Redemptive (Combative, #2)(45)

Blood.

That’s basically all I could see and even though, deep down, I knew that Nate’s body was there, and he was standing and most likely talking, which meant that he was alive, the only thing I could see was all the blood. On his clothes. On his face. On his hands.

And it occurred to me then, why I’d been so worried about him. Why I worried about him every time he left. The circumstances in which we came to be weren’t derived from fate, or from a blind date, or a coffee shop moment where we caught each other’s gaze from across the room. No. Our fate included drugs. Included guns. Included death.

I wasn’t aware that my hands were all over him, my eyes filled with tears as I searched for the wound that created the mess in front of me, not until Nate held my wrists, his knees bent, eyes focused on mine as he said my name over and over and over, that I came to.

I blinked, tears falling fast and free, landing on my shirt—his shirt—the one I’d taken off of him mere hours ago. My body shook, as uncontrollable as my breathing. “Where are you hurt?” I managed to get out.

“Bailey,” he soothed, his blood covered hands releasing me, only to cup my face. “Baby, it’s not my blood.”

Relief slammed into me like a tidal wave of emotion, but it only lasted a second before I was back to stage one. Fear.

“Tiny?” I breathed out.

“Tiny’s upstairs. He’s fine,” Nate assured, trying to keep my gaze locked on his. “Everyone’s fine, Bailey.”





27




Nate


The second I told her that I was fine, that Tiny was fine, the dam broke. But it wasn’t just a dam. Something else in her unleashed and she’d covered her mouth and ran to the bathroom where she spent the next ten minutes over the toilet bowl dry-heaving, her cries loud, her tears large, drowning out whatever words she was trying to speak.

I’d kept quiet, spending those minutes holding her hair and stroking her back. I’d known that it’d been a bad idea to walk in looking the way I did, but I didn’t expect this much of a reaction, this amount of emotion to flood out of her.

Once her body had surrendered to her feelings, she leaned her back against the tiled wall, the same one she apparently spent her days staring at, only now she was staring at me, her head resting back on the wall. She seemed like she wanted to speak, so I sat as still as possible, letting her look at me. With each second that passed, her loud cries became quiet cries while her fists balled at her sides and I don’t think I’d ever felt heartbreak until that very moment.

At least not as an adult.

I wanted nothing more than to tap into her brain, tap into her heart, and find out what she was thinking but the only thing I did was stand up when she did, hold her hand when she grasped onto mine, stand still as she stripped out of her clothes and removed my blood stained ones, and then follow her into the warmth of the shower.

It’d been a really long time since I let someone touch me the way Bailey was. Soft, foam covered hands with gentle strokes helped me forget the events of the day. Bailey was still crying. She couldn’t seem to help it and in that moment, I couldn’t seem to help her. So I let her clean the blood from my face, from my arms, from my hands and I was almost grateful she was in such an emotional state that she hadn’t asked what had happened. Not that I would tell her.

She kept her eyes on her hands which were working to get me clean, freeing me from my actions, and I kept my eyes on hers. She was beautiful. Even with tear-stained cheeks, shaky shoulders and trembling lips, lips I’ve envisioned wrapped around my cock and f*ck—I was hard. It’s kind of impossible not to be when Bailey was standing inches in front of me, naked, wet. Her hair was loose, a thick strand covering one of her breasts and without thinking, I reached out and moved the hair behind her shoulders. Then I palmed her tits. She froze momentarily but didn’t stop me. Maybe because she knew I needed this. I needed to forget, and she was going to help me do that.

Eyes locked, Bailey reached for the shampoo behind me. She dropped some into her palm and put it back in its place. Tiny hiccups had replaced her cries, one sounding just as her hands rubbed through my hair, massaging my scalp. Her back arched slightly, her tits pushing into my hands and I took it as an invitation to dip my head and take a nipple in my mouth. Her moan could be heard over the sound of the water, and so I moved to the other breast and gave it the same attention. I pulled back when I felt her hand on my shoulder, pushing down. “Get down on your knees,” she mumbled. “I have to rinse this out.”

I did as she asked, a little pissed that I had to leave her breasts, but that feeling didn’t last long once I realized that from my new position, her * was only inches in front of my mouth.

I didn’t ask.

I didn’t warn.

When the heat of her * pressed against my mouth she gasped in shock, her back leaning against the shower wall and her hands fisting my hair, I spread her legs farther apart, putting one over my shoulder and I licked and sucked, and I ate her * like a man starved. Maybe not starved for * but starved for comfort, for clarity, and by letting me have her, she was giving me all of that.

My name fell from her lips, seductive but strong as she ground into me, using me while I used her.

I hadn’t f*cked her.

I hadn’t even put a finger inside her.