Sinner's Creed (Sinner's Creed #1)(9)

3


SOMETHING IS TOUCHING me. I feel a hand stroking my two-day beard, a leg entwined with mine, and a soft, warm chest pressed up against my own. I open my eyes to find the light on and Saylor looking at me while her fingers stroke my face. She is more gorgeous in the morning than she is at night.

“I’ve been laying here waiting for you to open your eyes so I could stare at them.” Her voice is strong, like she has been up for hours, and I wonder how long she has been watching me. I don’t ask her, I just let her stroke my face, and try to ignore how good it feels to have her touching me.

“Your eyes are beautiful,” she whispers, and I make a point not to blink so I don’t f*ck up her joy. “Hazel. It’s such a mysterious color. I think if I studied them long enough, I could find every color of the rainbow in them.” I doubted what she said, but if she thought she could, then I would let her test her theory all day.

“Are you leaving soon?” Her question reminds me of what I was dreading before I finally fell asleep last night. I know I have to leave and part of me can’t f*cking wait to get on my bike so I can process all this shit, but the other part wants to stay right here forever.

“Yes.” I watch the sadness form in her eyes and that ache in my chest is back, and I have the feeling that it has nothing to do with heartburn.

“Where are you going?” I couldn’t answer that. I should tell her it’s none of her business, but I won’t.

“West.” My short answer appeases her and she doesn’t push further. I’m glad she doesn’t ask, but I wonder if her lack of interest is because she doesn’t care to know or if she is scared to push me.

“I don’t want you to leave.” I don’t want to leave. I want to stay here. With her. But I can’t. This is my life as a Nomad and as much as I like her, I could never mentally handle being in one place for too long. Riding is my therapy and without it I would go to the deepest, darkest depths of hell where everyone is my enemy and life has no meaning.

I can’t lay here with her any longer. I have to leave. I have to ride. I can’t get soft. Nobody can do my job and have these feelings. I don’t want to think of her when I do the shit I do. She is too precious to be surrounded with the violence and world of shit I face every day.

“I have to go,” I say, moving over her and grabbing my bag. Once behind the curtain, I let the anger I feel rising consume me. I was stupid. So f*cking stupid. I let her too close. I needed her to piss me off so I could hate her. She was a mistake. I never should have touched her, or tasted her, or let her say my f*cking name.

I step in the shower and start scrubbing her scent from my body. I don’t want to smell her. I don’t need a reminder. I know she will still be here when I get out, but I’ll force myself to avoid her. If I can just get away from her I will never come back to Jackson again. I will get Nationals to assign someone else for this part of the country.

I punch the cinder blocks in front of me, letting the pain in my hand numb the pain in my chest at the thought of forgetting her. I’ll stop before I break any bones, but I want the blood on my knuckles to be a reminder that the hands that touched her were the hands of a killer not worthy of her.

“Dirk?” Fuck. So much for avoiding her. She just got her first taste of the f*cked-up monster that I am. And it will be her last.

I hang my head in defeat and keep my fist pressed into the concrete, twisting it so the gravel digs deep into my opened wound. I need to hurt. I deserve it, but I don’t feel anything. I tense when her soft hand touches my back, but she doesn’t let it stop her from running her hands over me. There is soap in them, and I can feel her washing me with the gentleness that a mother uses to bathe a newborn baby.

She is too good for me. I should pull away, but I can’t. I want her to touch me. Something inside me screams need, but this time it’s me who requires it. Demands it. Must have it to breathe.

I feel her trying to turn my body toward her, and motherf*ck me if I don’t turn to face her. That wild hair sticks in every direction around her head and shoulders and halfway down her back. It makes her body look tiny in comparison. It’s the first time I’ve seen her naked. And I’m not disappointed. Her tits are perfect—small, perky, round, and a few shades lighter than her stomach. Her nipples are a dark pink, hard and begging to be in my mouth. Her stomach is flat, but not toned to perfection. Natural and curvy, just like her tits. Only the top part of her * is bared to me and it’s pale in comparison to her thighs.

“Hey,” she says, her voice apologetic. I look at her face that is flushed red with embarrassment. At what, I don’t know. She avoids my stare and fidgets before muttering, “I’m sorry.” I feel a growl crawl up my throat and I want to roar.

“You are not f*cking sorry,” I snarl. My breathing is heavy and deep and it takes everything inside me not to rip the whole room to shreds. This time I see the fear in her eyes. Good. I never want to hear her say those words again. But, just like everything else about her, those words are now embedded in my head.

We are trained in the MC never to say we are sorry. We apologize. Sorry emphasizes how bad or stupid something is. She is not stupid. Or bad. Or embarrassing.

I should tell her I’m poisonous. I should say that I’ll ruin her if she stays around me. But I don’t. Because this is over. “Get dressed.” Those are the only words she needs to hear.