s free with her body.

Not so much with the tattoo?

It’s an old scar, and the tattoo ink fully disguises it to the eye.

A horizontal cut, a few inches wide and right at her pubic bone.

I press my forehead against her belly.

You’ve got wings I’ll never have

You’ll fly

So carry my dreams, love

And you’ll be fine

Tabitha Leyton doesn’t have children.

But she gave birth to one, and not recently.

I rise to my feet. Barefoot, she’s tiny, and in order to kiss her I need to bend over.

Picking her up is a hell of a lot easier. Her waist is nothing in my hands, and she gasps as I hoist her up high, easily holding her against me as I take her mouth.

Frustrated anger pours through me and into her as the kiss goes from zero to sixty in the blink of an eye. Her lips part and her tongue darts out. It’s an invitation I’ll always accept, I know that in my gut.

This woman—messed up, hostile, tragic—owns my soul somehow. She can take anything she wants from me. And even if she doesn’t ask for anything, I still give it.

I’ve never been a caregiver. I’m not sure I know how, not in a healthy way. But as our mouths move together, as I stroke my tongue against her and swallow her protests and her fears, as I hold her tight and let her haul me closer…Ican give her this.

I can say,I see you, baby girl. I don’t know who you are or what the hell happened to you, but I see your darkest secret and I still want you.

Not with actual words, of course.

We’re going to pretend now.

We’re going to hide from the truth.

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