“Sounds good to me,” she told him, successfully halting all of his brain activity. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for when I hid them. To make you mad. So you’d punish me again.” She paused to let out a moan as he teased her opening with the tip of his dick. “Every time I see the red marks on my wrist or ankles or thighs from last time, I have to touch myself to relieve the pressure. But it never feels as good as when you do it.”
“Fuck, Stella.”
“Yes, please do.”
Grinning like a damned maniac, he slammed his dick back into her throbbing entrance. “Be careful what you wish for, cowgirl.”
Van thrust inside of her in several long strokes, pressing deeper each time until she was calling his name.
“I love when you call out my name. Love how good it sounds in your mouth when you come.”
A series of whimpers and breathy pleas was her response. He flipped her over and jerked her legs apart once more. Sliding back in, he gave her clenching walls everything he had, slamming in harder and pulling out slower until she gave over to her desires and began to come for him. He wished he could record those raucous sounds he pumped from her mouth. Her nails pierced his skin as she tore at the flesh on his arms.
“Give it up, baby. Come for me.” Releasing one of her legs, he ran a hand roughly down her throat, through the valley between her breasts, and over her stomach. Pressing a finger on her clit, he pounded into her as her walls convulsed around him until his release took over.
After they’d collapsed in a satisfied heap of desperate breaths and sweat-slick skin, Van disposed of the condom and returned to wrap her in his arms.
No matter how many times she allowed him to enter her, to bring her to the highest peaks of pain and ecstasy, it would still amaze him that he got to hold her afterward. He was a colossal fuck-up who destroyed all that he touched, but somehow he’d been bestowed the magnificent privilege of holding such a flawless and fragile creature. Well, maybe she wasn’t all that fragile. He’d given her some pretty rough treatment and she’d hung in there—and ridden out the violent waves right along with him.
She wasn’t angry or afraid. Or asking a million questions about what was next. She didn’t make any demands of him, didn’t want to take pictures for evidence. She just wanted him to hold her. Which was good because it was about all he could manage at that particular moment.
His heart was beating the shit out of his chest, and he couldn’t tell if it was from the workout of the sex or something else.
Something else was a strong possibility. The woman in his arms sighed and pulled him from his euphoric high.
“You okay?” He placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head.
She nodded against him. She was still struggling for breath when she answered. “More than. So much more than okay.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Wrapped in her short pearl-white silk robe and his arms, she lay next to him, lightly tracing his ink with her fingertips.
So far they’d eaten cold pasta before returning to bed for another round of lovemaking. He’d gone slower this time, and she was pretty sure he had literally massaged, licked, kissed, and sucked every single inch of her body. He’d imprinted himself on her in a way she felt conflicted about. It felt wonderful, like sunshine saturating her skin after being soaked in a rainstorm. But it also felt…permanent. And irrevocable.
Afterward, they’d discussed the words on his arm and chest. Lyrics he’d written for a song he’d never recorded. His eyes had gone dark and his muscles had stiffened, so she hadn’t pressed for any more information. There were hands praying with rosary beads wrapped around them. And a few band-related symbols. Music notes in flames and a shattered record. His path to his music career had been a rocky one he’d informed her. That’s what the sleeve that covered his left arm represented.
But it was his back, the breathtakingly magnificent mural of ink etched over every flesh-covered muscle and sinew that she ached to know more about. It somehow managed to be beautiful and heartbreaking all at once.
The faceless angel sat in water, her head down and arms wrapped around the knees drawn to her chest. Stella traced the details of her form and then let her fingers drift outward to expansive black wings.
“Who is this?” she whispered into the darkness. Even with only a bedside lamp for light, she could see the shading, the light and the dark, the pain that accompanied the artwork he’d put on his body.
“No one. It’s just ink.” His gravelly voice effectively erected a wall between them. He didn’t say anything else or turn to look at her, but she got the message loud and clear. This subject was off-limits.
Stella swallowed the lump constricting her throat. She didn’t know who it represented. But she knew one thing for certain. He’d lied. It wasn’t just ink. And whoever she was, his angel of darkness was weighing him down.
She hoped it was just the post-coital vulnerability that made his refusal to share this with her so upsetting. It was clearly none of her business.
Just as the silence became suffocating, Van turned his head. He’d somehow vanquished the demons glaring at her from behind his eyes and the light, teasing version of him had reappeared. Stella struggled to keep up.
“Did you really hide the riding crops?”
She grinned, the tension in her chest easing in as she did. “Perhaps.”
“Hmm.” He stared at her thoughtfully before sitting up and putting his shirt back on. She tried not to read anything into it. Tried but failed. He was hiding his angel of darkness from her. It stung. “So you fell and hurt your knee. Is that why I never see you riding any of those hellish beasts?”
“Huh?” Stella pulled her eyes up from his now covered chest. “Oh, the horses?” She sat up and pulled her robe tighter. “Yeah. My horse Angel’s Breath took a fall. Landed on my leg. I couldn’t walk for two months. It was terrifying. So I quit racing.” There was more to it, but that was all she really felt comfortable sharing with someone who’d just lied his ass off about a tattoo.
Van bent to pull on his boxer briefs and jeans. “And why’s that, cowgirl?”
Now she was the one who wanted to pull away, put up her walls, and shut him out. “Why did I quit? I just told you. I got hurt.”
He eyed her speculatively as he buttoned his jeans. “So you don’t race anymore. Doesn’t mean you couldn’t still ride.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and he put his hands up.
“For fun, I mean. Easy, babe. I didn’t mean to make you mad.” He dropped his hands and shrugged. “But I’ve seen that look you get. You want to ride them. Or at least that temperamental pain-in-the-ass one.”
Her lips attempted to fight back the smile attacking them. “Yes, I certainly seem to have a type, don’t I?”
Leaning forward, Van kissed her lightly on the mouth. “Yeah, you do. Thank fuck for that.”
“You’re leaving.” It wasn’t a question. She didn’t need to ask, she knew he’d been away from the facility long enough. And that they might not ever get to spend an entire night together. For all she knew, and judging from the way he’d shut down and hurried to escape, whatever this was between them might end the day he checked out of rehab. Or before then.
“I’d say I’d call you, but we both know I can’t.”
“And I’d say I’d love to do this again sometime, but…” She made a big show of wrinkling her nose and shrugging. “I think I’m good. Guess it was one of those ‘itches that needed to be scratched so we could move on’ type things.”
Van’s dark eyebrows lifted, and then he smirked. “Speaking of things that got scratched, my arms and back are torn to hell. Guess you scratched the fuck out of that itch, cowgirl. Glad you got me out of your system.”