Page 28 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

Then she pushes me away, jumps off the counter she somehow ended up on, and runs to the bedroom where she locks herself in.

Exhibit B—yesterday afternoon.

Tough day already. My dick’s still hard from this morning with Corrie in the kitchen, and I have to change clothes. It’s going to be a long night of sitting outside a building waiting for Totti’s lieutenant to come out of his mistress’ house.

I walk into my room for clothes, but I stop just inside the door. It smells like her. Sunshine. Flowers. Corrie.

My dick stirs again and I look down, like I can somehow use my mind to convince it to behave. But the universe, my imagination, and a too-short towel are all working against me.

Corrie opens the door that connects the bedroom to the bathroom and steps into my room, her towel slipping, her face scrubbed clean and rosy, her lips parted in surprise. There’s no grace of God that’s going to save me now.

I want her. I want to feel her skin, taste it, swipe my hands over every square inch of her body. At the same time I take two steps toward her, she takes two toward me, and I pull her close.

I can’t stop it. I don’t want to stop it. I crush her lips with mine, but she takes control of the kiss and it’s a battle until I let her win and open my mouth, let her push her tongue between my lips. I let her win because I’m busy loosening the knot in the towel, sliding it down her body, then taking her ass in each of my hands and lifting until she wraps her legs around me.

“I’m all wet.”

The murmured words aren’t a giant revelation since I can feel the heat and have a roving hand exploring her from thigh to ass while I kiss her. “Good.”

She laughs. “I meant from the shower.”

“Oh.”

She lowers her feet to the floor, and I have no idea what the fuck is going on. I have kissed a lot of women. More than my share and, by God, no one ends up laughing and wrapping themselves back into a towel. Not until after, anyway. But before I can even figure out what’s going on, she’s picked up her towel, wrapped it around her, and walked into the bathroom like everything that just happened was merely a figment of my imagination.

And, finally—last night when I came home after I made hamburger meat of the lieutenant:

I’ve only been home for a little while, asleep for less, when I have one of those moments where sleep and awake merge. When reality and fantasy become one. When Corrie slides onto the sofa beside me, shaking.

“I had a bad dream. Will you hold me?”

God, yes. Whatever physical discomfort it costs me—and it will, because not even rubbing one out in the shower helps get rid of this throbbing need—she needs me. She turns her head into my chest, half laying on me. Her hand slides down my rib cage. Her fingernails trace the line of one of my ab muscles. Her palm glides lower to cover my cock.

Fuck. It’s wrong. I know it is. She knows it is. And she’s going to wake up tomorrow and regret it. I want to be a few things to her, but regret isn’t one of them. But if she keeps stroking me, kissing my chest with open mouth and tongue, I’m not going to be able to say no.

“Hey.” I cover her hand with mine and pull it up so I can kiss her knuckles and lace my fingers with her. “Why don’t you tell me about your dream?”

There’s silence for a long time and I’m almost asleep when she whispers, “Just hold me.”

I turn more on my side and gather her against me, kiss the top of her head, and tell her it’s going to be okay. I promise to protect her and she snuggles against me, one arm curled over my waist, the other bent between us and under my elbow. Her head is just under my chin and I can smell her hair, feel her breath on my throat and shoulder.

It’s going to be a long night.

It’s not like I want more than to sleep with her, but I know her. I know she thinks sleeping with me is going to lead her down a road she doesn’t want to be on. One that associates her with my family. With our shared past. With what I’ve done, what I’m doing, what I’ll continue to do.

Fine with me. There are plenty of women to sleep with. I can’t afford to lose focus while I’m on the cusp of a war with Roberto Totti and his band of idiots.

Finally, Alek drives the car through the gate and stirs me from my haunted daydreams. I can’t wait to get this meeting over with. Because I’m fucking tired, that is—not because I want to get back to Corrie.

Demetri, one of the Bratva lieutenants, opens the door to my father’s study with one hand and holds Alek back with the other. I enter alone.

I don’t have to hear Bogan speak to know my father is pissed off. His eyes are dark, and his scowl is deeper than normal. It’s been three days since the incident at the hotel, and four days since I’ve seen him. Plenty of time for him to find a way to blame me for a room mix-up and a witness I should never have left behind.

He doesn’t look or invite me to sit. He’s staring at me, rage making his dark eyes darker and his red cheeks redder.

“A fucking witness,” he growls.

“He isn’t going to talk.” I made sure of that. I’ve continued making sure. I have a man on Hogan day and night. And if I need to take matters into my own hands, I will.

---