Page 55 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
“The Mustang.”
“What!”I whirl and find him unapologetic. “That’s why you took the car. And you think I’m immoral. You stole from nuns.”
“Relax,” he purrs and slips off his leather jacket before heading to the shower and turning on the faucet. When he’s satisfied with the temperature, he drops the curtain and faces me. “They knew.”
It takes every ounce of self-control to stop my jaw from dropping.Don’t get shitty. Don’t get shitty.It’s not like everyone is making plans behind my back. It’s not like you have no control over your life anymore. I’m sure they had a reason for not telling me. I yank the lid off the black eyeliner and sharpen the pencil with harsh, jerky movements.
I don’t need to apply more eyeliner, but what the hell, it’s the only thing keeping me sane at the moment. Zeke tugs off his shirt in the mirror behind me with stiff movements. His deeply tanned skin is peppered with fresh tattoos. The black is a beacon, begging for attention. I drop the eyeliner and find a smudge tool in my makeup bag. When I face the mirror again, Zeke is in the shower, tugging the frosted plastic curtain closed.
The outline of his body is visible as he washes. I lean on the counter and force my pulse to calm the fuck down. He’s only baiting me, testing to see if I react to this intimacy. To be honest, maybe that’s what I’m doing too. Something changed between us at the bar, and I’m confused. But he’s clearly not giving up, despite me biting his lip.
A smile tugs at my lips. Such a Zeke thing to do. He never backed down from a challenge. My smile drops when I remember that he usually finds a way to win, even when he loses.
Butterflies swarm in my lower stomach at what letting him win might entail. I pick up the mascara wand with trembling fingers and apply dark goop to my lashes. Then I put on the false lashes, but it takes too long. The tricky sons-of-bitches always slip. The faucet turns off.
The curtain slides open, and a tanned, muscular arm reaches out to collect the white towel hanging on a hook beside the shower.
Why am I looking?
Lipstick.
Zeke steps out of the shower. I meet his piercing hazel gaze in the mirror as he moves behind me and checks his hair with a swipe of fingers. A veiled smugness covers his expression. He knows exactly how appealing his body is. I thought I could pretend I don’t give a shit, but apparently, my body never got the memo.
My tight nipples rub the patent corset. Heat pools between my thighs. I can’t breathe properly or look in one place for long.
Even with a black eye, he’s the definition of masculinity. Steam has brightened his complexion. Dark, wet hair drips onto his shoulders, running rivulets down the hard slabs of muscle that make up his torso.
He has just enough hair on his chest and lower abdomen that I could scrape my nails through it... if I wanted. Veins in his body have popped from the heat. They line his abdomen and disappear beneath the tiny white towel wrapped around his narrow waist. My gaze bounces back up to follow a vein, but then I notice purple blotches beneath the occult tattoos on his side.
I put the lipstick down and touch him gently. He sucks in a sharp breath.
“They beat you up?” Shadows cloud my vision. “Did you do what Raven said? Tell the truth?”
His lips flatten, proving he heard, but then he reaches around me to collect a disposable shaver from the vanity. The heat of his freshly showered body flares against my face, amplifying the scent of man and soap.
I step back as he nudges his way into the small space before the mirror. Now that I see his back, I notice more tattoos have been re-inked. The skin is raised and raw in many places.
He squirts shaving cream into his palm. “Had to get those fixed, or they won’t work. Cisco’s orders.”
“Shouldn’t you keep the new ink dry?” I grimace, gesturing at the shower. “It had to hurt getting inked over those bruises. Why didn’t you wait?”
Why didn’t you tell me you were getting beat up?
He catches my expression. “You worried about me, kitty cat?”
I clear my throat. “You’re not operating at full capacity.”
“My trigger finger is fine.”
He dabs foam around his scruffy jaw but can’t hide his pain. His eyes pinch when he lifts his hand. He’s trying to act tough, probably thinking he can hide it from me, but I see it all. I have a good mind to watch his little charade, but he can’t hide the pain when he runs the razor under the faucet and flinches from leaning forward. He might have a fractured rib.
Macho idiot.
“Give it to me.” I take the razor and slot myself between him and the mirror. Leaning my butt on the counter, I inspect his jaw and work out where I need to begin. Once the optimal path is identified, I tilt his head and shave. He doesn’t flinch, which means he either trusts me or is too afraid to move.
After a few raspy swipes, I fall into a soothing rhythm. My mind calms, and I lose myself in the moment. There’s something so domestic about this act; for some weird reason, it reminds me of baking. It’s repetitive and therapeutic. When he eventually speaks, I almost jolt. Thankfully, the razor is running under the water and not pressed against his skin.
“A man could get used to this,” he says softly.
