Page 44 of Burned in Stone
“You should see the photos in his office. Opening nights, her in a tutu, him in a suit looking ready to murder anyone who even thinks about criticizing her performance.”
Mercy laughs. “That actually makes perfect sense. Protective dad mode.”
“Emma’s supposed to visit for Christmas,” I tell her, checking the window locks out of habit. “You’ll like her. She’s tough as hell despite the tutus.”
“A ballerina who grew up in an MC.” Mercy flops onto the couch. “That’s got to be a story.”
“Several stories. Most involving her terrorizing prospects when she was a teenager. Bones was tasked with keeping her out of trouble whenever she was home, and oh man did she hate that.”
“OK, we’re definitely going to be friends.”
I move toward her, drawn by her laughter and the way she’s sprawled on the couch like she already belongs here. Like this is ours.
That’s the part that hits me hardest.
Because this is what I wanted. Mercy in my space. Wearing my damn shirt. Safe. Mine. And wanting it this bad is how aman gets gutted. Wanting hands the other person a blade and tells them right where to cut. I’ve never given anyone that shot before.
She could walk out tomorrow and I’d have nothing to stand on. No armor. No distance. Just empty hands and a bed that smells like her.
But she put on that cut. She chose my name. She chose to stay. That has to count for something.
My hands itch to touch her again. To finish what we started. To make this real, not something I keep holding at arm’s length because I’m scared of what it’ll cost if it goes sideways.
“Come here,” I say, voice low as I reach for her.
She gives me that smile—the one that’s all cheek and promise—but instead of coming to me, she spins away, quick as a cat. Before I can catch her, she’s headed toward the bathroom, those cut-offs showing off every curve as she moves.
“You promised we were going to get cleaned up, and I can see a big tub with jets in there,” she says, peeking into the bathroom with an appreciative whistle.
I cross the room in three strides, catching her about the waist before she can escape again. In one smooth motion, I hoist her over my shoulder, her surprised yelp turning into laughter as her hair cascades down my back.
“Oh, we’ll get cleaned up,” I tell her, carrying her toward the bedroom instead of the bathroom. “But I want to make you dirtier first.”
Her laugh goes breathless the second I put her down on the bed. We don’t move. We don’t speak. We just hold the moment, as if the whole damn world is waiting for my next breath.
“Cash,” she whispers, and hearing my name like that goes straight to my cock.
I brace over her, hands planted on either side of her head.
“I need to taste you, angel.”
16
MERCY
Idon’t fall in love like normal people. I crash into it like a meteor hitting earth—all fire and catastrophe, leaving nothing but scorched ground behind me. It’s why I ran from Cash for so long. Because I knew the moment I let him in, there would be no putting myself back together again.
His hands slide beneath my shirt, calloused fingers tracing fire across my skin, and I lean into his touch like I’ve been starving for it. Maybe I have been. Three months of pretending I didn’t want this, didn’t need this, didn’t want his hands on me. I was lying then, and now the truth is a wildfire consuming everything in its path.
“Cash,” I breathe, as his lips trace the column of my throat. My fingers tangle in his hair, desperate to anchor myself to something solid while the rest of me liquefies beneath his touch.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmurs against my skin. “Every night for months. What you’d sound like. How you’d taste.”
His hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts, and I can’t help the whimper that escapes me.
Cash doesn’t stop, doesn’t tease, just pushes the shirt up over my head and off my arms. He tosses it somewhere behind him. Then he takes one look at me—tattoos, stretch marks, every extra pound I suddenly worry is too much—and smiles like I’m art. Like he’s the collector and I’m the prize he spent his whole sorry life trying to find.
“Jesus, Mercy,” he breathes, his hands skimming up my sides to cup my breasts. “Look at these perfect fucking tits. Been dreaming about getting my mouth on them for months.”
