He put his arms over his shoulders and tucked his hands behind his head, not wanting to make the mistake of touching her again. Smelling her fresh, clean scent was bad enough. She was everywhere in that room. It was very small, but it suited her. She was short. And curvy. He liked curves. Her curves. And her skin. Like a canvas. A fresh canvas just waiting for him. Her hair was like a waterfall of honey gold, with sun-kissed platinum streaks spilling across her pillow, all silky soft and brushing his shoulders. Shit. He wasn’t a fucking poet.
“Lay the fuck still.” He snapped it. If she moved and all that hair slid over his skin, he was going to do something both of them were going to regret.
“This is actually my bed, which you were not invited into, so don’t tell me what to do in it. And while we’re on the subject, what are you doing here?”
“You have a good mattress.”
She scooted back up to the headboard again, but he was lying on top of the blankets and she couldn’t pull them with her. He turned his head to look at her. She wasn’t wearing much. It was some little top that barely covered her tummy. Little shorts clung to her thighs, and if he wanted, he could have run his hand right up inside, where she was warm. Damp. Waiting for him. And there was her leg and her rib cage. That side of her breast. The side of her face. That little laceration over her eye. All his.
“Wait a minute. You knew my mattress was good, so you came here tonight? That’s the answer? How did you know that? Have you been here before? Because if you have, that’s just plain creepy and you need help.”
“I’m the one who needs help? It’s creepy that I came here tonight. I crawled through your open window and climbed in bed with you. You don’t think that’s creepy. Woman, you are very disturbed. And no, I haven’t been here before. I was just commenting you have a good mattress.”
“It’s important to have a good mattress.”
She said it like it was gospel. He wanted to laugh. They kept having the strangest, most ludicrous conversations, and the more she talked, the more he wanted to strangle her—or kiss her until neither of them could breathe.
She’d gone silent again. He found himself looking at her bare left leg. Mesmerized by it. The one that had been scraped along the ground so he could live. Those scars that weren’t healed all the way were red and raised, marring her perfect skin. Those scars were his. They belonged to him. He touched them with the pads of his fingers. Gently. Running his fingers from her ankle to the top of her thigh right over the evidence of the scrapes and lacerations.
“You still haven’t answered me, Savage. What are you really doing here? We both know we aren’t going to have a thing. I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. You don’t even give a girl an entire night.”
His hand slid up her thigh and circled it. “You want me. You think I can’t tell when a woman is attracted to me? We have chemistry, baby, and it’s off the charts.”
She didn’t remove his hand. She should have. Most women would have. Most women wouldn’t have let him crawl through their window and lie on the bed next to them. Those incredible blue eyes of hers moved over his face and then his body. She took her time, looking at the tattoos. Looking at his scars. The burns that were the most disturbing of all. He had a lot of them. He didn’t cover them up. He let her look her fill, and she did. She didn’t ask why he had the words Whip Master burned into his chest, but her gaze took it all in.
She gave a little sigh. Regret? Maybe.
“You’re hot as hell. And you just admitted to knowing dirty, sinful things. What girl wouldn’t be tempted? You’re scary dangerous-looking. Tatts. Muscles. A history of scary scars. Those eyes of yours. You look at a woman and she’s going to get hot. The thing is, honey, I know myself very well. You would eat me up and spit me out. I can’t take that kind of hurt, and I wouldn’t be able to separate my emotions from the wild, clearly awesome sex we’d have together.”
She was so fucking honest she tore his heart out. He hadn’t met too many women who just put it out there. Every word she said felt like a brand sinking through his flesh right into bone. Her brand. Her name. His addiction, his craving for her wasn’t going to get better. They were both in trouble. He wrote his name on her thigh with his finger.
“I didn’t come here for sex, Seychelle. I can pick up any bitch in a bar and get what I want. I came here because . . .” He trailed off.
His hand went back to the long, pitted lacerations in her leg. The ones that were raised. So many. He felt his heart shift. His stomach did a slow roll. She stayed silent.