Page 78 of Hurt

Deferentially, he bent low and laid a lingering kiss on the inside of her knee. Firm, thin lips pressed their warmth to skin that was erupting in goosebumps. Willow realized she had been holding her breath as she watched such a big man bow low to her.

He was much too strong to be kneeling like this. Looking ridiculous in his crisp suit on the dusty floor.

Catching those bright eyes, she purposefully let her legs fall open. An invitation. A taunt. A challenge. She wanted Roland to rise to the occasion, and he refused to fall behind in flirting techniques.

There was only a moment of hesitation before Roland let his hand slide above the knee he had been lavishing kisses on. Stopping just short of Willow’s short shorts, he let his hand linger on the smooth heat of her inner thigh before he followed.

Their positions were suddenly reversed from when she had leaped into his arms. Willow had a lap full of Roland. His weight pressed her into the bag, and she could hear the plastic beads inside the suede fabric rolling and falling away. Willow pulled him close and stroked the dark hair from his face.

“You’re not okay,” Willow observed.

Roland didn’t confirm or deny. He just stared up at Willow. Chin resting on her sternum, it was a bit of an awkward angle, but neither of them was complaining. Grinning, Willow wrapped her legs around his waist.

“Got you.” In her best announcer voice, she started counting down, “One…two…three…four…”

Whether Roland found it as funny as Willow did, she never found out. Roland buried his face in Willow’s stomach and rested his cheek against the skin there. It was strangely intimate. More so than any of the kisses they had shared or his hand traveling up Willow’s leg. Roland’s eyes were closed, and his cheek rested against the gentle rise and fall of Willow’s respirations.

Idly, she plucked up one of the meaty hands. Thumb running over his rings, she felt the bruised knuckles. They were swollen, and there were dozens of small abrasions and lacerations all over his hand.

Willow frowned. She hated seeing that. Of course, she knew what Roland did. She knew he was a fighter, and his weapon of choice was his hands. But she didn’t want to see him in pain. There was no fear when she looked at those injured hands. Just sadness.

She lifted the hand to her lips and began kissing each mar in the skin. Every cut, bruise, scar, or deformity. Willow gently kissed them all. As if her lips could somehow impart the affection behind them and heal the wounds from the inside.

Roland didn’t say anything, but Willow knew he was still awake. In the tiny apartment, with the box fan in the corner kicking up dust motes, a thug and a stripper kissed each other’s wounds.

With no expectations for anything beyond the comfort of someone who truly saw them for who they were and not what they were, they wasted the afternoon. Hidden from the world, it was as if time had stopped.

Kurt slugged two full garbage bags into the dumpster. Wiping his hands off on his jeans, he walked back toward the bar. There was a back door, but a drunk Sid had ninja kicked it last year, and the hinges had snapped. So, unless Kurt wanted to spend twenty minutes trying to sort through all the rope and tape holding the door in place, it was not a viable option. Now they had to lug garbage out the front, through the parking lot, and to the back where the dumpster was.

Slipping in the dusty gravel, he rounded the corner of the bar only to stop in his tracks.

“A motorcycle?”

Grant smiled shyly. “My guilty pleasure.”

Two long legs were splayed off to the sides of the machine. The motorcycle was light blue with white clouds painted on the sides—far from the usual aesthetic seen on bikes, like most things surrounding Grant, the glossy paint somehow worked.

Grant was relaxed as he straddled the bike. His hands hung limply off the handles, and his almost black hair was plastered against his face from the wind. The suit and tie were gone. Today Grant was wearing a pair of dark wash jeans and a denim jacket open to expose a worn-looking black T-shirt.

He looked different. Not just his clothes, but there was a relaxation on his face. Like Grant wasn’t wearing his usual mask of politeness. Or any mask at all. This wasn’t Grant Weaver. This was Grant. Just him. Nothing pretentious, no titles, and no family.

A few days ago, Kurt had wondered which was the real Grant—the polite mask he showed the world or the one of steely anger that radiated quiet danger. The answer was neither of those. He was both. More complex than he let on, Grant was a man used to hiding his true self away and presenting whatever version the world needed to see.

Kurt never imagined they had so much in common.

The bike’s engine clicked as it cooled, and the men stood there awkwardly. Neither knew what to say, but neither wanted to walk away.

“Want to ride?” Grant asked with a doubtful look on his face. Like he knew the answer before he asked, but he wanted to anyway. Or maybe like he wasn’t sure he should.

Either way, Kurt didn’t like people assuming they knew him.

He turned around and walked to the front door, flipping the closed sign. The look of surprise on Grant’s face as he returned was worth it.

“Can I drive?” Kurt waggled his eyebrows.

Grant threw his head back and laughed. “Hell no.”

Grant scooted up the bike, patting the seat behind him. Kurt rolled his eyes and suddenly felt nervous. A moment ago, he had really wanted to go on a drive with Grant. Not just to prove him wrong, although that might be the reasoning he preferred to hide behind. But he found he truly wanted to spend more time with Grant.