“I got tired of floating, and going back to Oregon just wasn’t for me.” My arm is settled against his stomach, and the feel of my bare skin against his is intoxicating. And, seriously . . . I think it’d be impossible for any guy to be turned on right now, but it looks like he could be, or else he must just have an impressive— “Are you almost done with the outline?”
“Just about,” I say, too breathless, flushing as if I just got caught. “Why? You need a break already?” That Sebastian hasn’t asked to stretch or take a moment to pee up until now may be a new record for my clients.
“Keep going.”
SIXTEEN
SEBASTIAN
HOUR FIVE
She’s switched positions to fill in the bottom part of the design, her ass cheek perched on the table and her thigh pressed against my back as she faces my lower half. It’s the perfect angle for her to size up my junk, and she thinks I don’t know she’s doing it.
The mirror across from me, which gives me a good angle of her face, doesn’t lie.
“How’re you doing?” she murmurs.
“I’m good.”
“Seriously, you’re the most unaffected person I’ve ever worked on.”
“I have a high pain threshold.” “Unaffected” is probably not the right word for what I feel, with her draped over my body. Luckily I don’t enjoy pain, so getting a hard-on right now is just about impossible.
“Are you sure you’re not just a cyborg?” she jokes. I love her humor, and the way she delivers it—deadpan.
“Are you saying I don’t have feelings? That hurts.” This pain is laughable compared to the bullet in my thigh.
“Or maybe you’re just playing tough and trying to impress me, Army Boy.”
“Navy Boy, if you want to get specific. Those army guys are wimps.” It’s the first shred of real information I’ve offered her about my past life and I shouldn’t have done it. This room, this chair, spending hours motionless, completely at her mercy . . . I haven’t spent this much time with one person in years. It’s messing with my head.
“Did you serve overseas?” she asks quietly, as if she knows she’s treading in unwelcome territory.
“Two tours in Afghanistan.”
She slides off the table. “Roll back this way. It’s easier for me to fill this with you lying on your back.” Her hand guides me and then slides onto my hip, pushing the elastic band of my briefs down and holding it there. The needle digs into my sensitive flesh. “Did you have to kill anyone?” she asks, and the question sounds so jarring, even though I knew it was coming.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Too many.” I close my eyes, like I still have to sometimes when I let myself really consider that question. It’s easier now that I’m out, when Bentley hands me a specific target and gives me an order. I know it’s a verdict that isn’t being reached lightly because Bentley doesn’t treat casualties carelessly. Back when I was a SEAL and trudging through enemy territory with my team, guns trained, and adrenaline propelling my limbs forward, I never knew exactly where the danger would come from, and in what form. We were forced to make split-second decisions or risk death all the time. Self-preservation is a powerful and sometimes blinding need.
It was so easy to make a mistake.
“Why did you choose the reaper?”
The harbinger of death.
“Why do you think I chose it?”
SEVENTEEN
IVY
I’d like to think that all people put great weight into the designs they mark their bodies with. That they choose something symbolic, that represents their passions, their personality, their struggles. I think Sebastian reached deep within himself when deciding on this design. Given the brief glimpse into his past that he just allowed me, I’m beginning to wonder exactly how dark it is in there.
The second the question left my lips, the tension in his body rippled beneath my fingertips. I hit a nerve. That’s never my goal, and it’s why I’ve always stuck to small talk and ambiguous yes and no answers when conversation gets too personal.
I pause for a second to wipe the ink away. There’s no way to answer his question without making it sound like I think he’s fucked-up.