Burying Water (Burying Water #1)(77)

And then her delicate hand reaches down.

With a low moan, I close my eyes and tip my head back, letting the shower spray hit my face.

“Look at me,” she whispers.

I turn to face her, and within seconds she’s on her knees and taking me into her mouth. In the back of my mind, I worry about her lip but, peering down at her, her heated eyes locked on mine, I don’t see any hint of pain there. All I can see is how much she actually wants to do this for me.

It’s not even a minute later that I’m balling my fists to keep from grabbing the back of her head as I ride the waves of pure f**king ecstasy. I’m barely coherent when she stands, close enough that her chest presses against mine.

Trailing kisses from my throat to my mouth, she murmurs, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.”

My fingertips skate across her belly, across the scab forming over her tattoo, until my hand rests on her inner thigh. But I hesitate.

“I have three more nights with you, before I have to face reality.” She reaches down and guides my fingers in for me. “I know what I said, but I can’t wait. I’ve never been this happy before, Jesse,” she whispers against my mouth.

Neither have I. I punch the faucet, shutting the shower off. I need to be inside her tonight but that’s not going to happen in the shower. With towels draped around our dripping bodies, we stumble across the hall. I ease her down into my bed and then, pulling the towel away, I take a moment to just drink in the sight of her perfect, lean body. The bruises on her body are mere yellow spots now. Barely noticeable. But that tattoo . . . it’s downright sexy.

Her eyes graze over me as I drop my own towel. I’m already hard again. With her, I think I always will be.

She’s right. We have three more nights together before I have to let her go. Even if for only a day or two, before she comes back to me. I’ve seen what Viktor can do to her and the thought that letting her go long enough that he might do it again makes my stomach churn.

He f**ked up. This is on him. He was given an angel and he tried to break her wings. But she’s strong. Resilient. And now she’s all mine. I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks about that.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?” I say, slipping a condom on.

She lets her legs fall apart in answer.

I don’t hesitate again.

“We’re meant to be together,” she whispers into my ear, moving with my body, our arms and legs and heated breath a tangled mess.

There are no tears tonight.

“Miller actually asked me what was wrong with you. Like, he wanted specific details.”

“What’d you tell him?”

Boone shrugs, his eyes flickering over Alex, leaning into my side on the sectional. “Told him you had a stomach thing.”

I smirk. I know what that means. The jackass told the garage that I had the shits. I’ll be the butt of Tabbs’s and Zeke’s stupid jokes all of tomorrow. Totally worth it, because I spent an entire day in bed with Alex, memorizing the sound of her giggles as my fingers slid over her curves, her freckles. Kissing away her fading bruises. Falling deeper into this swirl of emotions with every minute that passed. Her sweet, caring, strong spirit is an intoxicating fog; it’s so easy to get lost in it and dismiss the reality that looms.

And that’s exactly what we did. We got dressed only a couple of hours ago, after Alex insisted she wanted to make dinner and then study for an upcoming test.

“Okay, Alex. You ready for the next question?” Boone’s been flipping through the reproduction chapters in Alex’s anatomy textbook, reading out random quotes to make her blush and me laugh. I’ve caught myself forgetting who Boone’s uncle is and his connection to Viktor several times tonight, instead picturing the three of us living here together. It could work, I keep fooling myself.

He frowns. “Alex?”

She’s staring at the television, her mouth parted slightly, her face white as snow. “I know her.”

Boone and I share a glance. “Who?”

“That woman.” She points at the news broadcast where a picture of a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties sits next to a picture of a man. “I mean, I’ve met her. She came to our house last summer for that garden party. Her husband is one of Viktor’s friends.”

I wasn’t really paying attention to the TV before. Now, though, all three of us are glued to the screen, listening to the reporter’s monotone voice as she explains that this woman and what the police believe to be her lover were found shot to death in a hotel room, her wedding ring still on her finger. Police have detained her husband as a prime suspect, with evidence that places him at the scene of the crime.

When the camera flashes to a picture of the suspect, a tall blond guy with the same hardened look as Viktor, Alex gasps.

I reach out to smooth a comforting hand over her back. “I’m sorry, Alex, I—” The reporter’s closing remarks freeze my tongue:

“Authorities suspect Pavel Federov of having ties to Russian organized crime; however, this particular incident appears to be a case of domestic violence.”

Russian organized crime.

Holy shit.

Boone quietly sets the textbook down and then heads to his bedroom, Licks on his heels.

But so am I, kicking his door shut behind me. “Tell me that Viktor isn’t with the f**king mob.”