Page 70 of That Sik Luv

This makes his lips curl into a smile. A true, genuine smile that literally melts away any negative thoughts I’ve ever had about this man. It’s a beautiful smile. A shame he’s ever felt the need to cover it up with masks and shadows.

“That’s the first question you ask me after what I’ve revealed to you?” His eyebrow cocks as part of his dark hair falls back into his eyes.

I lift my hand and brush it back again so I can view him entirely. I don’t think I’ll ever feel satisfied enough by looking at the work of art that is him. He’s simply stunning. Cut from a cloth of modelesque beauty, coated in his own edgy grit. He grips my wrist as if my touch hurts him, pulling my hand away as that strong jaw flexes again, his nostrils flaring.

We may have connected intimately, but it’s obvious this man has no idea how to receive a gentle embrace. He knows control. He knows strength, but he knows nothing of love. Not in its purest, most organic form. He knows a love filtered by sick obsession. By pain. By vengeance.

“Twenty-nine.”

My eyes scour over every part of him, as if by simply examining and taking him in, I’ll be able to understand the impossible. I knew he had to be older than me, but that’s so many unaccounted years. I can only imagine the horrors of this dark revelation. How detrimental it would be to the entire Westwood dynasty. Aero’s resilience and determination kept him alive, but other than the complexities of vengeance, what truly drove this man to survive?

“Where have you been all this time?” I ask breathlessly.

I see the roll of his throat as he steps in closer to me, my legs spreading open on the counter to accommodate him. His palm plants behind me as the other cups the side of my neck. He towers over me again, the intensity of his stare paralyzing me. He gazes down at my lips before his tongue dips out and licks his own. Eyes of fire set themselves ablaze before me, pulling me into his feverishness.

“Finding you,” he whispers against my lips, as if there was no other reason for his existence. “The Devil’s Doll.”

Chapter thirty-five

At Your Mercy

TheDevil’sDoll.

They used to call me that.

My parents, behind closed doors, in wisps of whispers that echoed throughout our family home.

My porcelain-white skin that never held the same pigment as theirs. The deceivingly stark black hair that stood out in our family photos like an inkblot. The dark stain of condemnation.

After his revelation, Aero wasted no time getting us into the shower. He stripped me of my ripped and ragged clothes, tossing them into the pile alongside his.

As we stand beneath the water, I study his naked torso, noting the sizable upside-down crucifix along one of his ribs. It reminds me of the ring he wore or a similar design. Aero is most certainly against all pillars of organized religion. He shows it in his actions, but professes it with his sharp tongue. My eyes trail further down the divots of his hard, toned abdomen and further still, following the light trail of dark hair that leads to the large exposed organ hanging between his legs. The glistening of the barbell piercing at the tip causes my chest to flutter and my thighs to quiver in remembrance.

As he does, he washes me beneath the comfortingly warm water. The hands that were roughly gripping my hair out in the woods are now weaving through mine, lathering up every crevice with a delicious, rich vanilla soap as he stands before me.

His touch suddenly stalls as his striking gaze peers down at mine while water from the rain-style showers pours over our naked bodies. Fingertips brush up along my rib cage until hands mold over my breasts. His eyes darken as his digits roll over my pebbled nipples, the sensation causing my lower abdomen to tighten in response.

My eyes suddenly fixate on the way his erection grows before me. Bobbing between us, he’s quickly hardened again, shameless in his inevitable attraction. He washes himself with the soap, covering every inch, but I grab his forearm, stopping the motion when he finally reaches his chest.

His brows furrow as his frown sets in place. I pull his hands from his chest, replacing them with mine. Slowly running my sudsy hands up his broad pecs, I graze his collarbones, gliding up to his neck leisurely, but with intent.

He takes a step back, roughly pushing my hands away until they drop between us. Turning, he quickly shuts off the water and, in the blink of an eye, leaves the shower entirely.

He’s uncomfortable with any form of gentle contact. Any embrace that deems him loveable literally scalds his skin like acid.

Returning a second later with a towel draped low on his hips and another in his arms, he reaches a hand in for mine to help me out of the stone shower. I brush past him, walking naked and dripping wet into his bathroom in search of my own towel.

I’m affected by it. He freely touches me at his will, however, and whenever he wants. I’m his doll, as he says, and yet he still remains a world away from me. Yes, this may be new for him, but it’s new to me, too. I’ve opened myself to him, to his way of thinking. I’ve submitted to him entirely, putting faith and trust in a man I didn’t know, and yet he still feels he can’t do the same with me.

Finding a towel in a cabinet, I drape it around my body before finding another to dry my hair.

“You’re upset with me,” he declares against my shoulder, making me jump.

I didn’t even hear him approach me. Lost in my thoughts, I suppose.

“I’m not mad, I’m just...” I sigh, not knowing how to justify any of my feelings at this point. “I don’t know what I am.”

I want to be upset, but I have no idea what this man has been through to make him the way he is. My empathy outweighs my need for more, knowing he’s already broken down walls he’s never broken in his life for me. He’s exposed the truth of who he is, and that alone is a lot. But not only that, he has blood on his hands. For me.

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