Page 17 of Dirty Game (Broken Blood #1)

CHAPTER NINE

Rosalynn

Three days at the safe house, and I'm losing my fucking mind.

Not from fear, though I should be terrified that the Corsinis have a fifty-thousand-dollar bounty on my head.

Not from isolation, though the safe house is an hour from the city, surrounded by woods that seem to swallow sound.

I'm losing my mind from how much I want him.

Three days of Varrick being constantly present but never touching me.

Three days of him watching me with dark eyes that promise everything, but deliver nothing.

Three days of lying in a bed down the hall from his, knowing he's so close but feeling like he's on another planet.

The first day, we tried to be normal.

He worked on his laptop while I went through financial reports, both of us pretending the air wasn't as thick as ever.

But when I reached for a pen and our fingers brushed, he jerked back like I'd burned him and left the room.

He didn't come back for two hours.

The second day was worse.

I found him in the kitchen at dawn, shirtless, making coffee.

The morning light painted his scars silver and gold, and when he turned and saw me in nothing but his shirt, he gripped the counter so hard I thought it might crack.

"You should go change," he said, voice rough.

"Why?"

"Because if you don't, I'm going to do something we'll both regret."

"What if I don't want you to regret it?"

He was across the room and out the door before I finished the sentence, leaving me alone with the cooling coffee and the ache between my thighs that had become my constant companion.

Now it's the third day, and my body has become a stranger to me.

Every nerve ending feels exposed.

My skin feels too tight, like I might split apart at the seams.

My breasts ache, nipples hardening at nothing—the brush of fabric, a cool breeze, the mere thought of his hands.

Between my legs, there's a constant pulse, a neediness that grows worse every time I see him.

This morning, I watched him doing pull-ups in the makeshift gym, muscles rippling under his scarred skin, counting under his breath in that controlled way of his.

A bead of sweat tracked down his spine, following the valley of muscle, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

When he dropped from the bar and caught me staring, his eyes went dark, dangerous.

"Rosalynn." My name was a warning.

"I'm just watching."

"You're playing with fire."

"Maybe I want to burn."

He'd stalked past me, close enough that I could smell him—sweat and soap and something uniquely Varrick—but careful not to touch.

I heard his shower turn on moments later, heard him curse through the wall, and wondered if he was doing what I'd done every night for three days—trying to ease the ache alone, his hand a poor substitute for what we both wanted.

Sexual frustration, I realize, sitting on the back porch with my coffee growing cold.

That's what this is.

But understanding the term and understanding what to do about it are different things.

Maria finds me there, staring at nothing, my whole body wound tight as a spring.

"You look ready to crawl out of your skin," she observes, settling beside me with her own coffee.

"I don't know what's wrong with me."

She laughs, but not unkindly. "Girl, I could feel the tension between you two from the kitchen. That man's been watching you like a starving wolf for three days, and you've been watching him right back."

Heat floods my face. "I don't... I've never... I don't understand what I'm feeling."

"Desire," she says simply. "Want. Need. Your body knows what it wants even if your mind hasn't caught up."

"But what do I do about it?" The question comes out desperate. "I feel like I'm burning from the inside. Like, my skin is too sensitive. Like if he doesn't touch me soon, I might actually die."

Maria studies me for a long moment. "You've never been with a man."

It's not a question, but I nod anyway.

"And from what I've gathered about your family..." She doesn't finish, but she doesn't need to.

She's seen the scars. She knows enough.

"I don't understand how it works," I admit quietly. "The wanting. The... mechanics. My family made it seem like something that happens to you, not something you choose. Something violent and painful that women endure."

"Oh, child." Her voice is soft with sympathy. "That's not how it should be. Not how it is when it's right." She sets down her coffee, turns to face me fully. "When a man cares for you— really cares—it's not about taking. It's about giving. Both of you, giving to each other."

"But how? How do I know what to give? What to do?"

She considers her words carefully. "Your body tells him what feels good.

The sounds you make, the way you move, the way you respond to his touch.

And his body tells you the same. You learn each other, like a dance.

And when it's someone who sees you, who values you, who wants your pleasure as much as their own.

.." She smiles. "It's like nothing else in the world.

It's like flying and drowning at the same time, but in the best way. "

"Does it hurt?" The question escapes before I can stop it. "The first time?"

"The first time can, for women. But with the right man, one who's patient, who prepares you properly, who makes sure you're ready..." She gives me a knowing look. "Mr. Bane strikes me as a man who would be very thorough in his preparations."

The image her words conjure—Varrick being thorough with me—makes heat pool between my thighs, makes me shift in my seat.

"How do I... how do I tell him I want...?"

"You use your words," Maria says simply. "Men aren't mind readers, no matter how much they like to think they are. If you want something, you ask for it. If you’re ready for something, you say so. And if something doesn't feel good, you say that too. Communication is everything in the bedroom."

"But what if I don't know what I want? What if I don't know what to ask for?"

"Then you ask him to show you. To teach you." She stands, pats my shoulder. "That man's in his study, drowning in reports and whiskey, probably driving himself crazy with the same thing you're feeling. Maybe it's time someone did something about it."

She leaves me on the porch, her words echoing in my mind.

The sun sets, painting the sky in vibrant shades—red bleeding into purple, purple into black.

I spend an hour in the shower, the hot water doing nothing to ease the ache in my body.

I wash my hair twice, shave everything, scrub my skin until it's pink and sensitive.

Then I stand naked in front of the mirror, studying this body that feels so foreign to me now.

The bruises from my family have faded to yellow-green shadows—Marco's handprint on my upper arm barely visible, Uncle Enzo's grip marks on my shoulders almost gone.

The cigarette burns on my wrist are just scars now, five perfect silver circles that will never fully disappear.

My ribs show the coordinates of my mother's grave in black ink, the only act of rebellion I ever managed.

This body has been currency, payment, property.

But tonight, I want it to be mine. Mine to give. Mine to share. Mine to choose what happens to it.

I put on one of his shirts—the black one that smells like him, that falls to mid-thigh.

Nothing underneath. No underwear, no bra, nothing between my skin and the soft cotton that carries his scent.

My hands shake as I button it, leaving the top three undone so the collar falls open, showing my collarbone, the top of my chest.

The walk to his study feels like miles.

Each step is a choice, a declaration.

The wooden floor is cold under my bare feet, and I can feel cool air kissing my skin through the shirt.

My nipples harden, visible through the thin fabric, and I don't try to hide them.

I'm choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing to learn what my body has been trying to tell me for days.

He's at his desk when I enter without knocking, surrounded by papers, a glass of whiskey at his elbow.

He looks up, and I watch his eyes track over me—taking in his shirt, my bare legs, the way the lamplight makes the fabric almost transparent.

His knuckles go white where he's gripping his pen.

"Rosalynn." My name is a warning, but also a plea.

"I want you to teach me."

The pen in his hand snaps. "Teach you what?"

I move closer, my bare feet silent on the thick carpet.

Each step makes the shirt shift against my sensitive skin, and I have to suppress a shiver. "How to be yours. Completely."

The glass in his other hand creaks.

He sets it down carefully, like it might explode. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Then show me."

"Rosalynn—"

"Three days," I interrupt, stopping at the edge of his desk.

"Three days of you looking at me like you want to devour me but running every time we’re close.

Three days of my body aching for something I don't understand, feeling empty in a way I've never felt before.

Three days of wanting you to touch me and not knowing how to ask. "

I place my hands on his desk, lean forward slightly.

The shirt gaps open, and his eyes drop to the exposed skin before jerking back to my face.

"I'm asking now. Teach me. Show me. Please. "

He stands slowly, comes around the desk with the controlled grace of a predator.

This close, I can see the war in his eyes—desire battling with restraint, need fighting with his own conscience.

"If we do this, there's no going back. You'll be mine in every way. Not because of your uncle's debt. Not because I bought you. Because you're choosing it. Do you understand?"

"I already am yours. I have been since you broke Paulie's wrist for touching me. Maybe before that. Maybe from the moment you kissed me so gently I thought I'd imagined it." I meet his eyes, let him see the truth there. "I just want my body to belong to you the way my heart already does."

Something breaks in his expression—all his control cracking like ice in spring. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."