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He tucks his sheets around me while I feel like the plug has been pulled on my body. It usually takes me hours to fully recover.
He stands by the edge of the bed, visibly concerned. “Do you need anything?”
“Water, please.”
“Be right back.”
He turns to go downstairs in his black boxer briefs and socks, and it’s the first time I see the ink across his broad, tapered back. It’s the melting face of a horned devil, dying with a knife through its skull, faces in anguish in its shadow.
It’s his father. Axel’s turned his back onhim.
But flexing, snarling lions prowl up Axel’s right leg, like an army, protecting him. But his left is bare. Why?
His body, muscles, and ink tell a story to fear.
But his feet?
They’re heartbreaking.
He wears simple, black, half-calf socks, hiding what must be the most horrific scars. On his skin. In his heart.
Who would do that to a child?Theirchild?
It douses all the hate in my heart. Though, I admit … I never hated Axel. I just never really saw him until now. And what he lets me see? What he shares with me? That he wet the bed?
I was right; he’s beautiful.
When he returns, I have enough strength to sit up and sip the water he offers before he sets the glass on the nightstand.
But I can’t help it. I let my eyes roam over his hulking, tatted body, and he grins. “See something you like?”
“Nope,” I quip softly, “I’m blinded by annoyance.”
“I get it. Iamannoying with how hot I am.” He lifts the sheets, making me chuckle, touched by how he crawls in beside me. “And let me add to the record: your sexy race car pajamas are annoying as fuck.”
I fall back on his pillow, sighing, “I love NASCAR.”
Resting his head in his hand, he props on his elbow beside me, making his bicep pop and my heart race. He gazes down at me, looking way too sexy and sweet. “You, loving dozens of men, racing fast? Shocker.”
“Fuck you.” I laugh. “I don’t want themen. I want the car. I want to drive around a race track as fast as I can.”
“Then do it.” He grins. “NASCAR has no high-noon shootouts, so it’s gender equal.”
“Cute.” God, I want to kiss him again. “But it’s not about gender. I can’t drive a race car ormycar now that I’ve had another seizure.”
“How long since your last one?”
“Over two years. Almost three. So, after a year without one, my doctor permitted me to drive. But now, I guess?—”
“I’m so sorry, Ruby.” Regret brims in his eyes. “It was my fault and?—”
“Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not that powerful.” He is, but in the best way. “It’s not your fault. I pushed myself emotionally, and I should’ve known better. It’s a long story I don’t want to tell tonight.” I poke his lips. “Just keep making me laugh. It helps.”
“How?”
“Humor relieves my stress, so make a woman-driver joke. The timing is perfect.”
“I’m smitten,” he chuckles, “but not stupid. And for a daily blow job under my desk, I promise I won’t tell your doctor about tonight.”