Blood to Dust(45)

But I’m not ready.

He’s become a fantasy; a bubble I don’t want to pop. A feather of hope that’s tickling but not quite touching me the way I crave. The minute he takes off the mask, the mystery is solved, and reality will kick in. A reality I’m not entirely prepared for, despite the fact I pushed for it for so long.

A reality that consists of people getting killed, of us running away, of trying to get by, of peeking over our shoulders, every second of every day.

Life starts here.

He erases the space between us with a long step, his abs bumping into my chest. My breath hitches and my spine tingles. This is bad. No, bad is forgetting to turn off the oven when you leave the house. This is disastrous.

“Where will you go after this is all over, Pea?” His mask touches my lips.

“Iowa,” I answer. “I want to go somewhere peaceful.”

“Cabo for me,” he replies, his thumb stabing his chest. “I wanna go somewhere wild.”

“Send me a postcard.” I muster a weak grin, but it feels wrong on my lips.

We don’t actually know if we’ll get out of this alive, and even if we do, I’ll dump him and move on with my life as soon as we kill the bastards.

We’re polar opposites. He’s peace looking for color, and I’m a storm looking for serenity. And somewhere between my chaos and his peace, we found each other. Even crazier—we want to save one another.

“Pea.” He rubs my chin with his thumb, staring at my lips with burning eyes. “I’ll fight your war while I’m winning mine, but you have to be honest with me. When I took you like an animal the night of the party. . .did it remind you of them?” “It was different,” I answer. “Intense, yes. Wild. But it reminded me that I could still enjoy how another body feels against mine. I didn’t think I could anymore.”

His jaw tenses and he looks down at his palms as he speaks.

“I’d like to be the person who reminds you of that again,” he says, his usually cutting tone sounds softer now. Maybe it’s just what I want to hear. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be. Wild, gentle, good, bad, rough, delicate. Your pick.”

I swallow and look down to his chest, blinking away my embarrassment. “I’d like that too.”

“Would you like that now by any chance?” he growls, his forehead dropping onto mine. “Ink’s out of town. Some family shit. I need inside you.”

You’re already inside me, I think. You crawled in the minute you showed me mercy, the minute you decided to switch teams. But I know what he wants. He wants what all men want.

He wants sex. My flesh, my warmth and what’s between my thighs. Because after all, before he became a killer, a captor, an avid reader and even my savior, he was the one thing I hate—a man.

The only difference between Nate and the others is. . .well, I want his body, too.

“Are you going to take off your mask?” I ask, staring at his army boots.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.”

No.

My eyes are still trained on his feet as his mask floats to the floor, landing next to his shoes. This is it. The mystery man who has been occupying my thoughts all this time is standing in front of me, exposed and open, offering me everything I’ve ever asked him for.

I drag my eyes up, lingering on his groin, his hips, moving on to his flat stomach, memorizing his triangular upper-body, tan, inked throat, and once I get to his face. . .

I lose it. Completely lose it.

Cruelly beautiful, that’s what he is. A beauty so violent it demands to be appreciated despite my best efforts to ignore it. I can actually hear his face, and it’s loud. Screaming at me to drown in his perfect features.

Every bone in my body melts and my skin spikes with the need to touch him.

His cheekbones are high, prominent like blades, and sharpen his face into something that’s ruthlessly male. Which is good, because everything inside this frame is sickly pretty. Roman strong nose, bee-stung lips with a cupid’s bow, upturned, hooded eyes of a predator. Hard, dark, expressive, perfect.

I look away before it burns, like staring directly into the sun. I shift my gaze, feeling something funny crawling from my neck up to my face. Something I haven’t felt in a long time, maybe even ever.

Something I promised myself I’d never feel.

I’m about to get out of here and instead of being filled with joy and ecstasy, I refuse to look directly into my new partner in crime’s face.

I open my mouth, not sure what might come out of it, but before I get the chance to say anything, he braces a hand on the wall above my head. His eyes fall to my lips, then return to my eyes.

“Let me do filthy things to you, Prescott.” His husky tone breathes fire into my body. “Let me dirty you up with who I am.”

I close my eyes. I can do it. I can master my emotions. I’ve done it so many times before. Years of not letting anyone in made me resilient to whatever men throw at me.

But how do you let someone inside you without letting him into you?

My eyes travel to his, and I dare look at him again. So perfect. So, disgustingly, unwarrantedly perfect.

“You think you can rub your filth on me?” A lopsided grin pulls from the right side of my mouth. “I’d like to see you try.”

That’s all the invitation he needs. He picks me up, fireman style in one arm, and rushes up the stairs, tackling two at a time.