Had Van whipped his other captors? Surely, they hadn't felt the same profound intoxication? Had he fucked them, too? Her neck stiffened, and her chest ached with an irrationally selfish emotion. They had been sex slaves, normal people forced into a horrible situation, where she was...she was just sick.
The mattress jostled with his movements behind her. He kept the light on as he shifted toward her back. When he touched her, it was with cool, wet fingers. Whatever he was rubbing into the welts was tingly, soothing, and there was way too much care in those gentle strokes.
It hurt to swallow, her throat raw from screaming, so she closed her eyes, relaxing into his touch. Her head grew heavy on the pillow, the aftershocks of the last panic attack still trembling through her veins. Too soon, his fingers disappeared. But he replaced them with his body heat as he tugged the covers up and tucked them in.
Two years of shutting off the lights and closing the shades, and she hadn't been able to conquer the fear. Maybe it needed to be whipped out of her. Inside the house. No doubt he would do it again. She should just wrap her arms around it and embrace it.
With the same illogical impulse that had propelled her to kiss him in the kitchen, she rolled to face him, first to her belly then to her side. When she met a broad hairless chest, her heart stuttered. Had he removed his pants as well? The wall of muscle an inch from her nose tempted her to follow the dusting of hair below his abs and find out.
His arm slipped around her, and his thumb glided lazily over her nape. He smelled of earth and warmth and virility. His pecs twitched and rippled beneath golden skin, each brawny brick of his torso chiseled in a uniform sculpture of strength. Jesus, the man's body didn't know when to quit.
Apparently, hers didn't either, given the sudden throb of heat between her legs. She clenched her inner muscles and shivered. His unlawful beauty and sneaky moments of tenderness both scared and captivated her, but more than that, he compelled her.
She wedged a hand between his bicep and ribs, snaking it around his back and inching closer, so close there was no question about his state of dress.
The short hairs on his thighs tickled as his strong legs intertwined with hers. His cock, soft and thick, laid against her hip. She shivered again and knew he'd felt it when he released a soft hum.
She pressed her lips to his hard chest and savored the catch in his breath. His skin tasted salty, his raw outdoorsy scent chasing the spice of his cologne. He was quiet, perhaps thoughtful, as he snuggled against her, seemingly content with her affection, neither dismissing it nor demanding more. Laid-back, unassuming Van was irresistible.
She wriggled upward along his body, kissing his sternum, the side of his neck, and lingered on the dime-sized scar on his shoulder. A bullet wound? Had one of the slaves or the buyers shot him? Or were there other fragments of his criminal life she knew nothing about? “How did you get this?”
“Not tonight, sweetheart.” The tired rumble of his voice settled over her, and the caress of his thumb moved from her neck, down her spine, pausing mid-way. To avoid the welts?
Leaning back, she peered up into his eyes and found the silvery depths tinged with lazy fatigue. She loved that look on him, but it couldn’t be trusted. “My back doesn't hurt.”
“It will tomorrow, brat. You need to drink water.” He reached behind him and grabbed a plastic cup from the nightstand, knocking random clutter to the floor. He didn't bother picking it up. He simply rolled back and held out the cup with a raised brow.
God, what must the floor look like? Clothing and crap scattered with no order and configuration? “The mess—”
“The mess is mine. Drink.”
She gritted her teeth. “Last time you told me to drink—”
“I won't drug you, because I'm not taking you anywhere.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You're exactly where I want you.”
Her heart thumped, the foolish, gullible thing. She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“Because I like you.”
She expected a charming grin, but what he gave her was an expression etched with honesty.
“Jesus, you look so beautiful right now.” His timbre was rough, throaty.
Her mouth fell open. She was a fucking mess. Mental issues aside, she didn't wear a stitch of makeup, and her hair tangled around her neck and shoulders from rolling in the grass. She wanted to point this out, but he regarded her with such intense focus, it was easier to drop the subject. She glanced at the waiting cup.
How long had it been sitting on the table, amongst watches and hangers and discarded candy wrappers? Was there dust and bacteria in it? She wrinkled her nose. “How fresh is that?”
His eyes hardened into steel blades. “Too damned tired for this, Amber. Don't test me.”
Just like that, his command was back, a reminder of his volatile nature. She accepted the cup, draining the lukewarm water, her throat tightening in pain and revulsion with each swallow. He took it from her, tossing it somewhere on the floor. With all the other mounting debris. Where there were no lines, no structure, no routine.