“Seein’ as it was me who did it, I already know that,” he pointed out.
“Well, what you might not know is that I’m not fond of sarcasm or men who are smartasses or, and this one especially, men who smack women’s asses,” she informed him.
He tightened his arms around her again, rolled to his back, taking her with him, and when they were in position, he said to the ceiling, “Fuck. If she keeps yappin’, not gonna be able to break her in easy ’cause I’m gonna have to gag her to shut her up, tie her to bed to control her, and she’s gorgeous with a great body. Seein’ her like that for me is gonna make me wanna play with her ’til she submits and I’m never gonna get any shuteye.”
“If you let me go and stop chatting with the ceiling, I can clean up, come back and you can get some shuteye.”
He let her go instantly but did it with a smile, a smile that came even if he was not at all happy at the same time he felt a warm hit his gut at learning she could make a joke.
She scrambled off him.
It had been happening.
She was hot when they were fucking.
Cute when she was a princess.
He could feel the tug but he could deal with both.
So it had been happening. Her pull. Reeling him in.
But he was keeping his head above water. Barely, with their conversation proving she could exacerbate the princess cute that he liked, make a joke, and throw some effective attitude.
What he couldn’t deal with was what happened next.
And it wasn’t her warning as she slid out of bed and walked toward the bathroom, “By the way, Sebring, so you don’t waste time or effort, I’m never going to submit to you.” Something, if he’d had the ability in that moment to pay closer attention, he would take as the challenge it was.
No, it wasn’t that.
It was her miscalculating her position when she turned on the bathroom lights.
She hadn’t meant for him to see.
But when she turned on the lights, at what he saw, it hit him like a bullet.
It was her that plunged the room into darkness that night when he’d started taking off her clothes.
And it was always her who shifted, writhed, pulled away, repositioned them if he ever got close to getting his eyes on her back.
Or touching her there.
So he knew it was a miscalculation when he caught sight of her when she flipped on the light before she closed the door because she didn’t want him to see.
Fuck, the woman was usually dressed before his dick stopped being hard.
And right then, when he got his eyes on her back, that was when he went under, lungs filling with water, sinking like a dead weight, knowing he’d have to fight to resurface.
Careful of this guy, Turner’s voice from memory suddenly slammed into his head. He does not fuck around when he gets hold of someone. He’s pissed and done with you, before you know it, you got a bullet in your brain. He needs somethin’ from you or he feels like playin’, he likes to burn.
To burn.
To fucking burn.
Nick stared at the door not seeing it.
He also didn’t see Turner in his memory during one of the many briefings he’d had with Nick and Hettie.
He didn’t even see the photos in that file of Shade and Harkin’s handiwork on others.
No.
Nick stared at the door seeing the same thing he saw in those photos but on Olivia.
The pink, melted mess of scars at the small of Olivia’s back and her upper hips.
He likes to burn.
Christ, was that some terrible accident she’d endured?
Or had her father burned her?
They knew nothing about her. No one did. If she didn’t exist out in the open, she’d be Deacon before he’d met his Cassidy.
She’d be a ghost.
But she did exist out in the open. She drove to work. She drove home. She went out shopping. She had her nails done. She took a Pilates class. She went to dinner or lunch with her mother. Also with her sister. She went to the club. She occasionally caught a film, but always by herself. She also didn’t hesitate to go to dinner by herself. Her sister visited her house. She visited her sister’s. He’d seen her with Gill Harkin. Tom Leary. Eli Cook. Other members of her crew.
But never her father.
Nick had been surveilling her on and off for four years and they’d kept tabs on her before, when he was working with Hettie and Turner.
He’d never seen Olivia with her father.
Not once.
He’d also never seen her smile.
Not at lunch with her mother, occasions that she hid (poorly) were obligatory. There was no love between those two. There was nothing between those two.
Not even when she was with her sister, someone it appeared she held some affection for (if not much, or if it was, she wasn’t overt about it).
No smiles.
Definitely no laughs.
Nothing.
Made of stone.
But not made of stone.
She didn’t like smartass men or sarcasm, hugged without her arms, snuggled, was offended he’d think she had an STD, used words like “ill-suited,” was absolutely going to submit to him and get off on it, and she was capable of making a joke about him talking to the ceiling.
And she’d smiled into his throat.
And against his lips.