The tattoos turn his torso into a living mural, poetry in script along his ribs, a dragon on his right shoulder breathing fire on Japanese characters, the fire spreading like wildfire down his back and fading into a golden sun on his spine, an archaic-looking thing, like a compass rose, almost. A pinup girl in silhouette on his left arm, more script lettering on his opposing ribs, Latin it looks like. Music notes scattered over both forearms, stars, suns, skulls and crossbones, iron crosses mixing and merging and joining it all. He’s a masterpiece of skin art. A masterpiece of bulky male muscle, hard and heavy and huge.
He’s terrifying. A force of violent power, raw brutality. He destroyed Dan. Took a hard beating in the process and seemed completely unfazed by the broken nose, the blows to the ribs and chest, the cuts on his face. Dan was a monster, and Colton ripped him apart easily.
It was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen; the scariest thing I’d ever seen. Colton’s fury was a primal thing, so thick and hot I could feel it in the air. His eyes were the eyes of cold, calculating warrior, terrifying for the icy fury.
I’m completely unable to resist him.
He wants me, but won’t give in to it. Which I get, I really do.
He’s my dead boyfriend’s brother. It’s just…wrong.
How did you two meet? Oh, we met at his brother’s funeral. His baby brother, my first love.
Awesome.
But Colton is…I’m safe with him. He draws the truth out of me. He draws the pain out of me. Colton knows pain. He’s intimately familiar with it. Lives with it. Guilt too.
Colton has secrets, and I want to know them all.
I want his mouth on me. His hands on me. I need it. It makes me feel alive. Safe. Protected, treasured. Colton will, literally, kill anyone who might hurt me. He nearly did kill Dan. Might have, actually.
I don’t want to know.
I want to know why Colton is alone in New York when his father is a Congressman. Why he was forced into back alley prize fights to survive. Why he ended up in a gang.
I want to know why Colton won’t keep kissing me. Why he always pulls back, why he thinks he’s no good. No good, when he’s the most amazing person I’ve ever met. So freaking talented. His deep, gravelly, raspy voice, insane guitar skills, his passion when he performs.
That song he sang to me, a cappella? Most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. So jarringly sad. The loneliness, the longing in that song was wrenching. I don’t think it had a title, I don’t think anyone but me has ever heard him sing it.
And now? Oh, now his arms are around me, holding me close. So close. I want to turn in his arms and burrow close, nestle in and let the warm strength of his body wash over me. Like this, spooning, his arm draped over my waist and not touching me too intimately, this is almost platonic. Almost.
I want more. Dare I?
I dare.
I twist in place, and Colton stirs, loosens his grips, makes a low sound in his throat, sleepy. It makes me smile, that little moan. He’s on his side, doesn’t roll away when I burrow into him. I press my face to the hollow under his chin, slide my palm over his ribs to curl around his back. I breathe in his scent, let the heat of his body warm me. Oh god. This might have been a mistake, because this feels entirely too perfect. I’ll never want to sleep any other way. My other arm is curled beneath the pillow under my head, and his body is a shelter, a fortress I can lose myself in. I can feel his pulse thumping in his throat against my nose, and I count the beats, wait for sleep.
It comes, so sweetly. No dreams. No empty shoe, no red-slick mud, no blood froth. Just sleep, Colton’s hand on my hip. I may or may not have put his hand on my hip. Okay, I did. And I love it. I shouldn’t, but I do.
I’m going to give in to this. Time heals all wounds, right? Well, maybe I’ve had enough time, and now I just need to move on, let go. Have something that makes me happy, after so long in misery.
* * *
I wake slowly, like drifting to the surface of a lake after diving deep. The first thing I’m aware of is the thumpthump…thumpthump of Colton’s heartbeat under my ear. God, I love that sound. Then I become aware of his body, hard yet soft beneath me. I’m basically on top of him, half of my torso on his chest and stomach, my leg over his, my foot between his. Then I become aware of my hand.
It’s on his belly. Okay…well actually, it’s not quite his belly. It’s a bit lower than that. A lot lower. And I’m cupping a part of his body that is most definitely awake. Very, very awake. And huge. Thick. My hand is on it. Holding it.
Oh god. Oh shit. Oh god.
His breathing is even, softly soughing in and out. He’s still asleep, then.
The major problem in this situation is that I don’t want to move my hand. I want to touch him. It’s been so long, and the thought of him, of what my hand is touching…I feel a clench down low in my core, a gush of damp desire.
I can’t really help it. I slide my palm down, then back up. He shifts, rolls his hips up and then relaxes. I do it again, slowly, gently, guiltily. I watch in hungry fascination as his abs ripple and tense as he rolls his hips again. He moans, a lupine growl deep in his chest. His breathing stutters, and then he takes in a deep breath.
I look down. A sliver of pink shows at the top of his gym shorts. I lick my lips. I’m so awful. This is so wrong, so stupid, so slutty. But I don’t stop. His shorts are hiked up around his thighs, and yet tugged down low on hips by the way he’s moving, shifting. So now, the very tip of him is peeking out from beneath his shorts.
I glance up at his rugged face, lax and handsome and innocent in repose. He swallows, shifts his face to the side, lifts his lower half up slightly into my touch. I don’t know what I’m doing, why, where it’s going to go. He’s still deeply asleep, sucking in long, even breaths, letting them out on a slight and adorable snore.
His arm is around me, curling over my back and cupping me to him, his other hand on his chest. And now his hand slides down my back, falls limp and lands on my ass. Yes. I like that. I shift up a little so his palm and fingers are clutching my left ass cheek.
What am I doing? I’m such a f**ked-up mess. He stopped kissing me while I was upset to avoid taking advantage of me, and here I am fondling him in his sleep, getting cheap thrills off his hand touching my butt while he snores innocently.
It’s so wrong, but I tug his shorts a little lower, so more of him peeks out. Now I can see the thick pink mushroom head, the tiny hole at the tip, the groove around the bottom of the head. I squeeze my eyes shut and tell myself to stop. It doesn’t work. I touch the pink flesh with my thumb, biting my lip. So soft, like velvet. I can’t help stroking his length again, and I swallow hard in appreciation. It takes me a ridiculously long time to stroke him from root to tip.