Page 14 of A Trap So Flawless (Titans and Tyrants #4)

Valentina

I don’t get undressed until I see Darragh leave the bathroom.

At first, I think he won’t. I think he’ll stay planted in the middle of the room, staring at me intently through the glass.

But after a tense moment that feels like a soundless stand-off, he turns and walks out. He leaves the bathroom door open.

I step back out of the shower and slam that door, too.

I lock it in protest, a reclaiming of a little bit of my own privacy, even though I know he could knock the door down without even breaking a sweat if he wanted to.

He probably wouldn’t even have to knock it down.

I’d bet my left boob that Darragh Gowan could pick any lock, anywhere.

He doesn’t bother doing it now, though. I don’t hear anything directly on the other side of the door or beyond it, even though I press my ear up against the wood in a vain attempt.

Whatever. I don’t care where he’s gone or what he’s doing. I’m the one who closed this door.

I strip quickly, sighing as the sweaty clothes I’ve been wearing all night fall into a yucky heap.

Swiping some of the shampoo, conditioner, and soap from beneath the sink, I return to the shower and wash every inch of myself.

I stand under the hot water much longer than is necessary.

Every time I stop scrubbing myself, my eyes start pulling vicious tricks on me, showing me streaks of blood where there are none.

When I’m clean enough – enough, because I’m not sure I’ll ever be clean entirely – I leave the shower and wrap myself in a towel.

It’s only then that I realize that I don’t have my bag.

It’s back in the car, parked in the garage.

I have no clothes.

Well, I do have clothes, but the thought of putting the same leggings and sweater I had on before makes me feel like I’m going to throw up again.

My head pounds. My mouth feels gummy and sour.

When was the last time I ate? I didn’t have a single bite of that chicken pot pie. And I haven’t slept enough.

Tying the towel more firmly around my chest so that my arms are free, I take a spare toothbrush, the tube of paste, and brush my teeth as vigorously as I have the energy to.

I doubt I do it for the full two minutes.

My arm feels like it’s been replaced with a limb made of lead.

Plus, my gag reflex has decided that it just doesn’t want to quit.

Every time I swipe the bristles too far back on my tongue, my throat contracts and my stomach flips ominously.

I rinse the toothbrush, then my mouth again, and venture out into the bedroom. It’s so silent in here when I open the door that I think Darragh really must have left. But as my eyes make a cautious sweep of the room, I see him.

He’s stripped down, too, to a pair of tight, silky black boxers. He’s wearing nothing else, the tautly muscled and tattooed expanse of him on full display, which sends a treacherous shock through my exhausted body.

He must be exhausted, too.

Because he’s fast asleep. On his back on the bed, his strong legs are splayed. One hand rests behind his head – a head that’s turned towards the bathroom door. His other arm, his right one, is stretched out across the bed, the tips of his fingers aimed at the door I’ve just come through.

Aimed right at me.

But he’s definitely asleep. I don’t think I’ve ever seen his face so peaceful. It’s almost jarring, how smoothed-out his expression has become. While I can’t say that I truly know the waking Darragh, sleep has turned him into a stranger.

It’s like coming across a hibernating animal. Something massive, something dangerous, something that could kill you with a mere swipe of its claws…

Something beautiful.

My God, he really is gorgeous. The sun has moved around the building, tossing velvety beams of gold over the marvel of Darragh’s body, the hard planes and long limbs, that dark russet hair and the darker lines of his tattoos.

I’m at the side of the bed before I feel my own feet move.

I’ve never seen him quite this exposed. Usually he’s at least got a shirt, or jeans, or something . Even when we had sex, all he did was take off his suit jacket and unzip his pants. The rest of his clothing stayed on.

Tentatively, I reach out, brushing my fingers along a thorny vine of ink that traverses his shoulder.

His deep and even breathing doesn’t stutter, shift, or halt.

So I keep going, stealing a quiet moment with this placid, unknown Darragh.

My fingers eventually find that scattered constellation of nail marks made permanent by ink.

I shift my grip, pressing my fingers and thumb against the tattooed dots.

A perfect fit. I don’t know why that’s surprising. I don’t know why it feels like we shouldn’t fit together this way anymore.

But we do.

Darragh makes a noise in his sleep. A tightness enters his jaw. Is he dreaming? He said that when he was in Halifax, he dreamed of me.

I wonder if sleep makes me a stranger to him, too.

I pull my hand from his forearm, letting my fingertips whisper up his arm once more to his shoulder, then to his chest, feeling the curling bronze hair there.

There are dice inked into his side, along his ribs and waist. One die has a skull drawn on its side.

I trace the fleshless face with the smooth oval tip of my fingernail, still painted a demure ivory-pink for the wedding.

Darragh’s abdomen contracts against my touch, making the hardened outlines of his muscles come into stark, sunlit focus. His hips shift, and despite the water evaporating from my skin, I go achingly hot at the unmistakeable jerk of his flesh beneath the thin black fabric.

I shouldn’t be touching him like this. I can’t be.

He isn’t mine. And I never wanted him to be.

I pull my hand away, but Darragh suddenly rolls, catching my wrist in his grip.

I gasp and feel my cheeks flush, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong.

But I still don’t think he’s really awake.

His eyes remain closed as he pulls me so hard that my towel comes loose and I go tumbling, naked, onto the bed.

I fall heavily, half on top of him, but even that doesn’t wake him up.

He just rolls again, taking me with him, until we’re lying on our sides, front to front.

His left hand is still resting beneath his head, only now my own head is cushioned on his arm.

His other arm is locked around me, his hand a hot, possessive stamp across my lower back.

He groans a little bit, then his hand slides down to my hip.

He grips my thigh and hikes my leg up over his waist, shoving his own thigh between my legs.

Almost every part of me is touching him. My breasts brush his chest, my nipples tingling with every one of his inhales. My bare pussy is plastered against the hard claim of his thigh. The flesh of his cock is hot and swollen against my belly.

He slumbers on. I watch him for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

I keep telling myself that I’ll get up in one more minute.

One more minute, and then I’ll leave. One more minute, and then I’ll go look for another bed to sleep in, picking my way through the house like Goldilocks until I find one that doesn’t have a bear in it.

One more minute.

Just… Just one…