“Rose?”
“I said, no.”
A heavy, loud sigh, and he’s quickly not touching me anywhere. The bed dips again, and a few seconds later, I see his silhouette move across the bottom of the bed toward the doors that lead onto the terrace. My eyes follow, and when he pulls the drapes back, allowing the moonlight to stream in, I permit my eyes to absorb every impressive inch of his naked body. I start at his feet, drift over his sturdy calves, up his legs, across his solid ass, his back, his shoulders, and eventually his neck, where his hair flicks out at his nape. He’s an Adonis. A masterpiece. Still a deadly one, but also a devoted, fiercely protective one.
Danny Black. The Brit. The Angel-faced Assassin.
But more than any of that, my husband. My lover. My friend.
He pushes the door open and steps out onto the terrace, and I roll to my back, staring into the darkness. My mind circles.
Get some sleep, Rose. You’re going to need some energy to keep resisting me.
Resist him. I couldn’t then, and I can’t now. God damn me. I get up and go to the balcony, finding him slumped in a rattan chair, his elbow wedged into the arm, the side of his head propped on his hand. A cigarette rests between his fingers, the end burning away, just inches from his hair. Troubled. He looks so troubled.
I don’t want to add to that. It’s twisted, backward, crazy, but I have to be here for him while he figures this out. He needs that familiar peace. He needs me, and I can’t deny him what he needs, especially when I know I’m the only person in this fucked-up world who can give it to him. It’s a blessing. It’s a curse. It’s pressure.
I go to him, putting my body in front of his, and he slowly lifts his eyes to mine, his face straight. I push my panties down and climb onto his lap, straddling him, lifting a little to hold his cock while I lower onto him, taking every perfect inch of him slowly, exhaling as I do. He remains impassive, the cigarette getting dropped, his hands taking my hips lightly. Our eye contact doesn’t falter. But our breathing does. It’s ragged, broken, strained. I start moving, circling, biting my lip as I take his shoulders for support, and his head drops back, his eyes hooded, drowsy with need, but every single thing I love about his icy blues is maintained. Fire. Passion. Love.
I begin rocking on him, taking in air with every grind, the friction wickedly good. There’s no need for me to speak. To apologize. To tell him how I feel and how sick with worry I am. This man, this sick, murdering, twisted man, knows me inside out. As acutely as I know him. We need this right now. This closeness. Our crazy connection.
I move my hand onto his scar, focusing on it as I lift and fall gently, my head spinning with pleasure.
“My most important job is to protect you,” he whispers, turning his face into my hand and kissing it.
“No.” I fall forward and take his mouth. His gorgeous, absorbing, addictive mouth. “Your most important job is to stay alive.” My kiss is firm. It’s possessive. It’s consuming, passionate, and rough. It embodies him. I taste Scotch. I taste nicotine. I flex my chest gently, moaning, the tingles building, but Danny gets there first, and he moans his release, his body tensing against me. For once, he’ll leave me unsatisfied, but that’s okay. This was for him. His release. His needs. His peace. “I hate you,” I whisper around his lips, pulling away to get his face in my sights, stroking and feeling at his cheeks gently.
His forehead falls onto my shoulder, his sigh weary. “I love you too, baby.”
With my hands stroking his hair, I hold him to me and gaze across the mansion’s grounds. And I wonder, how long can he sustain the weight of this world this time around?
* * *
When I wake the next morning, I’m alone in bed. My mouth is dry, and I have a dreadful anxious feeling in my tummy. I feel around on the nightstand for my cell, at the same time circling my stomach with my palm. It’s ten thirty. I can’t remember the last time I slept past eight. There’s a text message from Danny.
Morning, baby. I’ve got things to deal with at the boatyard. Back this afternoon. Let’s do dinner tonight. Just us.
His words bring a small smile to my sleepy face, and then my phone pings and an image fills my screen. Of him. My beautiful, killer husband.
The Rolls-Royce of bulletproof vests. Happy?
My smile fades. Things to do at the boatyard. Take a delivery. I sigh. I’ll never be happy that I must force my husband to wear a bulletproof vest. And last night at the club, the ambush, the confirmation of enemies far and wide, is why. I thought we’d kissed goodbye to the dangerous world that brought us together. The world we barely survived.
My stomach churns, and I groan, edging to the side of the bed and going to the bathroom where I’m in range of a toilet to throw up in if I need to. I flip on the shower to cool and get under the spray, willing this awful queasy feeling away.
I feel no better by the time I’ve washed my hair. Anxiety has never featured in my life. I couldn’t let it. My walls were high, the bricks solid, but the moment I met Danny Black, cracks began to form, and bit by bit, the wall has come down, exposing me. I love it. I hate it.
I hear a knock at the bedroom door, followed by Beau calling my name. “Come in,” I shout, pulling a towel down and wrapping myself in it. I step into the bedroom as she pushes her way into the room. I catch a glimpse of Tank and Fury in the corridor, practically filling it. “Hey,” I say, taking a brush off my dressing table and starting to work my way through my wet tresses. “Have you been in the gym?” I take in Beau’s sporty-clad body. She looks magnificent. Tight black leggings that enhance her shapely legs, a sports bra that makes her tits look phenomenal, and a washboard stomach that I could file my nails on. Her blonde hair is piled high, her face fresh, her eyes alive and shining. Whatever she’s had, I want some. These past few weeks, she’s come on in leaps and bounds, working out, chatting more, smiling more. But more amazing than how amazing she looks this morning and the progress she’s made recently is the absence of sleeves. Her brutally scarred arm is out on full display for all to see. And as if she’s noticed I’ve noticed—how could I not? —she lays a palm over her forearm, as if her dainty hand can hide it.
“Too much?” she asks, immediately making me feel terrible. I’m not staring because I’m shocked.
“God, no.” I shake my head, ridding my hand of the brush. “I’m proud of you.” So proud. It seems while Beau is taking steps forward, I’m going backward. “Did you put sunscreen on?”
She rolls her eyes, going to my wardrobe. “Yes, I put sunscreen on.” She rummages through my clothes. “Come on, we have a busy day.”
“Doing what?” I ask, perching on the end of the bed, suspicious, wondering if Danny’s been in her ear, telling her to keep me busy. Undoubtedly.
“First, we have target practice,” she says, huffing. “Do workout clothes exist in your life?”
Target practice? “I’m no gym fanatic, Beau. The closest thing I have to sports attire is a wetsuit, and that’s back in St. Lucia.”
“Then this will have to do.” She whips out some yoga pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt. “Get dressed and get your gun.” She throws my clothes beside me and pulls her cell out from the back of her leggings when it rings, sighing at the screen.