Page 177 of Fury

“That’s you in those ads.”

My face heated, my tummy clenched tight. “You’ve seen them?”

“A few of the old ladies at my club have bought your stuff. One of my bros hung a poster of yours up on a wall at the clubhouse.”

“Really?”

“Hmm.” He drank, he drank me in. “Never a face, just a body.”

A body he knew so well.

His gaze fell to my chest, studying my web of tattoos. He leaned forward slowly, and my pulse heated. He pulled my blouse to the side, out of his way. The rough pads of his fingertips seared my skin as they traced the spray of tiny stars, tear drops, birds, and flowers that exploded down my skin, over my left breast.

“This is beautiful,” he said, a finger tracing the letter embedded in the flowers.

“Thank you. Work in progress.”

My breath stalled as his knuckles brushed over the gold compass whose dial pointed north. His forehead wrinkled, and his heavy eyes lifted to mine once more.

“You still have my compass?” he asked.

“I—”

“No, don’t tell me. Forget it,” he breathed.

His careful stroke continued, and I wanted to wrap my fingers around his wrist, but not to stop him from touching me. No, to feel the sinewy strength in that arm, to kiss his hand. To encourage him. I suddenly wanted to run my hands up to his shoulders and let him crush me in his embrace. The crush of him. Fuck, how I missed that. I’d blocked it out.

His breathing deepened as his thumb caressed the top of my bare breast, setting off a spiraling ache inside me. It wasn’t only the pulse of lust. This was fuller, richer, dizzying. All these years of living a half life when it came to men flared up in front of me, laughing at me, mocking me. Nothing but hollow, vacant…but his one simple touch, the weight of his stare.

I cleared my throat. “I’m proud of you for what you’ve accomplished.” I clenched my jaw before I whispered something else, something more that I shouldn’t.

His head dipped as his hand cupped my breast fully, an inarticulate sound escaping his lips. He was ignoring my superficial remarks, wanted more from me than just a friendly conversation.

So did I.

My hand reached out and brushed a scarred cheek. Years ago, I used to want to be able to magically heal those scars with a touch, a kiss. But now I liked the grooves, the jagged lines under my fingertips. They were him, us. A story. Our story. Pain and strength. Survival.

He groaned at the graze of my fingers, his eyes creasing as if he were carefully re-reading something familiar, taking it in. He bent his head and planted a gentle kiss over the compass just below the base of my neck, and I choked back a cry in my throat. The musk of old leather, metal, and the light, clean scent of shampoo rose between us. I held my breath, fought to remain still.

He slowly removed his hand from my flesh, and I sat up straighter in my chair, my pulse bucking uncontrollably. Neither of us said anything for a long while.

“You have a family now?” I started a conversation that would put distance between us once more. My chest tightened waiting for his answer.

“No.”

“An old lady?”

“A couple have come and gone.”

“Oh. I thought—”

“I was always yours,” his voice rasped, his heavy eyes holding mine. “There’s no one else but you. Never has been, never will be. No matter what pussy I’ve had in my bed, it’s always been you on my cock, and in here.” His long fingers landed on his chest.

Devastating, brutal honesty.

“Finger—”

“Not a fucking one,” he breathed.

---