Lover Mine (Black Dagger Brotherhood #8)(91)

When he turned toward her, he froze, his brows shooting up. And

even though the java had been on the way to his mouth, he immediately put it out for her to take.

Man, didn't that just sum him up in a nutshell.

"No, please," she said. "It's yours."

He paused as if considering whether or not to argue the point. But

then he put the porcelain rim to his lips and sipped.

Feeling a little more steady, Xhex threw off the covers and slid her

legs out from under. As she stood up, her towel fell from her and she heard John take a hissing breath.

"Oh, sorry," she muttered, bending down and snagging the terry cloth.

She didn't blame him for not wanting a gander at the scar that was still healing across her lower belly. Not exactly what you needed to see right before you ate your breakfast.

Wrapping herself up, she padded into the loo, used the facilities, and washed her face. Her body was rebounding well, her collection of bruises disappearing, her legs feeling stronger under her weight. And thanks to the rest and her feeding from him, her aches were no longer outright painful, but more just a series of vague discomforts.

When she came out from the bathroom, she said, "You think I can

borrow some clothes from someone?"

John nodded, but motioned to the bed. Clearly he wanted her to eat

first and she was on board with that plan.

"Thanks," she said, tightening the towel around her breasts. "What you got in there?"

As she sat down, he offered her a variety of things, and she took the 236

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turkey sandwich because the need for protein was a craving she couldn't turn down. From his chair, John watched her eat the thing, just drinking his coffee, and the second she was finished, he brought out a Danish that proved too tempting.

The combination of cherry and sweet glaze made her jones for some

coffee. And what do you know, John was right there with a mug, as if he were reading her mind.

She polished off a second Danish and a bagel. And a glass of OJ. And

two cups of coffee.

And it was funny. The silence of him had a bizarre effect on her.

Normally, she was the quiet one in situations, preferring to keep her own council and not share her thoughts on anything. But with John's mute

presence, she felt curiously compelled to talk.

"I'm stuffed," she said, lying back against the pillows. As he cocked a brow and lifted the last Danish, she shook her head. "God . . . no. I couldn't manage another thing."

And it was only then that he began to eat.

"You waited for me?" she said, frowning. When he ducked her gaze and shrugged, she cursed softly. "You didn't have to."

Another shrug.

As she watched him, she murmured, "You have beautiful table

manners."

His blush was the color of Valentine's Day and she had to tell her

heart to calm the f*ck down as it started to beat fast.

Then again, maybe she was having palpitations because she'd just

thrown close to two thousand calories into her empty gut.

Or not. When John started to lick the frosting from his fingertips, she caught sight of his tongue and for a moment, she felt a stirring in her body--

Memories of Lash crushed the fragile bloom between her legs, the

images taking her back to that bedroom, back to him on top of her, forcing her legs apart with his hard hands--

"Oh, f*ck . . ." Lunging off the bed, she scrambled to the toilet and just barely made it in time.

It all came up. The two Danishes. The coffee. That turkey sandwich.

Complete evac of everything she'd eaten.

As she heaved, she didn't feel the vomiting. She felt Lash's awful

mitts on her skin . . . his body inside of hers, pounding away--

Annnnd there was the orange juice.

Oh, God . . . how had she gone through that with the bastard time and time again? The fists and the struggle and the biting . . . then the brutal sex.

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Over and over and over . . . and then the aftermath. Washing him off of her.

Out of her.

Fuck--

Another wave of heaving cut off her thoughts and though she hated

throwing up, the shutdown on her brain was a relief. It was almost as if her body was trying to physically exorcise the trauma, just blow it out so that she could start over.

A reboot through booting, so to speak.

When the worst of the vomiting finished off, she sank onto her heels

and rested her clammy forehead on her arm. As her breath sawed up and down her throat, her gag reflex quivered like it was considering getting organized again.

Nothing else in there, she told the damn thing. Not unless it wanted to try spring-loading her lungs.

Shit, she hated this part. Right after you'd been through hell, your

mind and your environment were full of land mines and you never knew

what could set off an explosion. Sure, over time, it faded, but the initial salvo back into "regular life" was a bitch and a half.

She lifted her head and hit the flusher.

As a cool washcloth brushed against her hand, she jumped, but it was

just John, nothing for her to be frightened of.

And man, he had the only thing she really wanted at that moment: that clean, damp, cold washcloth was a godsend.