Page 430 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Gio

"When I say I want you, I am more serious than I have ever been before. I won’t pretend to know how you’re going to react to this, or if you’ll every truly forgive me, but I have to tell you, I’ve lived the last few months without you, and it’s been the worst experience of my life.

More traumatic than watching my friends die on the front.

More agonizing than leaving the NHL. More heartbreaking than losing Grams. You’re what’s most important to me. ”

He peers between my eyes.

“I never want to wake up without seeing you next to me. I never want to be in a position where you’re not in my life by my side.

Where I can’t see you every day, where I can’t hold you and touch you and kiss you and take care of you.

My life is empty without you. Nothing I do can make up for what I did to you.

Nothing can erase the pain and the anguish I caused you, and maybe—” He swallows.

“Maybe you’ll never forgive me. If that’s the case…

" For the first time since I’ve known him, an uncertain look comes into his eyes.

"I know it’s what I deserve. But if that’s the case, I am going to spend the rest of my life, and if there's an afterlife, making it up to you. I’m going to wait weeks, months, years, until the end of time, until you do. "

My heart thrums, and my pulse oscillates. Heat flushes my face, but I push all that aside. I look away, then back at him. "And if I still don’t?" I hold his gaze. "What then?"

He swallows, and a shadow creeps into his eyes. He turns his big hand palm up, so he’s cradling mine. "I’ll never stop trying, Goldie. There’ll never be a moment when I’m not making it up to you in every way possible."

A knocking builds between my eyes.

"The world around us can collapse, temperatures can shoot up, all the ice can melt so we end up playing hockey on dry land, and I’ll still be trying to make it up to you."

The pressure at my temples rockets up. My eyelids feel like I’m trying to hold in a dam, so I look up so gravity will force them back down. I sniffle. I will not cry. Will not.

I try to pull away, and to my surprise, he lets me.

Which, in itself, makes me pause. This man…

He’s different from the one I left behind three months ago.

He’s more open. He seems to be trying. Unlike the last time, his words are more heartfelt.

But is that all they are? Just words? "So you ask me to forgive you, and I should?

You say, 'I love you,' and I should believe you? "

His shoulders deflate. His chest rises and falls.

"Before I met you, I felt no fear. I was angry when my parents died in a car crash.

I was enraged when Diana took her own life.

Upset enough to spoil my chances in the NHL.

I was so filled with fury, it propelled me all the way to joining the Royal Marines.

I faced down every physical trial thrown my way, looked the enemy in the eye, dodged bullets, killed men—all without fear.

I took on the challenge of captaining the Ice Kings, jumped back on the ice, crashed with rival teams, men younger than me, fitter, faster, and I still, knew no fear.

"Even when Grams died, all I felt was a lack of feeling, an awakening to the reality that life is not infinite, but facing you now, knowing I might never be able to win you back…knowing all of my happiness rests on being with you…knowing if I can’t convince you to look past what I did and give me another chance…

then"—a muscle jerks at his jawline—"then all I feel is fear. For the first time in my life, I’m afraid. For the first time, I can’t see a way forward, can’t see through the darkness… For you are my light."

"Stop." I slap the wet cloth, now stained with his blood, on the island. "You don’t get to make these fancy declarations of love, which feel so heartfelt that I know they’re genuine, and expect me to take you back into my life. How can I, when I don’t know if the next moment you’ll decide you don’t want me anymore? "

He jerks as if I’ve physically slapped him. And when I dare to look at him, his expression is one of anguish. "Goldie, I am so sorry, baby." The tendons of his throat stand out in relief. "I know I haven’t come through for you in the past."

"Well"—I manage a small smile—"to be fair, you were there both times my jerk of an ex tried to get stupid with me."

"I’ll always be there for you, Goldie." He looks between my eyes. "And I’m going to prove it to you, I—" He winces. The color fades from his face.

"What’s wrong?" I scan his features and notice the pain that clings to the edges of his eyes. "Are you hurt?"

"It’s nothing." He sets his jaw.

For the first time, I take a closer look and realize he’s holding himself stiffly. Also, there’s a growing patch of blood at the side of his sweatshirt.

"You’re hurt," I exclaim.

"I’ll heal."

"Take it off." I gesture to his clothes.

"I’ve been dreaming of you saying those words." He begins to smirk, but it comes out as a groan.

"Okay, that’s it, you need to get out of what you’re wearing so I can see the damage.”

"It doesn’t hurt at all.” He sets his jaw.

I roll my eyes. “Can you stop being so stubborn and let me clean your wound."

He tucks his elbow into his hurt side and stifles another groan. "I’m fine."

"You. Are. Not. Fine." I tug on the sleeve of his sweatshirt, and he hisses in pain. I glower at him. "Take it off, right now."

He stares at me, then a small smile curves his lips. "Bossy, huh?"

"You have no idea. Also, stop trying to charm me with your smile."

"You think my smile is charming?" he asks with interest.

I huff. "Hasn’t your ego been stroked enough already?"

"Other parts of me haven’t been stroked in a long time, unless you count my hand, but I don't." His mouth curls.

"Okay, I’ve had enough of this." I grab the neckline of his sweatshirt, but he curls his fingers around my wrist.

"You don’t want to do that."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you don’t want me to take off my shirt."

"Umm, I do. I need to clean your wounds and stop more blood from flowing."

"You sure?" He looks between my eyes.

I frown. "O-k-a-y, this is getting weird, but since you ask, yes, I’m sure."

"Okay." He slowly raises his arms, wincing as he does.

"Okay." I manage to tug his sweatshirt off. He flinches.

I drop it on the counter, then pull off the thin T-shirt he’s wearing underneath.

“You need to take off your jeans.”

“Eh?’

“Your jeans.” I gesture to where blood stains the fabric over his left thigh.

“You sure about this?”

I roll my eyes. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, remember?”

His cheeks flush. “I think it’s better I keep them on.”

I stare at him. “Okay, this is really weird. And now I’m curious. Also I can’t tend to your wounds unless you undress.”

He searches my features, then gives a resigned nod. “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He unfolds his length, grimaces, then toes off his boots, before lowering his zipper and shoving down his jeans. He kicks them aside—keeping his boxers on—then straightens.

My breath catches. I’ve dreamed of this man on me, inside me, all over me but the impact of his almost naked body is a force that slams into my chest and sends my pulse-rate shooting.

Focus. Focus. You’re not here to gawk at him; you’re here to take care of his wounds, remember?

I square my shoulders, take in the massive expanse of his chest, and the blood that dots the cut in his side.

I’d be lying if I said I don’t ogle those cut abs, the smattering of hair between his pecs, the ridges of his eight pack, which are more defined than when I last saw them, the moon-shaped tattoos he must have recently added on his shoulders and at various points across his torso.

I jerk my chin toward the markings. "What’s that?"