Page 92 of Roulette Rodeo
"I don't do slow," he whispers, his voice rough as gravel.
My brain takes a second to process. "Are you referring to sex?"
"Yeah." He pulls back enough to meet my eyes, and there's vulnerability there that makes my heart skip. "But...I want to try it out. Even if it may be awkward for us."
The admission is so honest, so unexpected from this controlled soldier, that I can't help the giggle that escapes. "The great Shiloh, admitting he might be awkward at something?"
His expression shifts to something adorably flustered, a flush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the hot water. "You know what? I'm leaving again."
He huffs and starts to stand, but I whine—actually whine, like Duke when he wants attention—and grab his arm. "No, no, I'm sorry! I'll be good!"
"Too late." But he's not really leaving. Instead, he steps out of the tub with enviable grace, water streaming down his body in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Before I can properly appreciate the view, he's reaching back for me. "Come on. I'm definitely not taking you in the tub."
"What, afraid I'll drown?" I can't help the dark humor that slips out. "That would be one hell of a way to explain to your packmates. 'Sorry boys, I broke the new omega. In the bathtub. With my penis.'"
He groans, but I catch the twitch of his lips fighting a smile. "You're impossible."
"You like it," I counter, still giggling as he easily lifts me from the water like I weigh nothing.
The cool air hits my wet skin, making me shiver, but then he's pulling me against him and kissing me again. This kiss is different—deeper, more possessive, full of promise. His hands map my body as he holds me, learning every curve, and I melt into him completely.
When we finally break apart, he doesn't set me down. Instead, he carries me like I'm precious cargo, navigating out of the bathroom and down the hall to what must be his room. The white satin sheets on the bed gleam in the low light, pristine and perfect and about to be absolutely ruined.
He lays me out carefully, like I'm something fragile and valuable. The cool satin against my damp skin makes me shiver again, but his eyes on me burn hot enough to compensate. He stands at the edge of the bed for a moment, just looking, and I fight the urge to cover myself.
"Christ," he breathes, and his voice is reverent. "Look at you."
"Looking's free," I manage, trying for bravado despite the way my heart hammers. "Touching costs extra."
He smiles then, slow and predatory. "Good thing I'm rich."
His hands start at my ankles, tracing up my calves with barely-there touches. "These legs that carry you despite everything." Up to my thighs. "Strong, even when they don't work right." His fingers ghost over my hips. "These curves that could make a man forget his own name."
Higher still, skimming my ribs. "Every breath you take is a miracle." His palm settles over my heart. "This, still beating after everything they tried to break in you." His touch moves to my throat, gentle as butterfly wings. "This voice that speaks truth even when it shakes."
Finally, his fingers trace my face. "And this beautiful, stubborn, brilliant mind that kept you whole when lesser people would have shattered."
I'm trembling now, overwhelmed by being seen—really seen—for the first time in my life. I should feel exposed, vulnerable, but instead I feel powerful.
The way he's looking at me—like I'm a feast and he's been starving—makes me feel like a goddess.
But he's not done.
"Turn over," he says softly. "Let me see your back."
I comply, rolling onto my stomach, and feel the bed dip as he kneels beside me. His fingers trace the outline of my tattoo, so gently I barely feel it.
"Tell me about this," he murmurs, his voice carrying genuine curiosity rather than demand.
I take a breath, pressing my face into the pillow for a moment before turning my head to the side so he can hear me.
"I got it about a year ago. After my first overdose on the suppressants." My voice comes out muffled, but I know he's listening. "I woke up in that sketchy clinic Marnay used, barelyalive, tubes everywhere. The doctor—if you could call him that—said I was lucky my organs hadn't shut down completely."
His fingers pause on my shoulder blade.
"How bad?"
"Bad enough that I saw my mom." I laugh, but it's hollow. "Not like a dream. Like she was really there, sitting beside my bed, holding my hand. She looked healthy, the way she did before the cancer. She told me I was being stupid, that she didn't survive long enough to birth me just for me to die in some Vegas back-alley clinic."
