Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(87)

He shook his head. “I started having a few shots before bed. Sometimes it helps with the nightmares. But lately I’ve been starting earlier.” He pointed at me. “I’m not drunk.”

He was. He smelled like bourbon. “Nightmares?”

“They can be bad,” he said. “I dream about him. About Marcel.” He lurched off the futon. “He does things to me.”

I got up after him, steadying him. “He’s dead, Griffin. We killed him. He can’t hurt you.”

Griffin laughed bitterly. “He’s not dead. Not in here.” He tapped his temple. “That’s where he wanted to be, doll. And that’s where he f*cking is. I could kill him over and over and over again, and he’d still own me.” He pushed away from me.

I put a hand to my mouth. “Oh, baby, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.” I sank down on the futon.

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I...”

He looked at me. He started to take a step towards me, but he stumbled and fell in front of me. He laughed again. “Fuck. Maybe I’m a little drunk.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore, doll.”

I studied my hands, feeling ashamed.

He touched my finger. “You’re still wearing the ring.”

I met his gaze with my own. “I never took it off.”

“Doll...”

I touched his face. “Oh, God, Griffin, we’re really f*cked up, aren’t we?”

He pushed himself up onto his knees. He leaned in close. His lips met mine.

I opened my mouth to him. He tasted like a bar, but his tongue was vital and skilled and familiar, and I felt myself melting. He was my Griffin, and I loved him.

He tugged me off the futon, and my limbs got tangled with his on the floor.

I put my hands inside his shirt, felt him hot and firm and a little sweaty under the thin cotton.

He pulled the shirt over his head, giving me free access. My hands found the places his muscles fit together. I placed my palm over his ripples and dips and swells. I ran my fingers over his shoulders, his chest, his biceps.

His eyes were closed. “You make me feel strong.”

“You are strong.”

“I’m not.” He kissed me, but then he pulled back, concerned. “Do I make you feel weak, doll?”

“No,” I said. “Safe, sometimes. Protected. But never weak.”

“Oh,” he mumbled. “That’s good.” And he put his mouth on my neck. My earlobe. My jaw.

He made me gasp and sigh.

“You did protect me, you know,” I said. “From Marcel. You turned yourself over to him so that he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I couldn’t let him hurt you,” he said. “I wouldn’t let him have you.”

“Thank you.” I kissed his chest. I kissed his chin. “Thank you.”

He made a small, soft noise. “Can we take off your shirt too?”

I giggled. “I guess I could handle that.”

“Only if you’re sure.” He was looking into my eyes. He was very serious. “I never want you to feel—”

“I never have.” I looked back into his eyes. I wanted him to understand that. No part of me blamed him. And without breaking our gaze, I slowly tugged my shirt over my head.

He let out an appreciative breath. He broke the stare first. His gaze flicked down over my bare skin and then back to my face. “You’re so beautiful.”

I unsnapped my bra.

He pulled it away from my body. “So, so beautiful.” His hands found my breasts, fingers teasing my nipples.

I shut my eyes. I let the sensation take me. It felt good. I hadn’t felt good in a long time.

“Why are you hurting yourself?”

I was confused. He was still touching me, his hands expertly making my nipples tighten and harden. Hurt myself? What?

“The knives, doll. Why are you doing that?”

“We...” I gasped. “We tortured a man for pleasure. I killed my own father. I can’t stop thinking about it.”

His hands went still, but he was still cupping my breasts. “You’re cutting yourself over him? Marcel? That bastard?”

“No. Over me. I can’t live with myself.”

He was quiet. Thoughtful. And then he lowered his face to my chest, and he put one of my nipples in his mouth and sucked.

And the world blanked out, because it felt so blissful that I couldn’t think.

He stayed there for a while, his lips and tongue darting from one nipple to the other, and I wriggled under him, moaning out half-words of delight.

When he stopped, he put my hand on his crotch, and I could feel how hard he was through his jeans. His voice was husky. “I want to be inside you.”

“I want that too,” I whispered.

We made love with our faces inches apart and our eyes wide open. I could feel every movement he made inside me, every gasp, every breath. It was desperate and intense. We were swirled up in a whirlwind of tantalizing pleasure. We were joined. Connected. Together.

I made love to Griffin, and I was part of him. He was part of me. We were something beautiful and exquisite together. We were touching the stars. Whatever we’d had to do to be together, it was worth it.