“Thank you for the proper apology, Officer Donovan.”
So did gratitude. He turned as well, tunneled his arm under her waist, and hauled her in until her back fit against his chest. “What about the proper fucking?” He slipped his other arm over her hip and pressed his hand between her thighs, running his fingers through folds still warm and fluid from said fucking. “Did you not notice that part?”
Her answer was somewhere between a laugh and a moan. She covered his hand with hers and clamped her thighs tight to trap his fingers. “The proper fucking was duly noted and appreciated.”
And speaking of appreciation…he bundled her closer, reluctant to dim the afterglow with anything serious, but he owed her an actual apology. “Thanks for looking after me last night, Roxy. I’m sorry I put you in a position to do it. You should earn hazardous duty pay for that.”
She patted the arm he had wrapped around her middle. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there at some point.”
“You don’t drink,” he pointed out.
“Not anymore, no. I should probably get going. I’ve got a load of towels in the dryer.”
And there went the afterglow. His Goodhart translation skills read the I don’t want to talk about my past subtext easily enough. At least not with him, she didn’t. And maybe it was contrary of him given how hard he’d tried to keep her at a distance, but now that he had her tucked against him, he wasn’t ready to let her go quite yet.
At some point, he’d have to, because her itchy feet and talent would propel her out of his arms and his world soon enough, but until then, he wanted her—body, mind, and anything else he could convince her to share with him. Hell, he wanted to help her to the extent she’d let him. Right now, that goal seemed best served by picking a topic of conversation that didn’t have her ready to bolt. Something to convince her it was safe to stick around for a minute.
He swept her hair over her shoulder and traced the tattoo decorating the back of her neck just below her hairline. It looked like some kind of Arabic language. “I swear, Reckless, getting you naked is like unwrapping a surprise. I never know what I’m going to find next.” Again, he traced the tattoo, rewarded when her shoulders relaxed. “What’s this?”
“Hmm. It’s Sanskrit. Be alive.”
“And you chose it because…?”
“Those two little words convey a lot of meanings. Live your life. Appreciate the joys and the struggles. Be present. I wanted to carry that wisdom with me, so—”
“So, you gave yourself a reminder you can’t see?”
“Not exactly, no.” Her voice held a smile. “I chose that spot to protect and heighten the sensitivity of my alta major chakra.”
“I don’t know what that means, but I’m pretty sure it’s illegal in all fifty states.”
She laughed, as he’d intended. Leave it to Roxy to appreciate the randomness of mixing ancient language, esoteric far-eastern meditation theory, and body art into a personal philosophy. “Let’s just say I don’t need to see something to know it’s there.”
He trailed a finger down her spine and then skimmed his thumb over the long, sweeping lines he now saw were not simply wings, but a bird with a tail made of flames. “What’s the story here?”
“That’s my phoenix. The first time I saw it, I guess you could say it spoke to me. I liked the idea of having wings at my back and admired a creature with the power to rise from its own ashes.” She shrugged. “Plus, I thought having a tattoo back there was kinda sexy.”
“You’re sexy, Roxy. The tattoo is just a little ink.”
“Sometimes little enhancements can be sexy, don’t you think? They whisper, ‘Come closer, and I’ll tell you a story.’ Take these, for instance.” She pointed to something on her hip. “They say I’ve been held tight. Used for pleasure. Enjoyed.”
He lifted his head to get a better look and then brushed his thumb lightly over one of the marks she’d pointed out. His fingers, he realized. He’d caught her hips in a firm grip as he’d pounded into her. And yes, certain parts of him found the physical evidence of their encounter incredibly sexy, but his conscience flinched at his lack of care, as well as the memory of three fading bruises on her wrist the first day he’d met her. Leaning down, he gently kissed the darkest mark, then the lighter ones. He had two hands, which meant she no doubt had similar souvenirs on her other hip. He turned her so she faced him and kissed them as well. “Sexy as fuck,” he said. “You.”
She blushed at the compliment—lying face to face had its advantages—and lifted one corner of her mouth. “Newsflash, West. I’m a sure thing. You don’t have to flatter me.”
A sure thing? Hell, he wasn’t even sure where she’d be in a month, and he suspected she didn’t have a real firm idea, either. “You are the least sure thing I’ve ever met. I’m not sure where you came from. I’m not sure where you’re headed.”
She reached up and fiddled with his hair, like she couldn’t resist touching him. “You know I came from Millersville, by way of Route 9. As for where I’m headed, maybe Los Angeles. Maybe not. But I’m here right now. Isn’t that sure enough for you?”
“Depends.”
Blond brows arched. “On what?”
“On whether you’re headed toward something or running away from something.”
She rolled her eyes. “You question everything, Officer Donovan. How about you let me ask a few?”
Unlike her, he didn’t have anything to
