Page 74 of Brick's Retribution

She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "Boardrooms. Business dinners. Political events where everyone's calculating the value of every conversation." She pulls back to look at me. "Not this. Not feeling like I belong somewhere."

"You do belong here," I tell her firmly. "With me. With us."

The song ends, but we don't move apart.

Around us, the party continues, but it feels like we're in our own bubble.

Her dark eyes search mine, and I can see everything I'm feeling reflected back at me—love, desire, hope for a future neither of us could have imagined a week ago.

"Take me upstairs," she says quietly.

I don't need to be asked twice.

We slip away from the party, climbing the stairs to her room hand in hand.

The music from below provides a distant soundtrack as I close the door behind us, sealing us into our own private world.

"Come here," she says, backing toward the bed with a smile that makes my blood boil.

I follow, drawn to her like gravity.

When I reach her, she starts sliding my cut down my arms, placing it on the corner of the bed, her fingers gentle around my bandages.

Soon after, she’s sliding my shirt over my head.

"We have to be careful," she says, looking at the fresh medical tape. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," I reply, though part of me thinks she could destroy me completely and I'd thank her for it.

Her hands trace the tattoos that cover my chest and arms.

Her touch is reverent, exploring, like she's memorizing every inch of ink and skin.

"You're beautiful," she whispers, and the way she says it makes me believe it might be true.

I cup her face in my hands, tilting her head up so I can kiss her properly.

She tastes like lime and tequila from Compass's margarita, sweet and sharp and perfect.

When she parts her lips for me, I lose myself in the taste of her.

My hands find the hem of her shirt, lifting it slowly over her head.

She's not wearing a bra underneath, and the sight of her bare skin in the lamplight makes my mouth go dry.

"God, you're perfect," I breathe, my hands skimming over the curves I've been dying to touch again.

She shivers at my touch, her nipples hardening under my palms.

When I lean down to take one into my mouth, she gasps, her hands fisting in my hair.

"Careful," she reminds me, and I realize I've been pressing against her harder than I should with my ribs.

"Right," I say, forcing myself to slow down, to be gentle even though I want to be deep inside her right the fuck now.

We undress each other slowly, carefully, her hands mapping the bandages and bruises that mark our journey to Chihuahua.

When she presses soft kisses to the edge of my shoulder bandage, something tight in my chest loosens.

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