Page 92 of What Is Love
I smirked. “Afraid to sleep next to me again?”
He sighed. “Then let’s go to bed.”
He began going around his home, making sure the front door was locked and turning off lights. The last light on was the one on his nightstand. He went over to his dresser and took off his watch. He didn’t seem to care that I was there when he pulled off his long-sleeved shirt and tossed it in the laundry basket next tothe dresser. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Or should I say his back. I’d known he had full-sleeve tattoos, but I hadn’t known that nearly his entire back was tattooed as well. My feet took me over to him without thought. I was just drawn and had to see him up close.
He stiffened when my fingers touched the detailed wings of the hooded guardian angel on his back. The angel was dressed like a knight with blood-covered armor, a sword, and a shield. It was breathtaking, but as I looked closely, I could see what the beautiful tattoo covered up. Scars. Some were round. Others were long. I ran the tip of my finger over one and that made him turn.
He had a schooled look on his face, like he always did, as he stared down at me.
“The way you hide what you’re thinking and feeling makes me feel like I’m staring at myself sometimes,” I said.
He didn’t respond to that, but his schooled look eased a little.
“Why a guardian angel?” I asked him.
His jaw ticked, like he didn’t want to answer. But he did anyway. “Because I should have died and I take comfort in believing that someone or something was looking out for me. Kept me alive, so I could get us out.”
“I think my guardian angel abandoned me the day my father was killed,” I said as I looked down.
“Why that day?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I have scars I wish I could cover up, too.”
His brows lifted. “You look pretty flawless.”
I grabbed the bottom of my dress and pulled it up and off. He fought hard to keep his eyes glued to mine as I stood in front of him in my black lacy bra and matching thong. He fought and lost. I tried not to smirk as his eyes dropped. I didn’t torture him for long and turned around. I pulled my hair forward over one shoulder. I moved my hand to my lower back and pusheddown the waistband of my thong a little to show him the half-moon and full-circle scars that spotted my skin there. The scars spanned at least five inches from the very bottom of my lower back over the top of my left buttcheek. “She hit me over and over again with her high heel.”
I went as still as he had when his fingers rested on my hip and he ran his thumb over the scars. Then his hand moved up to where Clay had punched me and he lightly touched the large bruise there. I reached behind my back and undid my bra, but I didn’t let the cups fall from my breasts. I held them there with one arm and lifted my other in the air to show him the three-inch jagged scar going downward at an angle just below my armpit. “She caught me by the elbow as I tried to get away. She hit me with a champagne flute. It broke against my shoulder blade, and the stem of the flute cut me.”
He was quiet standing behind me, and I started to feel silly for showing him. “They’re not as bad as yours,” I said.
“Don’t compare,” he said. “Isn’t that what you told me?”
I turned to face him. I could only hold his unreadable whiskey eyes for a short time before I had to look away, and I nodded.
“Acting docile now.” He grabbed my chin and made me meet his eyes again. “The alcohol must be wearing off.”
He turned toward his dresser and pulled out a shirt from one of the drawers. I was surprised when he held it out to me. I took it, turned to let my bra fall from my breasts, and put it on. It was the T-shirt he’d been wearing the first time I’d seen him at Tristen’s party. The one with a faded whiskey company’s logo on the front of it. The soft black fabric fell just above my knees. While my back was turned, I could hear him taking off his pants.
As I turned to face him, I pulled my long hair out of the top of the shirt and let it fall back down. He looked angry as he took me in.
“Why do you look so mad?” I asked him.
“Fucking joint didn’t work,” I thought I heard him grumble. He pulled back his charcoal bedding and gestured to it. “Get in.”
It was an order.
“Is that how you lure ladies to your bed?” I grumbled as I climbed in and scooted to the other side.
“I don’t bring women to my bed,” he said as he slid under the covers next to me.
“The couch, then?”
He laced his fingers behind his head. “I don’t bring women to my place. I go to theirs.”
“Because it’s easier to leave after?” I asked.
“Partly.”
