Nash (Marked Men #4)(35)

She shut the door without giving me a real answer about her job, and I retreated into my own place. I needed a minute to clear my head and, more pressing than that, to work out my frustration in a hot shower. I’d never been so twisted up, so wound up about a girl before. Saint took effort, a gentle touch I wasn’t a hundred percent sure I was equipped with. I mean I was never the kind of guy who just barreled into a girl’s life and turned it upside down. I never cared enough to do that. With Saint I was starting to want to not only turn everything upside down, but put it in a jar, or a box, and shake it all up and around until something completely different came out. A different Nash and Saint who could figure this shit out.

CHAPTER 8

Saint

I paced around my apartment like a neurotic mess the rest of the night. I couldn’t believe what I had done, or the way I had left him like that. I was mortified and stupefied at not only my actions but that I had actually managed to get off with him. That had never happened to me before, and all the foreign goodness and startling knowledge that it was him that could get me there had me nearly blind with panic.

I spent all the next day cleaning and finding anything to keep my whirling mind busy until I had to go in for my shift. I barely pulled it together to go in for my rounds, but considering my phone was blowing up with an equal mix of angry text messages from my mom, and disappointed ones from my dad, I had to get out of my apartment. I called Faith to tell her and the rest of her brood family Merry Christmas, and even though I tried to keep it brief, I think she could tell I was upset and something was really wrong.

There was nothing she could do or say to stop me from feeling like I was a lunatic. I don’t know what happened to me when I was around Nash, but something about him and me in the same room and I turned into an unpredictable mess.

Things had been all right. I didn’t love not having my own car in case I wanted to escape the wedding and my own nerves, but his friends and all of the wedding party had been really nice, and his dad, or Phil, as the older man laughingly told me to call him, was delightful. Had I not known any different, I would have thought he was healthy as a horse. The nurse in me wasn’t certain that being around so many people in his fragile state was a smart idea, but I could tell there was no way he would’ve missed the big event. This group was tighter than any band of friends I had ever encountered.

All of Nash’s friends were gorgeous and covered in defining marks that made them an unforgettable group. It wasn’t the tattoos or the fact that the groom was sporting a purple Mohawk that made me start to hyperventilate—it was the palpable love, the care, the respect and genuine admiration they all had for one another that made my skin feel too tight, made a longing I had never felt before start to stifle everything else inside of me.

The only person I had ever had that kind of bond with was Faith, and now that she had her own family and husband to take care of, I felt more and more on my own. Watching this mismatched group of men and women, seeing the bride and groom who were so clearly determined to overcome everything just to be together, made me feel out of sorts, achingly jealous, and as it throbbed in my blood I felt like I needed to go. I couldn’t take it anymore. And just like Nash said, I knew, had no doubt that he would have brought me home without complaint, and I just couldn’t get my head and my heart to line up on what they thought about that. On one hand, I wanted to take his nice-guy facade at face value, but I had been burned by my misconception of him before and I didn’t think that was a risk I wanted to take again. I didn’t know that I could handle being disappointed by him again now that I was just starting to get to a point where I wanted to think he was different than he had been all those years ago.

As I watched him walk down the aisle, so big and handsome, so colorful and distinct, there was no question that I wanted him. I felt desire, was unquestioningly aroused whenever he touched me, whenever he looked at me with those unforgettable eyes. I wasn’t used to that, and to all the heat and confusion that Nash Donovan had once again brought into my life. The buildup was coiled so tight inside of me that it was like a spring ready to snap … and snap, it had taken me right along with it.

If my colossal freak-out at the wedding wasn’t bad enough, my confusing reaction only seconds after the only orgasm given to me by another person was enough to make me want to change my name and move to an island nobody had ever heard of before. Bursting into tears after sex was nothing new for me, even if these had been tears of gratitude rather than disappointment. But the way I freaked, the way I had run away like I had never run before, and maybe most shameful, the way I had callously left Nash with an unmistakably unsatisfied erection made me question my own sanity.

Obviously the other guys were wrong. There wasn’t anything wrong with me sexually. I wasn’t frigid or cold … if Nash had gotten me any hotter last night, we would have melted together. Apparently I just needed the guy to be covered in ink, pierced in some unusual places, and tied to my past and the heart of my lack of confidence in the most devastating of ways in order to have an orgasm. He was beautiful, all dusky skin, corded slabs of hard muscle, and strong planes and valleys of sexy perfection. He was not a small guy, anywhere, and where I thought that would be intimidating, it just made me feel slight and exceedingly feminine next to him. It made me want him more.

On top of everything else I was kicking myself over, I still didn’t get a look at the rest of that tattoo. I knew my thumb and forefinger barely fit around the circumference of his erection when he was aroused, that the metal he sported was blazing hot from being so close to his body, that he looked way better in white boxers than black because of his darker skin tone, that his eyes turned purple not just when he was mad, but also when he was turned on. That damn tattoo was still a mystery, though, and all the while I was lambasting myself, calling myself every foolish name in the book, I was still trying to piece together what it might look like.