Page 66 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

This time it’s me taking care of what’s mine.

I’m in the middle of the bench-style front seat of a rusted-out exterminator van.

Dimitri’s leg is pressed against the length of mine, and his hand is tucked between my thighs, his thumb stroking circles against my pants as a comfort to both of us.

Eleanor slumps against me on my other side, hugging me around the middle, careful of the area where I told her I was hit.

The ride back is silent, and it feels excruciatingly slow, and when I look over at the speedometer, I can see why—Dimitri is driving exactly the speed limit.

It makes me smile for some reason, despite the strangely tense, somber mood.

I know we won, but I’m too battered and tired and worried to feel only happy about it.

It takes much longer than it should to get back, since Dimitri takes every back road he can. We’re pulling into the driveway of the mansion before it occurs to me to ask, “What do we do about the… um… the bodies?”

“After Mac gets back to check on Eleanor, we’re going to stage it so it aligns with the story we give you for the police,” Wesley says.

“Okay,” I agree, because what else am I going to do? This is so… way over my head. It’s so beyond what I ever care to worry about ever again.

Dimitri helps Eleanor and then me out of the passenger seat, and we head inside. It’s a blur. I’m in a daze, and the next thing I know, Dimitri and I are in the bathroom and he’s gently peeling my sweatshirt over my head.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” I ask, realizing how much blood he’s wearing as I rest my hand on his sticky shoulder when he encourages me to step out of my jeans.

“No,” he replies too quickly.

“I don’t believe you,” I say softly, and I do mean it, but I don’t really have the energy to fight him.

He ignores me to start the shower, then resumes his perusal of my naked body. There’s no heat in his eyes, just an almost clinical concern as he checks me for injuries beyond the ones I already told him about. I have a few cuts and bruises, but I’m otherwise unscathed. Somehow.

“Take off your clothes,” I insist. “Let me make sure you’re okay, too.”

More ignoring. He bends over and retrieves the first-aid kit from one of the bottom drawers in the vanity and sets it on the counter, then takes my hand and ushers me into the shower under the spray.

I wipe the wet hair from my eyes. “Get in here with me. You’re covered in blood.”

I think he’s going to protest, or ignore me again, but he lifts his shirt over his head with a grip on the back of his collar, and lets it fall.

It makes a wet plopping noise on the tile, heavy with viscous fluids.

His pants fall next, and he slides off his boots, so it all comes off in a big pile that he kicks aside, leaving a streak of red against the tile.

When he joins me in the shower, my instinct is to wrap my arms around him, but then I see the outline of a bruise on his ribs. I reach for it, but he catches my wrist. “I am fine, Nicole,” he says.

“I don’t believe you,” I repeat, this time more forcefully. “Let me take care of you, too.”

“You do not need to. Not while you are... not like this.”

He steps into the spray and scrubs roughly at his skin. I suck in a breath, turning a gasp into a sharp inhale through the nose when I see the tiny cuts and more bruising on the pale skin of his back. That broken mirror on the elevator…

When the water runs clear from his efforts, he moves me back under the stream and starts gently soaping me up.

I don’t have nearly as much blood to wash off, but I appreciate the warmth, even if the water stings against the cut on my cheek.

When I wince and gently prod at the swollen area on my cheekbone, he watches the movement with a frown.

“Will it scar?” I ask.

He reaches for my cheek, replacing my fingers with his own. “No,” he says with an unexpected, faint smile around the corners of his mouth.

I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

It might have been nice to have a battle scar—and I’d even kind of match Dimitri, with it on my face—but I know I wouldn’t want to look in the mirror and be reminded of the worst night of my life.

I realize with a start that that must be how Dimitri feels.

It didn’t occur to me that a scar could be more than just marred skin and a ruined self-image.

It’s a memory of whatever he was feeling, of the bone-deep fear and helplessness.

My heart aches.

I reach up and curl my hand as far as it will go around the outside of his.

His thumb stops its gentle path along my cheekbone, and he pulls back, spinning his palm to grab mine and draw my hand towards him.

He presses his lips against the back of my hand, squeezing his eyes closed.

My pulse thumps, spiking at the tender contact.

“Dimitri, talk to me,” I plead.

He nods, as if he’s agreeing to do as I’m asking, but he says nothing.

Instead, he rinses me, reaches around me to turn off the water, and guides me gently from the shower.

I have half a mind to take a stand and refuse to do anything else he wants until he talks to me, but I’m chilly outside of the steam, so I let him tie my big, fluffy robe around my waist .

He roughly towel-dries himself, tosses it on the floor, and takes my hand to lead me back out. Though I get to watch his round ass as he walks towards the couch, I’m almost too distracted to appreciate it.

I’m starting to think he’s still upset with me after yesterday, but when he sits, he pulls me on top of him by the tie of the robe.

With his dick stretched up between us, I straddle his lap, a leg on each side, and settle against his chest. What’s normally an eight-inch height disparity in his favor is turned on its head as he has to tilt his head up to meet my eye.

His fingers curl around my waist, his grip a little too tight to be comfortable, but I don’t care. I place my hands on his shoulders, and we stare into each other’s eyes.

He nods at me again, and it’s a different one this time. I don’t know how I know that, but I do. This one means he’s ready to talk.

“Are you okay?” I whisper.

His fingers tighten around me. “Da.”

“Are you sure? No internal bleeding? Your vision is okay, no unexplained pain anywhere? I’m pretty sure I don’t have a concussion, so I’m fully capable of treating any symptoms you have. I just need you to tell me what hurts.”

He’s silent for a moment, breathing noisily through his nose. “Everything.”

My brows come together in concern. “Dimitri—”

“I hurt everywhere, my med. I nearly lost you. I feel like I cannot breathe.”

“What do you need?”

“I need… to know that you are all right, Nicole,” he says. I gently take his face in my hands, and he closes his eyes, his voice breaking around an unsteady inhale and exhale. “I need to… Fuck, I do not know. My med. I need to hold you, to know you are here with me, that you are staying with me… ”

I swallow, watching him grapple for words. Seeing it breaks my heart. It’s even worse—more alarming—as tears leak out from the corners of his closed eyes. Words in Russian spill from his mouth, too fast and urgent and pained to be filled with anything but horrible emotions.

“You need me to show you,” I realize.

It’s time for me to take care of what’s mine.

Not waiting for him to even stop murmuring what must be apologies, I lean forward and take his mouth, still framed in my grip.

I stroke his lips with my tongue, tangle it with his, hold his jaw tighter when he slides his arms around my back to pull me closer against him.

He moans, and I steal his breath into me.

I feel his cock against my belly, hardening and stretching into the area between us to match my energy.

He unties my robe, and our arms get tangled as I spit in my hand and reach down and rub it across his tip.

I let him take control of aiming his own dick, and lift up as much as I can on my knee to one side.

Then, I sit on him. I take him all the way, all at once, and swallow his groan of satisfaction into my mouth with another kiss.

With as tightly as we’re holding each other, I can’t move very much, but I rock against him, small and unsatisfactory movements that leave him so deeply inside of me that there’s no respite from the twinge of pain of the head of his cock against my cervix.

I don’t care. I want it. Because after experiencing so much intentional brutality tonight, this pain feels almost sweet—it’s not the kind that wants to hurt.

It means he’s in me, with me, feeling me.

“Nicole,” he murmurs.

Nee-cole. I close my eyes and breathe the word. How is it possible to miss something you’ve only gone hours without hearing?

“Dimitri,” I answer the unvoiced question with one of my own.

No, he’s not okay.

No, I’m not okay .

But we will be.

His hands find their way under the flaps of the robe, and he uses a firm grip on my hips to help us find the friction we both need.

I ride him, taking and giving, feeling the sweat building on my skin and my heart racing from exertion.

The raw physicality of it shuts out the outside world and shuts down the internal monologue.

All I am—all I can be—is the way my nerves fire under my skin, the way his hard body feels under my fingertips, and the rasp of his smooth shaft in and out and in and out.

“Tell me,” he demands on a gasp. “Say the words. Tell me you are staying with me.”

“I am. I’m staying. Dimitri, I’m so sorry—”

“No,” he cuts through my apology, slashing it to pieces. “No. Not sorry. I do not care about sorry. Tell me. Tell me what you want. Tell me about this life you want. I will give you anything—everything—just tell me what to do so you will never leave me again.”