by Lacey Silks
“I don’t want a pretty nose. I’m a man.”
I was sure he didn’t realize that his nose was already perfect.
Trish was staying with Axel, and Zoey never moved back to our apartment. I hadn’t heard any news of a proposal just yet, so I didn’t say anything to my sister. With Brad behind bars, I finally returned to work. I took turns with Beth caring for Scar, who insisted he was fine as soon as he got to the guest house. He didn’t enjoy all the fussing, and was growing restless each day. Ace and Axel had both been taking care of the strip club. As soon as Scar was better, I planned to move back home; however, I’d been secretly pushing back the date, making excuses for why I should stay with him.
Two weeks later, we pulled up along a long driveway. It curved up a small hill before we pulled up to his house. I’d never realized that residences like these existed in the city, especially so close to our old neighborhood. In fact, I was pretty sure this was one of those hidden gems only a few real estate moguls would know about.
“You live five blocks away from your parents?”
“What can I say? I’m a mama’s boy, and I never knew it.”
The home was sleek, all straight lines and sharp corners. Wide windows stretched from the ground right up to the roof, yet I couldn’t see anything inside. By the time I reached for the handle, Scar was already at my side opening the door.
“It’s beautiful.” Somehow I’d pictured him living at his father’s exclusive residence forever.
“Thanks. Come on – I’ll give you the tour. But I must warn you, there’s not much to see.”
Judging by the size of it from the outside I took his humbleness in stride, but when I walked into the open room that extended the full width and depth of the house, I realized that Scar wasn’t exaggerating at all. Add to that it was two stories high, and the size took my breath away. The open space impressed me more than a regular house with walls and glistening marble floors would have. The smell of paint hit me the moment he opened the door. It was beyond overpowering, and I hoped whatever Scar was painting, he hadn’t used oil-based paint.
“It’s water-based,” Scar replied to my unspoken question. “At least this one is.”
The entire house, although huge, was mostly made up of air. To the left, there was a counter that belonged in a kitchen, with two stools. Cardboards and papers with pencil scribbles littered the place. The only other reason I thought it must be a kitchen was because of the appliances. Above the kitchen was a railing and a room behind it opening into empty space. I immediately imagined that area as a quiet study or an office. In front of me, easels upon easels of flower paintings stood tall. Most were of roses, in similar shades to the ones I’d seen in Beth’s garden. Then I remembered the painting at Beth’s house, and wondered whether Scar was the artist.
“I’m sorry about the mess. I haven’t been here in a while, and I’m calling a cleaning crew this afternoon.”
While the home did appear messy, it was more of an organized mess than a dirty one.
“It doesn’t look like there’s much cleaning. What were you going to do?”
Unless Scar was planning on removing all the paintings and scrunching up the linen and drop sheets off the floor, the cleaning crew would spend more time putting his paint buckets and work away than actually cleaning.
“I need to make it more livable.”
A semi-circular staircase weaved up on the right side of the house. I could see a king-sized bed beyond the railing upstairs. The sheets were crumpled, as if he’d jumped out of bed and headed right out the door. Perhaps he had. His bedroom was also open to the entire house downstairs. If I were to bet, I’d say that Scar had had all the walls in this house taken down at his request.
“I didn’t know you painted.” This definitely explained a lot.
“It kept me busy after I quit smoking.”
“Well, that’s one way to do it.” I walked over to one of the paintings. “Scar, these are gorgeous. ”
“Thank you. I think I get it from my birth mom. I mean, no one in the Wagner family is artistic. Well, except for Grace. I guess being a hairdresser and all makes her somewhat of an artist. Did you expect to find a different kind of bachelor pad?”
Scar’s voice cracked. Was he nervous? I could count on one hand the times in my life I’d heard him stutter. Over the past couple of weeks of recovery, Scar had opened up to me about the DNA test he had done, and why he felt so torn about his family. It was definitely a big step for him.
“Maybe something with a stripper pole,” I said, and got a more relaxed chuckle out of Scar as he pointed up to where the bed was. That’s when I noticed the metal contraption to the side of the room.
Figures.
“You wanna try it out?”
“Not unless you want me to break a leg or two,” I said, grabbing one of the easels and lifting it off the floor. “Where do you want these?”
He pressed my hands lower until I set the paining down. I’d touched Scar many times during the past two weeks, but this time his warm skin felt more arousing. Maybe because I knew his injuries had healed, for the most part? Or perhaps because I found it more difficult for his fingers not to evoke that wonderful anticipation.
“How about I do the lifting, and you grab the sheets?”
“Sounds good.”
Over the next hour, all the paintings got moved to the empty three-car garage where Scar had plenty of space. Still, he insisted on taking up only one side. The day was hot, and I opened the back door and windows. The breeze from the forest was fresh, but it still didn’t help the sweat beading down my body. I wished the algae-covered pool in Scar’s back yard was functional – and that the weeds and dried grass turned into something that would remind me more of his mother’s back yard.
Without warning, Scar pulled on the hem of his shirt, lifting it over his head, and I froze. There they were, mountains of muscles covering his torso.
Yummy.
I shook the thought away, quickly sneaking a peak to his waist where his jeans hung just below his hips. It had been two weeks since we’d been in the cave together – two long weeks of recovering from Brad’s brutal attack without a proper touch. While I understood why we couldn’t, because of Scar’s injuries, in the back of my mind I wondered whether the one time we’d had together was it. Okay, technically it was twice in one evening, but still.
I turned my head towards the back yard, pretending to admire the green pool and the unkempt garden, making a note to call Beth and ask her to help me plant a few flowers and fix the landscaping. When I finally stepped back, my foot banged into a can of orange paint, spilling the contents over the hardwood floor.
“No, no, no!” I crouched and swiped the outer edges toward the center. It wasn’t helping.
I looked up toward where Scar was leaning against the kitchen counter, chuckling.
“This is not funny! I ruined your floor.”
His long strides toward me shifted my mood. He looked so good with those jeans barely hanging onto his hips. The abs twisted with each step, flexing and hardening as I sat back on my heels, just watching him as if he were stepping out of a movie screen, all in slow motion. Scar knelt in front of me, one of his knees sinking into the paint.
“It looks like you ruined your hands.”
He dipped his finger into the goo on the floor and pulled it over my shoulder and to my collarbone. “And now I ruined your skin here” – he lifted more paint onto the tip and smeared it over my cleavage – “and here.”
Drawing lower, Scar unfastened the button on my dress. “And now I ruined your clothes.” One after another, he flicked the buttons open down to my belly button. My bare breasts perked up at him. He swiped the paint again, this time with his full hand. The print of his palm on my breast was temporary, as he squeezed it and smeared the paint. The moisture and slickness of it on me felt good, and my nipples turned to stone.
He brought me to his body and took my lips, lowering the straps of m
y dress off my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, leaving me wearing only my panties and the paint. I held onto his arms for a moment, and then my hands slid down to his zipper. The jeans fell into the puddle on the ground. Never breaking our kiss, I followed Scar’s steps through the paint and across the living room, realizing we were making an even bigger mess. Though neither one of us seemed to care. On our way across, we slipped and knocked over a purple bucket. Scar caught me in his arms, softening my landing.
“Are you okay?” My breaths were shallow as I pulled away from his lips.
“Never better.”
Straddling him, I dragged my finger over his pecs, along the lines of his muscle, then down the path of his happy trail. I drew the outline of his kissable V above his pelvis with paint. He looked gorgeous enough to be on display – a private one set up just for me.
“You’ll need to replace everything.” I snaked my hands over his body, which was covered in orange and purple and looked absolutely beautiful. The erection under his briefs was growing, and I licked my lips. It was a wonder how much skin a palmful of paint could cover. I hadn’t realized I was feeling every possible inch on his body with my hands. Prints from my palms and the lines of my fingers were everywhere, and so were his on my body.
“The paint is water-based. Remember? Jules, don’t take your mouth away from mine again.”
“Okay,” I nodded.
And he seized my lips again. Scar lifted me into his arms and carried me upstairs. I held onto him with my slippery arms, praying we wouldn’t tumble. My worry wasn’t about the possible broken bones or injuries, but only that this would stop. I couldn’t pull away from him; I needed this more than anything. It would solidify our relationship and prove to me that we were more than a one-night stand.
With a side glance we passed the bedroom overlooking the rest of the house and stepped into a bathroom. I moaned with need as Scar set me down in the shower and turned the knob. Cold water hit my back, abusing my skin, and I flew right back into Scar’s arms. The water warmed slowly. He removed the shower head and pointed it over my shoulders. Two-toned streams flowed down my skin, blending and swirling over the tiles. He carefully rinsed the smears of paint off my chest, back, breasts, and stomach before crouching and resting the nozzle between my legs. He slid the panties off my hips. I was pretty sure there was no paint there, but I couldn’t move. Instead I parted my legs and raked my fingers through his hair, feeling a slight hint of his breath on my pussy.
“What’s this?” He kissed the tattoo just underneath my hipbone.
Scar must have missed the mark the first time in the cave when he kissed my skin below the belt.
“A drunken mistake,” I lied. I wasn’t ready to tell him about that part of my past – or maybe I just didn’t want to. It was over. I didn’t want to think about it ever again.
He kissed that part of my skin again before trailing his searing lips across my tummy to the other hip, then down to my triangle.
Steam rose higher as his fingers slid between my folds. He spread them apart and pulled his tongue over my sensitive flesh. My hips pressed into his mouth. His licks were unforgiving and his tongue hard and swift over my clit. I could already feel my muscles give in as my thighs tensed, holding the flex. I gripped the shower head in my hand, not remembering how it got there, pointing it over his back as I held on with my other hand on his shoulder. Scar’s mouth closed over that special spot, and I couldn’t believe just how quickly someone could bring me to that euphoric state. I arched my back and steadied his head over that central nub. A few more licks, and I’d be done.
“Right... there... Scar!”
I couldn’t stop the scream. I let go of his shoulder and the nozzle. My arms flew apart, searching for some sort of support, but the shower was so wide I couldn’t reach its walls, and so I held onto his head, relishing each jitter and spasm as he sucked the orgasm right out of my body, finally knowing on his own when I’d had enough and he could pull away. He rose off the floor, fastened the shower back in its spot, rinsed his mouth, and brought his lips to mine.
“You’re delicious.”
I couldn’t answer him. I only knew that I needed more – specifically, his cock inside me, filling me and completing me.
Scar shed his boxers. I lifted my foot onto the tiled bench to the side and reached lower to his cock, wrapping my fingers around his thickness, positioning myself closer to him.
“Jules, one sec.”
He stepped out of the shower. I heard him fumble with a drawer, and when he stepped back in he was already wearing a condom.
“Turn around.” His voice was raspy and filled with need.
I twisted my body and arched my ass higher. With a slight bend at his knees, Scar entered me in one slick thrust and just like our first time, stayed there without moving as if savoring the moment.
“I can’t imagine this ever getting old.”
He didn’t even know those were the exact words I needed to hear. And then grasping my hips, Scar moved in and out of me. I leaned forward, resting my hands on the bench, bending lower and lifting my behind for him. My breasts shook underneath me with each push and slap of his balls against my pussy. It was insanely hot.
“Jesus, Jules. Your ass... ah fuck!”
And he sped up. I bit my lip, relishing the feeling of him inside me. His thrusts were quicker and deeper, and in this position, with my body bent in half, I felt a spark I never had before. I wanted more and needed more. I braced my hands, pushing myself onto him, lost to the sound of water mixed with our heavy breaths. I needed my release and I needed it fast.
“Fuck me, Scar. Please fuck me.” I reached between my legs and massaged my swollen clit, feeling that bliss build and crest at the same time Scar screamed behind me.
“Ahh!” My words had pushed him over the edge. The next three thrusts were forced and meant to milk the last drop of his seed.
When he stopped, he gently pulled out, rolled the condom off, tied it, and tossed it over the glass shower door directly into a trash can. “Do you know how perfect you are?”
I laughed. “You’re a sweet talker.”
“No, just telling the truth.” Scar reached for the shampoo. He washed my hair and then the rest of my body, being extra gentle between my legs where I was still swollen.
“Like a ripened fruit,” I heard him say.
I returned the favor, massaging the suds over his body, for the first time paying attention to every white mark on his back and chest. While they were scars of pain from his past, they were beautiful to me, and I made a note to kiss every one of them at night.
“I know Brad’s in jail, but stay here. I want you to spend the night with me,” he said, as if reading my mind, as he dried me with a towel.
“I would love nothing more.” I kissed the first mark over his bicep.
We ordered take-out and sat on the kitchen stools – one of the few pieces of furniture in this house – waiting for the food to be delivered. The sun was lowering, streaking ribbons of light through the back windows, illuminating the house and reminding us of the smeared paint on the floor. Now that I had a closer look at it, it was quite beautiful. A footstep here and there, another one dragged over toward the staircase.
“The cleaning service will have questions,” I said. Scar had called and rescheduled them for tomorrow. Today was ours.
“They won’t. They’re professional.”
Just as the doorbell rang with the food, my phone buzzed. As Scar paid, chatting with the driver, I slid my finger over the screen to unlock it.
There was an email marked “urgent” from Chris.
“Attaching the information you wanted on Beth Wagner’s IVF. All documents from the clinic have been scanned into the system.”
I should have stopped at that point. I should never have clicked or read the documents that spelled out much more than Scar’s biological mother’s name. They also had the information on Beth’s switched egg. It had been implant
ed in another woman seeking treatment that day: her name was Candice Watson, and she had given birth to a baby boy named Bradley.
CHAPTER 26
The bulletproof glass separating me from the room of convicts didn’t seem thick enough. I tapped my fingers on the counter and bounced my knees. It had been three days since I’d received the letter from Brad asking me to come see him in jail – on my own. At first I wanted to burn the paper and ignore the request, but the little symbol he drew at the bottom, the same one I had tattooed underneath my hipbone, opened a gate to the life I thought I’d left behind. In the pit of my stomach the feeling that I was about to make a big mistake was growing, but in all honesty, I didn’t have much choice. If Brad knew my secret, I would do anything to squish it.
I sneezed into my elbow as the orange-suited asshole sat down on the other side. He picked up the black receiver and I reached for mine with my shaky hand, bringing it to my ear.
“Well, hello, Doctor Blakely. Did you miss me?” Brad’s voice still had the same traumatizing effect on me. I hated him. If I could have, I would have pretended he didn’t exist. Except with the trial set to begin in one week, I didn’t have much choice. Scar and his father had ensured no bail was set, and so Brad had been stuck here for over three weeks. And now my gut twisted, telling me that I was about to play a bigger role in Brad’s trial than I wanted to.
Looking at him from behind the thick partition, the feeling of angst from when he’d nearly raped and killed me, returned. Maybe coming here wasn’t a good idea. I should have ignored the letter and let the judge send him away forever. Unfortunately, from the conversation I’d overheard between Scar and Axel, I was beginning to wonder whether that was even going to happen. The Wagners weren’t the only ones with connections, or with a father who was a lawyer. Practicing international law, Brad’s father not only knew Mr. Wagner quite well, but his connections stretched all over the world.
“What do you want, Brad?”