Page 34 of Bought

Finally, I can throw my arm over my eyes and try to block him out.

I am completely overwhelmed. By him. By how much I want him.

And how much I don’t want to betray him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Lucian

I drape the blanket around her shoulders and pull it snug. My fingers linger at the nape of her neck. She’s trembling, not just from what I’ve done to her, but from what I’ve made her admit.

I feel her chest rise against mine as I press the glass of water to her lips. She obeys, swallowing until it’s empty. I set it back down on the nightstand.

Good girl.

I should leave it at that—discipline delivered, lesson learned, appetite satisfied. But I can’t. Not when she looks at me like this. Not when she’s still curled into my side, trusting me with her weight.

Her gaze drifts lower, down the open collar of my shirt to the twisted marks that stretch over my chest. The ones she politely ignored the first night we were together. When we took turns taking off our clothes.

My body stiffens before her fingers even move, but then she does it.

She brushes her hand over the ridged line of scar tissue.

I don’t pull away.

“What happened?” she whispers.

My jaw locks. The memory snaps like a whip. Shouts, smoke, screaming orders, I can’t give fast enough. The weight of bodies I pulled from the floor.

Blood I’ll never wash from my hands.

The scars are survivor’s guilt, stitched into my skin.

“Nothing worth talking about,” I growl, harsher than I intend. She flinches, but she doesn’t pull back. I drag my hand down her thigh and hold. “Sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“You want to know me?” I ask. “Let’s start with dinner.”

Not this.

“Dinner? Like a date?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I rise, hauling her up with me. “Come.”

We put ourselves back together, I wrap her up in her coat and I’m driving my car, stunned by how good it feels to have her in the passenger seat as we ride through the city.

My hand is on the gearshift, but I want it back on her thigh.

I valet the car, unsure if I should hold her hand as we walk into Valentine’s. It feels too intimate somehow, even after having my tongue between her thighs.

I opt for sliding my arm around her lower back.

I want it clear to every man with eyes that she’s with me.

We skip the line, and the hostess greets me by first name before leading us to a dark corner, a private table for two. She slips into the chair across from me, the coat wrapped around her shoulders, like she’s wearing my last name.

Fuck. Where did that come from?