by K. L. Kreig
I have many scars on my soul. They’re thick and ugly. They run deep. They’ve marred me for life. I thought they were impenetrable. Turns out I was wrong. For the first time since I was sixteen, I feel like I’m no longer bleeding out on the inside. Just being in the presence of this five-foot-eight-inch leggy beauty with a sassy mouth has staunched its constant flow. It’s an unbelievably contented feeling to truly no longer feel alone.
But I don’t have the girl quite yet, do I? I may have had her body, yet that’s only a small part of what I want now. The rest will be far harder to pry from her tenacious grip.
I want her.
I want her heart, her soul, her mind, her obstinate will.
I want it all.
I want the Holy fucking Grail.
But I already see the signs. She’ll fight this. She’ll make it hard. She’ll even deny her feelings. That’s okay. I’m up to the challenge. I’m all in and I won’t rest until she’s mine.
You ever get the feeling that something’s too good to be true? I mean, if it’s too good to be true, it probably is, right? I’m feeling that in spades right now. In fucking spades.
Being able to call this incredibly amazing woman snuggled into me mine? Winning her love? Is that too good to be true?
I fucking hope not, because I’m not going to give up until I have it. Until I have her. Every last shred of her. Then I will treasure each one, treasure her and the gift she’s given me for the rest of my life, knowing I’ll never deserve it, deserve her, but trying my damnedest to earn it each and every day anyway.
Chapter 17
I lazily blink my eyes open, taking in my surroundings. I’m in my room but not alone. Holding me tight like I’ll disappear is Luke. I almost want to laugh; I don’t, though, as I don’t want to wake him.
I woke up around four a.m. and extricated myself stealthily from his arms, commencing the shortest walk of shame known to man. I counted the steps.
Twenty-five.
Twenty-five steps separate Luke’s bed from mine.
Twenty-five short paces that can be covered in the span of a little over six seconds.
Yep…twenty-five. That’s now become my most hated number because I’ll never make that walk again.
As much as my entire being wanted to stay wrapped in everything Luke, I just couldn’t wake up with him like we’re some sort of couple or even lovers. That would have been too hard…is too hard. It was a one-night stand, it has to be and no matter how much I wish it were different, it’s not.
Seeing him here, though, is even more confusing than last night was. I expected him to fuck me hard and fast, carrying his bruises like trophies for the next week. But he was unrushed and tender and attentive instead. Does he have a different view of last night than I did? Why did he pick my lock and crawl in bed with me after I’d purposely left? Did last night mean more to him than I originally thought?
Why does that conniving bitch, hope, have to constantly hover around the edges of my life, waiting for her chance to jump in and fuck me over once again? I’ve been in this position more times than I can count and there’s no reason to think that this man will be any different from all his counterparts before him. In fact, he’ll be far, far worse. I will never be the same after Luke Colloway, of that, I’m one hundred percent sure.
Riding the rails of hope is like being on a rollercoaster. The g-force is intoxicating for those few short seconds; then the ride is over and the rush is left behind on the ground far below. Each time you ride it, the thrill is short-lived, but damn it…you’re addicted now and you want to do it over and over again just to get that heady feeling one more time.
Luke is hope. Luke is my rollercoaster. One I’ll surely crash and burn on.
He has some sort of invisible hold on me, and I can’t figure out why or find the damn elusive fishing line so I can cut myself free. This is heartbreak waiting to happen. It’s inevitable. That familiar panic creeps back in and I suddenly feel suffocated under his weight. Taking a chance on waking him, I gently lift his arm and slide out from underneath, placing it back smoothly on his stomach.
I slowly scoot to the edge of the bed, grateful I put on a tank and some panties last night after I returned to my room. When I stand, I can’t help but turn and ogle the human masterpiece tangled in my sheets.
The top sheet rides low on his hips, showcasing his elaborate markings and the splendid descending cut that makes my mouth water. I didn’t get enough time to appreciate Luke last night, but hot damn…he’s simply incomparable to anyone I’ve ever known. His body is unbelievably ripped, yet what makes him a work of art is, hands down, his ink.
Black and shaded grey tats adorn his arms, shoulders, and chest. Not a one of them is in color that I can see and I inanely wonder why. Does he see things in black and grey? Does he feel like he doesn’t deserve even a splash of brightness? Am I being too philosophical? Somehow I don’t think so. Not where Luke’s concerned.
I stand stock-still, allowing myself to memorize his perfection.
His right shoulder has sunbeams peeking through cumulous clouds, which rain down on a crown that has the word Faith scripted underneath. Further down on his forearm is a dove in flight with an hourglass inset right above her, almost like she’s carrying mother time on her back. The sands in the hourglass are impeccably detailed.
There are five pretty simple crosses in a beautiful abstract pattern on his right pec with a rosary woven in between them, the cross on the end of the prayer beads dangling lower than the others, making it an even six symbols. The sunbeams from the shoulder tat seem to illuminate the crosses. It’s absolutely stunning. Farther down his torso, right over his ribs, are four various-sized seagulls in flight. At first glance, they seem like they’re out of place with the rest of his art, but oddly, they aren’t.
Moving my eyes to his left shoulder, I drink in the details of the strikingly beautiful mare with a hooded demon, or angel, riding her. I can’t tell what she’s supposed to be, although I do have my suspicions.
From this angle, I can’t see the script, but last night, I couldn’t help noticing he has writing in a foreign language going up the left side of his torso, from his hipbone right up to his armpit. I long to know what it says—it can’t be anything but profound.
The thing that strikes me as most insightful, though, is the heart he has over his left pec. Over his very own. Tiny cracks run through the fragile, life-giving organ, which is wrapped tightly in thick chains. And if that doesn’t say it all right there, I don’t know what the hell does.
I want to inspect every inch of his body to see what else he’s hiding. I already know there’s not a spot on Luke that wasn’t done without thought or meaning. Luke tries hard to close people out, only I don’t think he understands how much he really tells the world through his adornments.
He’s a walking billboard of pain and suffering.
I sigh softly, wondering how the hell I’m ever going to get this beautiful, complex, frustrating man out of my head or my heart. But I have to. I don’t have a choice. I must or I’ll end up with my own matching broken heart tattoo, except mine will be wrapped in barbed wire because it will perpetually bleed.
I’m turning to head to the bathroom when I realize Luke’s opened his eyes and is watching me drool over his flawlessness. The smile he gifts me with when my eyes meet his is so utterly blinding, my knees buckle. I have to steady myself on my dresser.
In a casual move, his knee comes up, making the sheet fall to his groin, barely covering his impressive package. God almighty. Throwing a hand underneath his head, he rakes my barely clothed body, drawling lazily, “Morning, fireball.”
His gravelly voice, sexy with the remnants of sleep, makes me want to abandon my plans with Madge, along with my clothes, and spend all day naked in bed with him instead. But that would only be getting myself in deeper. And I’m so fucking deep right now, I’m not sure how I’m going to get out.
And why does that asinine character na
me not piss me off quite as much as it did last week? In fact, why does it now send shivers down my spine to my dark, now wet, thoroughly used girly parts?
His eyes break away from me to gaze around my room, and my cheeks sting with embarrassment. I’ll admit it up front. I’m not the cleanliest of people. I’m not a total slob, but I’m no Nancy homemaker either.
I have a chair in the corner where I pile the clothes I peel off at night and I’ll go through it once a week to sort what’s dirty and clean. I have a couple of dresses hanging over my floor-length mirror and dirty socks on the carpet by my dresser. I have jewelry strewn all over my nightstand, along with a couple of glasses that need washing and a pile of books I keep hoping to get to, although I never do. If you walk into my bathroom right now, there are makeup and hair products all over the counter. Maybe even a towel or two on the floor.
“Looks like an EF-2 tornado struck your room,” he quips. That damn corner of his mouth turns up and his eyes sparkle in amusement.
“You do realize that picking a lock is akin to breaking and entering, right?” I snap, irritated by the enjoyment he seems to get out of constantly mocking me.
“That’s not a lock, babe. That’s just a nuisance.”
“Do you understand the concept of boundaries, Luke?”
If I thought my question would piss him off or run him off, I should have known better. He lies there, like a goddamn king on his throne; his knowing, arresting grin widens. “I understand I need to do a better job fucking the obstinate out of you next time.”
I gasp. This man has balls of steel and audacity big enough to overflow Wrigley Stadium. I spin, intent on escaping what is no doubt heading into another round of mind-melting sex. Despite how infuriating Luke is, it’s excruciatingly hard to drag my eyes from him and how damn good—and right—he looks in my bed. But I manage. Barely.
I scarcely cross the threshold of the bathroom when I’m spun around and pinned to the closest wall. It’s very déjà vu of not even ten hours ago and my sex readies herself to be completely owned again. She’s clearly not on board with our decision to make this a one-night stand.
“Hit too close to home, did I?”
“Leave me alone.”
“What are you doing, Addy?” His voice softens which makes mine harder.
“I think it’s pretty obvious what I’m doing,” I retort.
He surprises me by cupping my face and leaning down for a sweet kiss that curls my toes. His lips feel too good on mine. I need him to stop. I never want it to end. When he pulls away, he’s looking so deeply into my eyes I feel like I’m unable to hide my thoughts fast enough.
“Yes, it is. I know exactly what you’re doing, fireball.”
See? I was right. “Is that so?”
“That’s so. I’ve done it all my life.”
I swallow hard, deflecting his insights. “Well, I’d hope so. You’d smell pretty rank otherwise.”
He ignores my clever comeback, forging ahead into places I don’t want to go. Places I can’t even think about going with him. “I want you, Addy.”
“You can scratch that off your to-do list,” I murmur snidely, biting my lip. I can’t let him know I want him to take me again and again, because once just wasn’t enough. A million times couldn’t possibly be enough.
Palms meet the wall on either side of my head and he leans even closer if that’s possible. I expect another cocky grin; once again, he throws me off my game. The need I see in his eyes strips me bare, reminding me of last night when we were unmistakably not fucking, but making love.
“If we’re talking about lists, you should know mine is so fucking long it will take us two lifetimes to scratch off every wicked and immoral thing I want to do to your body.”
I’m speechless, my brain fighting between the images he’s conjuring and trying to think of a witty comeback when his next words screech all thought to a grinding halt.
“But I want so much more than just your body, Addy.”
I’m utterly confused. What else could a man like Luke possibly want from me other than a late-night booty call? “W—what do you want?”
He places his hand gently over my heart. “This.”
Uninvited tears sting my eyes. A huge lump now sits in the middle of my throat and I swallow a couple of times to rid it. It’s not budging. “You don’t mean that,” I finally croak.
“I’ve never meant anything more, fireball,” he rasps. He searches my face, anxiously waiting for a reply.
I close my eyes and shake my head back and forth repeatedly, kicking myself for my lack of self-control last night. I’ve had a taste of something I can never have again and it would have been better to never sample the goods at all. Drawing in a deep breath, I blow it out slowly. “It can never work.”
“I told you last night you were mine, Addy. Trust me, I don’t say a damn thing I don’t mean. Ever.”
“Slipping your dick inside me does not make me yours,” I snip. Protect yourself at all costs, Addy.
His eyes momentarily harden before turning molten again. His hands are back at my face. He surrounds me entirely, his thick desire for me pulsing into my lower belly. “Make no mistake, fireball. No one will lay a finger on you but me. You will only ever be mine.”
“What if I don’t want to be yours?” I breathe. I don’t mean it. God, I want to be his. So badly, I can taste it.
He leans down until we’re nose to nose, fiery eyes burning mine. “Liar.”
“I can’t be yours, Luke.”
His lips lightly brush mine, feathering over my jaw, melting my resistance into a puddle at his feet. His body heat warms me and his breath fights with mine. “Why, Addy? Why can’t you be mine?”
I don’t want to voice the words because it will make them real, and it’s the only reason I’m holding myself back from him. It’s the only reason I’m trying to pretend I don’t feel a damn thing for him when even he can see it for the lie it is. “Because your heart belongs to someone else,” I counter softly. “I’ve been down that road too many times before, Luke. I can’t do it again. I can’t be second.”
He freezes, pulling back. Determination and passion have lit a fire deep inside him and it’s blazing hotter than I’ve seen it yet, tightening every one of his facial features. “Regardless of what you think you know, you couldn’t be more wrong. My heart became yours the very moment I set eyes on you, Addy.”
He believes what he’s saying. I know he does. But then I flick my gaze to his bare chest. To the heart that’s clearly been locked away and is deliberately advertised as such. It might as well come with a flashing neon sign, Want commitment? Move the fuck on. I still feel the sharp pain that lanced through my own chest when I saw it, deflating the hope that was rapidly building, like a needle to a balloon. When my eyes lift, connecting with his again, he nods slightly, his mouth drawing into a thin line.
Yep, we’re both on the same page now.
Dropping his hands, he takes a step back. Why do I ache to have his skin back on mine? Why do I feel like the best thing to walk into my life is just about to walk out? Because you’re pushing him away, you dumb shit.
“It’s a fight you want then, fireball? Fine by me. It’s a fight you’ll get. But, know this. Nothing…and I mean. Not. A. Thing in my entire life has been worth fighting for more than you, Addy Monroe. Not. A. Fucking. Thing. You’re my color.”
On that note, he turns and exits the bathroom, softly closing the door behind him, leaving me to spin helplessly in my own thoughts and emotions.
“You’re my color.”
I’m not sure anyone else would know what those words mean, but they resonate deep inside me. Our pasts may be vastly different, but our present is exactly the same. People have hurt us and neither of us has been loved in the way we deserve, by the people we want. The difference between us is he plasters his hurts all over his body for the world to see while I’ve kept mine locked inside, hidden away.
“You’re my color.”
>
My legs give out at their implication and I slide to the floor. Those three simple, almost innocuous words punctured my already fluid defenses more than anything else he could have said or done.
I’d better prepare myself for the mother of all rollercoaster rides. That declaration may have pierced my defenses, but it’s reinflated hope to the point where she’s now almost bursting at the seams. I hear them ripping.
I now have two choices: stay away from any sharp, pointy objects for the foreseeable future, or stab hope myself so I don’t allow Luke to deflate her for me.
I know which choice I want to make. I also know which is the right one, and that makes me ache with a deep sadness I know I’ve not experienced before.
Chapter 18
She’ll fight it. She’ll make it hard. She’ll even deny her feelings.
I called it. I fucking called it, didn’t I?
When I woke up to an empty, cooling bed, I knew the fight had already begun. When her pain-filled eyes dropped to my tat, I knew the ante had just been upped.
I’m meticulous about my body art. Everything is with purpose, and I haven’t regretted one drop of ink on my skin…until today. She thinks my guarded heart is about a girl, probably even thinks it’s about Livia. That’s the furthest fucking thing from the truth. It is, however, about the pain loved ones can cause and I regret the resigned look I saw as she tried to incorrectly decipher its meaning.
But this isn’t about a tattoo. It’s about convincing her I’m for real. That I’m in this for her. Making her mine is not about the chase or even winning for the sake of winning, although I love to win just like the next guy.