Sin and Ink, page 8
Sighing, I thread my fingers through my hair, shoving aside the heaviness for the moment. Logically, I realize I can’t put my life on hold for my mother-in-law. But it doesn’t ease the guilt of hurting someone I love. Someone who’s been a mother to me.
“Damn, I’m glad you’re on the first floor,” Jude grumbled, carrying a large cardboard box through my front door. He set it down on the hardwood against the living room wall with a grunt then straightened. “I didn’t realize you had so much shit when I agreed to help you move.”
I snort. “Well, my shit and I appreciate your assistance.” Walking over to the kitchen, I grab one of the cool beers I had ready for him and his brothers and bring it back over to him. He twists off the cap and tips it back, swallowing a huge gulp. “You know I love you, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Being sweet will only get you everything.” He winks at me and sets the bottle down on one of the new cherry end tables. Since Katherine and Dan would only accept a small amount of money from me for rent while I lived with them, I had a nice nest egg saved. Enough to pay for first and last month’s rent, security, and some new furniture to go along with some of the things I kept in storage from my old place with Connor.
“Coaster, man. Get a coaster,” I yell, snatching up the small canister holding my equally new, square mats. Slapping one down, I pick up his beer and place it on top.
“What did you do now?” Simon asks, entering the apartment hauling another box marked “kitchen.” Probably dishes and silverware.
“You don’t want to know,” Jude drawls, sliding an amused glance my way. “But a word to the wise. Mark up her furniture with a sweaty beer and die.”
“Shut up, you,” I mutter, following Simon and handing him his bottle. “Thanks, Simon,” I say as he sets the box on the kitchen counter. “You don’t complain like your brother.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “He’s a whiner, that one.”
“You know I’m standing right here,” Jude objects with a mock scowl. “I can hear you.”
“Oops. My bad.” I snicker. “The acoustics in this place must be wonderful.”
Simon laughs, tossing his bottle cap in the garbage can next to him.
“Hey, where’s this box going? It’s not labeled.” The deep, rumbled question echoes off the cream-colored walls, and as Knox moves into the apartment, the already small place seems to shrink even more.
I’d like to claim that my gaze doesn’t roam over his big, muscled, heavily-inked arms and the wide, strong shoulders straining the material of his plain, white T-shirt. I’d also like to positively state that my fingers don’t itch at the remembered silken slide of his dark brown and gold hair over my palms and between my fingers. That I don’t recall the faint scratch of his scruff against the sensitized skin of my breasts and torso.
Yeah, I’d like to be able to say all of that.
But then I would be a bald-faced liar.
Clearing my throat, I cross the room on the pretense of shifting another box out of the way so he can set the one in his arms down. This way I can pretend I wasn’t ogling his brutally masculine face, only marginally softened by his thick tumble of hair and the way it falls past his jaw.
“Here.” I wave toward an empty spot. “You can put it there for now.”
He nods, and I drag my gaze away from his broad back with the delicious play of muscle under the cotton material. And the firm slope of his ass.
My belly clenches, a dark, sinuous heat pooling low, warming my sex, pinching my clit. It’s been three weeks since the night in Knox’s apartment. The night when he treated me to an orgasm that could be termed an out-of-body experience. The night I careened into a spiral of grief that required days to emerge from.
Things between us have been…polite. I’ve longed to talk to him, broach the subject of what happened, why I reacted in the way I did. But fear has paralyzed my tongue. How can I admit that the pleasure he plunged me into felt like a betrayal of my dead husband, his brother? I’m afraid of—shit, I’m afraid of everything when it comes to Knox. Of his rejection. Of his silence. Of hurting him. Of him hurting me. Not physically. Never that. But emotionally? Knox could rip my fledgling, newborn confidence to shreds.
And through it all? I can’t. Stop. Wanting. Him.
If one of the lamps that I bought at the consignment shop miraculously housed a genie, my first wish would be that this…this clawing, aching, relentless need for him would disappear. Then, Knox and I wouldn’t be circling each other like wary wolves. I wouldn’t bear this not-so-secret shame. I wouldn’t suffer the constant anxiety that Katherine would somehow figure out that I lusted after her other son.
If only he’d never put his mouth on me. If only I’d never pushed him to touch me. If only I’d never discovered the delicious, sinful pleasure of his fingers inside me. If only, if only…
“Was that the last of it?” I ask Knox, forcing my attention away from the sexual minefield my life has become.
“Yeah,” he affirms. “What do you need us to do?”
My brain stops operating at what do you need. My nipples bead under my T-shirt, as if offering up their vote. It doesn’t take much for me to still feel his mouth working on my breasts, his tongue curling around the tips and tugging, sucking…
For a moment, I freeze and helplessly meet his gaze. Am I imagining the flash of heat in his eyes? The slight firming of his sensual mouth? Swallowing a groan, I jerk my head to the side and blindly scan the organized chaos surrounding us.
Over the pounding of my pulse, I wave toward the fifty-six-inch, flat-screen TV against the opposite wall. “Could you get my TV set up?” Turning to Jude and Simon, I ask, “Would you two mind putting together the entertainment center? I’ll order pizza and go pick up some more beer.”
The next three hours pass in a blur of work, food, alcohol, and male voices busting each other’s balls. By the time the three of them head for the front door, my living room is complete with sofa, coffee and end tables, a chair, and television inside the entertainment center. Satisfaction is a warm glow inside my chest. It’s beginning to look more and more lived-in. Like a home.
But as Knox, Jude, and Simon prepare to leave, a sliver of icy panic slides inside my chest. The truth strikes me like a bat across the shoulders. In seconds, I’m going to be alone for the first time since I was nineteen years old. Being on my own is what I wanted, why I moved out of Katherine’s home. Yet, now that I’m here, I’m…scared. Which is ridiculous, I know it. Even so, I can’t deny that I’m five seconds from begging them to stay for another round of pizza. The new season of Stranger Things on Netflix. Counting the knobs on the cabinets.
Yeah, I’m desperate.
Still, I must have some remnants of pride left, because I force a smile and accept Jude and Simon’s goodbye hugs and smacks to my cheek. Tension invades me as I turn to Knox, bracing myself for his hands on me. The seed of dread sprouts into twisting vines that wind around my chest, squeezing. What is my problem? I can’t count how many nights I spent alone in my house as a child, with my father out raising hell and my mother looking for him. I left home right after high school and drove hundreds of miles to Chicago, slept in my car for months, and attended college—alone. Why am I suddenly tripping at the thought of being by myself in my apartment?
Knox studies my face, his gaze roaming it as if analyzing every feature, trying to probe beneath my keep-it-moving-nothing-to-see-here facade. “What’s wrong?” he finally asks.
Embarrassed, I glance behind him, but his brothers have already left, leaving the door open for Knox. “Nothing,” I lie. “I’m good. Thanks for all your help today.”
His piercing gaze drops, narrowing on my twisting fingers. Damn. I smother a growl of disgust and halt the nervous tic. Hiking my chin up and tugging my shoulders back, I silently dare him to call me on it.
Without a word, he kicks the door shut behind him, never releasing me from his emerald stare.
“I’m staying.”
Chapter Seven
Knox
What the fuck am I doing?
“What the hell are you doing?” Eden’s demand coincides with the growled question ringing in my head.
And the answer to both? I have no damn clue.
This is what I get for acting on impulse. But lately, that seems to be my default with Eden. And it’s done nothing but get my tongue around her nipple, my finger in her pussy, and a fuckload of guilt crushing my chest. Control is a thing of the past with her. And that’s not good. At all. More than any other person, she’s the one I need to be most disciplined around. Hell, she needs me to be.
Frustration gathers inside me, shoving at my rib cage, and I clench my jaw, locking down the curses swarming up my throat. Dragging a hand down my face, I palm my keys. I should’ve just followed Jude and Simon out of the apartment.
Maybe that hadn’t been panic or fear I glimpsed in her eyes as my brothers and I headed out the door. And maybe those telltale signs of nerves were due to being alone with me. Not that I can blame her.
But still, something nags at me. Insists that those nerves aren’t because of me, but from being alone in a new place after the constant company of family for years.
And even suspecting she’s going to be sitting here in this apartment, lonely and nervous, has me making decisions that both of us will probably come to regret.
“Look, I’ll…” But as I consider starting toward the door, something flickers over her face. Lights up the depths of those dark chocolate eyes. Relief. The vise grip around my chest loosens, and I drop my keys on the small table she set next to the door. “I’ll take the couch.”
She scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t recall—what? That couch is way too short for you,” she mutters, almost to herself.
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I stride past her before she can catch it. She might fight my staying, but she’s already agreed.
“I’ve slept on worse,” I reply with a shrug of a shoulder.
“I bet,” comes her low grumble behind me. Hold up. What the fuck does that mean? “Speaking of sleeping in other places,” she continues. “Shouldn’t you be headed to one of them? I’m sure your plans for the night didn’t include planting your Tormund Giantsbane body on my brand-new couch.”
I turn, scanning and taking in her irritated frown, the defensive cross of her arms…and her feet in third position. Returning my gaze to hers, I blink. “Lord of the Rings?”
Heaving a loud, world-weary sigh, she throws her arms up. “Seriously? Game of Thrones, you plebian.”
“Same thing.” I watch her. And wait.
Her eyes narrow, and fists finding her hips, she leans forward, the corner of her fuck-me mouth curling up in a sneer. There it is.
“No, it’s not the same thing,” she snaps. “Seven Kingdoms, Middle Earth. White Walkers, Orcs. Dragons—”
“Dragons,” I finish, arching an eyebrow.
“That was The Hobbit, not Lord of the Rings,” she mumbles. Then her chin jerks up, and she studies me for several long seconds before her lips twist into a small, wry smile. “Nicely done.”
I don’t reply; using the show to distract her was child’s play. Besides family, there’s one thing Eden is obsessively passionate about—Game of Thrones. In the past, I’ve tried to watch a few episodes of the first season with her. Couldn’t do it. Tapped out after Aquaman died.
I drop to the couch—and am now vividly aware of how much of it I take up. Where the hell did she get this thing? Little People ‘R’ Us?
“Why?” she quietly asks. “Why did you stay?”
The note of vulnerability in her voice has my fingers curling into my palms. I can’t touch her. Can’t smooth my thumb over the sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Can’t trace the tempting dent above her top lip.
“Because you wouldn’t ask me to.” I give her back almost the same words she said in my apartment weeks ago. It’s stupid, mentioning that night, because I can’t think of that selfless, sweet, completely Eden embrace without remembering what came after it. And as I stare into her eyes, and they darken from brown to nearly black, I see the memories there. Whether she wants to recall them or not, she’s thinking about grinding on my thigh and then my cock.
When she turns away, rubbing her palms up and down her arms, I wonder if maybe her mind switched to when she froze after coming on my finger. And why.
“Do you want another beer?” she offers, heading toward the kitchen.
I doubt it’s a sudden thirst that propels her out of the room and away from me. But I don’t call her on it, because I need that space, too. Space and a couple of minutes to remind myself of why I’m here instead of at the bar with Jude and Simon, finding someone who can help me try to fuck Eden out of my system. It hasn’t happened yet. But who knows? Tonight could be the night.
Keep hope alive ‘n’ all that shit.
“Yeah, thanks,” I agree, picking up the remote off the coffee table in front of me. Out of habit, I search for the Cartoon Network. Many a night when insomnia has me in its grip, I’ve watched Japanese anime on this channel and my DVDs until dawn breaks. And now, as Sasuke Uchiha fills the screen, I lean forward, propping my arms on my thighs, and am immediately drawn into one of my favorites. The rogue ninja is in the middle of a fierce battle with his brother Itachi. I’ve seen the episode before, and this fight is one of the most epic in the entire Naruto series.
“I should’ve known better than to leave you alone with the television,” Eden drawls, reappearing next to the couch. I glance away from the screen long enough to accept the beer she extends toward me. “You’re lucky you helped me move. Or else I’d confiscate that remote.”
“It’s cute that you think you could,” I murmur as the battle and the episode comes to its conclusion on the screen. I click the guide button to see if another one is scheduled. Damn. No, but Hunter X Hunter is. Hunter Gon Freeces searching for his missing father is my next favorite show. Settling in, I stretch my arms along the arm and the back of the couch.
“Holy shit. Did you just”—she releases a loud, exaggerated gasp—“tease me?” She sets her own beer on the table—on top of a coaster—and runs to the window that looks out on West Newport Ave. What the fuck?
She jerks back the curtains and peers outside, her head swinging from left to right.
“What’s wrong? What’re you looking for?” I push up from the couch, halfway to my feet when she spins around to face me.
“I was looking for the rainbow-pooping unicorn and the pig with wings riding on its back. Because if you’re making jokes, they can’t be far behind.”
I stare at her, my brain taking a moment to catch up with her words. Laughter rolls up my chest, warm and a little unfamiliar. A chuckle escapes me, and shaking my head, I return to the sofa. A smile curves her lips, brightening her eyes until they’re soft like melted chocolate. God, that smile. It was the first thing about her that seized my attention five years ago.
Like some cliché romance movie shit, I’d glanced across the VIP section of the club where we’d gone after my fight and seen her. Standing uncertainly by the door with a friend, shoulders drawn back and tense, delicate chin lifted, body poised as if caught halfway between staying and bolting. All the people packed into that room, and it’d been her who had captured my attention.
Nah, that didn’t accurately describe what’d happened that night. She’d grabbed every sense, every heartbeat, every organ, every brain cell that made existing possible by the throat and forced them to function just for her. And all because of that smile of shy innocence tinged with the hint, the promise of untapped sensuality. And fuck, had I wanted to be the one to explore it, introduce her to it. Before I could reason with myself that this wasn’t some John Hughes ’80s movie, my feet had unglued themselves from the floor, and I’d headed across the room. Mine. The word—the claim—had echoed in my head like a hammer striking an anvil. Loud. Strident. And over and over.
Then Connor had stepped to her. Blocking my view.
Blocking me.
I blink, the memory shattering like glass but leaving behind just enough shards to remind me that like that night, I can’t have her now. Contrary to what my primitive mind had roared back then, she isn’t mine. Never has been.
Never will be.
“I need to sit down,” Eden says, retracing her steps and dropping onto the chair next to the end of the couch where I’m seated. She smirks, curling her legs under her. “I think you just smiled, and that could herald anything from a patch of the sky plummeting to a zombie apocalypse.”
Shaking my head, I take another sip of my beer. “I’m not that bad, Eden.”
Actually, I probably am. And from the arch of her eyebrow, she agrees with my inner-me.
“Umm, okay.” She snickers, reaching out and snagging the bottle she’d set on the coffee table. If God Himself beamed down on a highway paved in gold bricks and punched the shit out of me, I still couldn’t have stopped myself from staring at the gape in her V-neck T-shirt as she leans forward. Blood thunders in my veins. Yeah, the glimpse of sun-warmed sandy skin cupped by black lace would be worth that celestial haymaker.
“I can remember each and every time I’ve seen you smile,” she continues, tilting her head to the side. Peering at me with a scalpel-like perception that has me fighting not to gather up my shit and break the door down trying to get out.
I’m used to MMA fans recognizing me, ogling me, mentally weighing me. In the gym, in the ring, during an interview, and now, from a tattoo chair—they don’t bother me. I’ve become accustomed to it.
But sitting here, one-on-one in a small apartment with only feet of space between us, I feel exposed in a way standing in an Octagon with just a pair of shorts on and cameras and thousands of eyes focused on me never has.
