She’s still looking at me all wide-eyed and shit, and I scrub a hand over my face.
Fuck this. What am I doing—keeping her from going, talking about her kissing other guys? Next I’ll offer a shoulder to cry on and watch chick movies with her. Help her fix her relationship with another man, when I want her for myself.
“Listen, I’m gonna hit the shower and then the sack. I’m beat.” And pissed at myself, and hanging onto my sanity by a thread, but who the fuck cares about that, right? Hanging onto self-control with all I have.
“Okay.” Her voice is small. She doesn’t move, though. I expected her to grab the chance to go. “Do you need help with anything?”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” God, she’s sweet. She shouldn’t. Can’t take her kindness. It reminds me of all I’ve ever wished for and never had. “Unless you wanna stay and watch crappy TV with me, maybe you should go and…” I wave a hand as I push myself upright, this time slow and careful, making sure my knee holds. “Do something more fun.”
“Okay,” she says again, turning her face away, and Christ, is she about to cry? Did I upset her again? I seem to be doing this a lot lately.
“Manon…” Dammit. I look around for my walking stick, then remember I left it at Damage, lost somewhere. Like my brain. “What did I say?”
“Nothing.” She doesn’t look at me. “I’ll show myself out.”
What the fuck. I honestly don’t get chicks sometimes. Not that I’ve had much experience with them anyway—except for fucking quick and dirty, but that hardly counts as interaction. The girls of the Brotherhood are nice, but I don’t see them all so often.
And even if I did, this… thing between me and Manon beats me. Are we buddies now? Should we shoot pool together and have beers? What is it about her that draws my gaze and tangles up my fucking thoughts? And let’s not talk about my constant hard-on when she’s near.
Man, trying to convince myself I can do this, stop wanting her, stop needing her, is an uphill battle, and I’m not sure I can win.
So I nod, turn around and leave the room.
Chapter Ten
Manon
The moment he’s out of the room, I bury my face in my hands. Stupid to feel so down because Fred wouldn’t kiss me, but it has been a sucky week. I’ve a right to feel low, right? I feel… confused. Sad.
Torn.
I don’t want to leave. Hard to deny my heart beats faster every time I’m near Seth.
Why do I like how strong he is, so much stronger than Fred? I shouldn’t be comparing them. Shouldn’t be thinking that Fred’s shoulders suddenly seem too narrow, his jaw too slender, that he seems too soft compared to the toughness radiating off Seth.
I shouldn’t wonder how Seth kisses, if sweet and slow, or hard and demanding. If he’d have kissed me, pushed me against the wall and held me there, pressed his body to mine if he’d been the one with me at the party.
Doesn’t matter. He wasn’t.
He’s not the one I want. I’m not picturing him in the shower, naked and—
No, I’m not.
Clenching my hands, I get up. I want Fred. I like the fact he’s slender and sweet, that I’m not afraid of him overpowering me, taking me against my will. That he’s so sensitive and careful. The confusion will clear when I’m out of here, far from Seth.
Can’t see my purse. I turn in a circle and spot it on the floor under the low table. I squat down to grab it and notice a crumbled piece of paper. I lift it, straighten it out on the table for Seth to find later.
It’s a photo, and the sight of it stops me as I prepare to stand up and go. The ink has faded to brown and yellow. It’s old and spent a long time folded, the creases so deep they’re about to tear open.
It’s the photo of two women and two boys. The women look like sisters, light-skinned and fair, and the boys look like brothers—dark hair and dark, exotic eyes. I’m pretty sure I know who they are. I smooth my fingertip over a small, smiling face, over familiar broad cheekbones and thick-lashed eyes.
A mother he’d thought dead for—how long? I wonder. How long was she missing? And what happened to him while she was gone? It’s hard to smooth out the wrinkles in the paper. The anger that made him crumble up something he’d obviously kept for a long time, a kind of talisman, a memory, makes my eyes sting.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet and looking for him. Can’t hear the shower running yet. I step into a tiny hallway. The bathroom door is open, and I halt before he sees me, my breath hitching.
Whoa.
He’s standing at the sink, a hand on his chest between his hard pecs, head bowed, dark hair hiding his eyes. But God, his back… Broad and muscular, covered in intricate ink—snakes, feathers, ladders, claws, demons—and matching ink on his chest, reflected in the mirror, spreading down his pecs, stretching over his padded shoulders.
A snake, mouth open, fangs dripping. I know this tattoo. It’s the photo I saw hanging inside Damage Control.
He’s so frigging hot my body ignites, my blood burns, thumping heavily in the base of my throat, deep inside my belly, between my legs.
Jesus. This can’t be happening. I should go.
He lifts his head, and our gazes meet in the mirror. I’m caught, unable to move, helplessly looking on as his eyes darken to black. His hand, still pressed against his chest, curls into a tight fist. His mouth is beautiful, wide and full, his jaw dark with stubble. I want to touch it, run my fingers against it, let it scrape my skin.
He turns around before I run and this close up, with his chest bared, his ink revealed, I’m rapidly forgetting my reasons for needing to go. His beauty hits me full-force—extraordinary, fierce, striking.
Crap, crap, crap.
“You should go, Manon,” he whispers, and I swallow hard, hurt.
“Okay.”
“You should go now, before I decide to teach you how to kiss. How a boyfriend should treat you.”
His words go through me like lightning. Suddenly I’m hot all over.
Not sure I can speak, I lift my hands, place them on his bare skin. His flesh is warm, hot and smooth, his muscles firm, his heart beating fast under my palms. His musk rises around me, and he puts his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the wall.
Oh God. The contact is scorching—just the press of his muscled body to mine, even though I am fully dressed, and he isn’t touching any part of me. His hands are flat on the wall, his mouth so close his breath feathers over mine, warm, smelling of mint. His lashes are lowered, his gaze intent.
He doesn’t move or speak. He’s made his move, though I’m not sure what it means.
He’s waiting for me to make mine.
I lick my lips, and his eyes zero in on my mouth. He exhales, his chest rising and falling under my hands. The muscles in his taut abdomen contract deliciously.
“I want…” My voice cracks, and I start again. “I want you to show me. Teach me how to kiss.”
A shadow passes over his handsome face, and his dark brows draw together over his eyes. His slightly crooked nose and a whitish scar on his jaw give him a rakish air, dangerous and wild—but his mouth looks soft.
I hope what I’m asking for is clear, despite the fuzziness in my head and the ache of need in my body. I’m doing this so I can convince Fred I’m not some inexperienced chick, that I have been kissed and know my way about a man’s mouth and body.
And God, what a body.
“Oh, I will,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “I will teach you. Are you ready?”
I think I am, and I start to nod—when he grips my chin and crushes his mouth to mine.
Boy I was wrong. Never felt anything like it, I think, dazed, as he parts my lips with his tongue and thrusts inside my mouth, a delicious friction. He tastes of mint and something dark and rich like a rare brandy, driving me drunk and dizzy.
I slide my hands up his hard pecs, and he groans in my mouth, pressing up against me, his grip on my chin so tight it hurts. His chest molds to mine, crushing my breasts on his harsh planes, and something long and thick digs into my hip.