Page 71 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

As much as I want to say yes, so much has happened over the years, not the least of which is he’s become a killer. But the thought is so addictive, and not something I haven’t fantasized about a hundred times. “I don’t know.”

“My mom would say nothing’s impossible.” At the mention of his mom, he looks down and every word after is softer, less certain. “It wasn’t your fault, what happened to her.”

More silence. God, I want to reach out and touch him so badly. But can I do that? He’s caused me so much pain. How can I just… forget all that?

But then I see it in his eyes: everything I’ve suffered, he’s suffered ten times over. I can help erase that agony from him. Just like he’s helped put me back together. After Alvin. After Peyton. After all this shit that’s happened, shit I never asked for, shit that’s threatening to tear me apart… Tomas was there. Again and again.

“You know what I think?” I say slowly.

He blows out a slow breath and stares at me for a second before shaking his head. “What?”

“I think your mom wouldn’t want you to punish yourself. She didn’t want you to watch her die, Tommy. It was the last thing she wanted. She’d want you to be happy.” And because I’m weak for him and haven’t figured out how to make it stop, I sit across his lap and hug him, and what I mean to be one kiss against his throat in comfort turns into a trail of kisses across his throat, up to his jaw, over his cheek to his mouth.

Before the first kiss is finished, it changes. Becoming frenzied. Feral. Desperate.

I shove his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms then he lifts the hem of my shirt and we break apart long enough for him to yank it over my head and are fused together again before he can fling it. I move to straddle his lap, to feel his cock against my clit as I grind, and fumble with the buttons of his shirt.

When my fingers seem to be three times their normal size and I can’t get the buttons, he yanks it open and slips it off, still swiping his tongue against mine. And when he breaks away, it’s only to drag his mouth over my collarbone and down to my nipple, which he sucks through the cup of my lace bra. I arch my back and lift my hips so he can unfasten his pants, all the while teasing me with his tongue, his teeth, and the friction of the fabric.

His cock is hard and straining against his underwear and when I reach to touch him, he moves my hand. I try again and he pulls back.

“If you touch me, I won’t last.”

Then he rips the cup of my bra down and takes my naked nipple back into his mouth.

I’m panting, moaning, grinding my hips until he pushes me away. “Take your pants off.”

In the second it takes me to shed the rest of my clothes, he’s moved our wine glasses, stripped bare, and is lifting me onto the table. And then he’s inside me and we’re grunting and moaning, touching and coming.

It could be minutes or hours. I have no concept of time when I’m making love with him.

* * *

Later, without the hormones and the passion, we’re just two very naked people in a kitchen. I pull my shirt over my head and watch him put his clothes on. It’s a lot more fun watching him take them off than it is watching him put his clothes back on. Normally, I would enjoy the show either way, but right now I’m busy.

Self-recriminations. Guilt. Weakness. My sin list is getting long.

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

I turn away. I don’t want to see his face because there isn’t anybody in this room who doesn’t know I’m going to end up giving into my weakness if I don’t get him out of here. And giving into my weakness thrusts me back to a spot I don’t know how to deal with. So I close my eyes because looking at him is going to make it very hard to ask him to leave.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for … this.” I wave a hand between us just in case he’s confused. “I need to think it through. We both need to think it through.”

Now I look at him. The words should’ve fully penetrated his brain. And it would be so helpful if I could quit thinking in terms of words like ‘penetrated.’ My cheeks burn, and they have to be the color of tomatoes or lobster shells, maybe bricks.

“Corrie, it’s okay.” His voice is almost as soft as the hand he runs down my arm. “You’re right. We should think about this.” And instead of elaborating on what he needs to think about, he kisses the top of my head and walks out of the kitchen. The door hinge screams a protest and he’s gone.

I look at the kitchen table. There’s no indication that two minutes ago, I was bare-assed where the butter dish used to sit. Nothing that says I moaned as I came while lying on the tabletop where my dad eats his morning Wheaties.

Mom keeps her cleaning supplies under the sink. I go there and pull out a bottle of cleanser and a rag she cut from an old T-shirt. Twenty minutes later, the table sparkles, the kitchen smells like pine, and I’m still just as confused about everything as I was when I started.

When I’m done cleaning, I go back to studying the Flash-Bomb spoof program. The break was good for me—in more ways than just the sex—and as soon as I open the program again, I see it. The numbers and letters rearrange themselves in my mind, and I know exactly where to find Peyton.

Then the doorbell rings.

My heart seizes. It’s Tomas coming back; I know it is. He’s always so certain, so confident. He lied; he doesn’t need to “think about this.” And his confidence? That’s what I need. I need his certainty to help me find my own way forward. If he comes in, says he loves me, says he’ll stay… then I can rely on that. I just need to hear him say it.

I run to the door and throw it open. It feels like one of those movie moments where the soundtrack surges and it all comes together perfectly. I’m ready to forgive him, ready to accept him, ready to embrace him, ready to love him.

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