Page 62 of Ruthless Lord
“She did that to you?”
“Just the once. I knocked her over, you know, on account of her burning me, and I think she realized I was too big to physically abuse. But Grandma was creative. She found other ways to fuck with me.” He finishes his glass and refills it. “It’s all in the past. None of it matters anymore.”
“You don’t think so?”
“Not really. She’s dead. My parents are dead. I’ve got all these scars. They hurt, but so what?”
“I don’t know, maybe your whole obsession with fighting has something to do with your brutal childhood?”
He smiles at me. “No shit.”
I touch the bruise on his ribs lightly. “You’re a real bastard sometimes, you know that?”
“I know.” His eyes close again. “Can’t help myself.”
“With what? Being a dick?”
“Fighting.” He goes quiet as I pack up the first aid kit. I watch him drink more vodka, wondering if I’m happy he’s home and in one piece, or if I’m afraid of the way I’m starting to feel when he’s around. All of the above and more probably. “It’s the only place it all goes away. The aches and pains. The frustration. Fighting fills the void. It’s pure. I go in with one goal. Nothing else matters but me and him. It’s pure.”
“It’s the reason you’ve got all those aches and pains.”
“Fair point.”
“You can stop, you know. Maybe you can find a hobby. I hear fishing is popular.”
“Never did like boats. And I doubt there’s much to catch in South Philly.” He peeks at me, the glass of whiskey hovering at his lips. “You know the only other time I ever felt so clear? Other than in the fighting ring?”
“I bet I won’t like the answer.”
“It was with you. That night we first met. And again at the wedding. Funny, isn’t it? The only other time I feel right is with the one woman who won’t let me touch her.”
My stomach knots as my heart thrums. I’m trying to decide if I believe him, but Stefano’s never lied before. That’s the core of him. He means what he says, no matter how hard it might be to hear.
And now he’s saying being with me does something to him he’s never felt before.
I move closer, leaning forward. I put one hand on his thigh, leaning some of my weight on it. He looks at me, face completely calm, as he places the glass tumbler down on the table.
“What if I had taken you up on your offer? Back in the locker room?”
“I have a feeling my ribs wouldn’t be broken.”
“What would we be doing right now?”
“Recovering.” He seems so sincere. I’m addicted to that clarity. I wonder what it’s like, opening your mouth without any hesitation or worries. “Getting ready to fuck again until our parts are all raw and falling off.”
“Not really appealing.”
“True, but nothing ever is.” He puts his hand on top of mine. His fingers are rough and callused, his palm warm and big. Then he quickly pulls it back. “Shit. I shouldn’t have?—”
I lean forward and kiss him.
Our lips mash together. He seems surprised for one brief moment, and I can tell he wants to touch me, but I don’t give him permission. Instead, I lace my fingers into his hair at the back of his head and pull him tighter. His tongue snakes into my mouth, the taste of blood and honey mixing on my palate, a thrill of bliss and pleasure jolting into my core.
He controls himself. I barely keep myself from shattering. The kiss is deep and hungry, but not like anything I’ve felt before. It’s not the kind of kiss that leads to more. It’s a kiss for its own sake. A kiss because I want to taste him, because I want to feel him. A kiss because he’s hurting, and he’s beautiful, and I want to.A kiss filled with relief because there was a part of me that was afraid he might not come home.
It’s an easy kiss and a perfect kiss. I tumble into his mouth and lips. His tongue expertly caresses mine. I whimper and press myself tighter, and I’m going to lose my mind.
Until I realize what I’m doing and pull back with a start.
