Page 431 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Gio

"Tattoos…" He says this as if he's goading me to ask more, so I do.

"I can see that. What I don’t understand is what or why.

" I take in how my fingertips fit perfectly in the circular marks on his torso and his shoulders, presumably where I’ve dug my fingernails into him in the throes of passion.

Some are smaller than the others, in the shape of a string of quarter moons.

They look like bite marks. "Are those…" I tip up my chin in their direction. "Are those also mine?"

He nods.

I swallow. "When did you do this?"

"After the last time we made love, I knew I was falling for you. I knew I had to tell you why I married you, and it was not only about Grams or to help you get back at your douche-ex. I knew I was going to break your heart… and mine. I couldn’t see a way out.

I was at war with the need to stay true to the memory of my sister and yet…

and yet"—he curls his fingers into fists at his sides—"I knew you were my future. That what I was feeling for you was something more powerful, more monumental than anything I’d ever felt in my life. More all-consuming than the need for revenge that had engulfed me since Diana’s suicide.

More compelling than the grief that gripped me when my parents died.

More forceful than the disappointment in myself for not making it to the finals of the Cup in the NHL.

"When you touch me, I feel it in every part of my body. When I kiss you, it’s as if my heart absorbs every sensation, my skin drinks in every whisper of your breath, and every part of me feels more alive than ever before. And when I’m inside you, I know I’m home. When I’m with you, I—"

"Stop." I jump to my feet. "You’re killing me with your words. You’re slicing me to pieces, and I’ll never find a way to put myself back together. You’re changing me by what you’re saying, and I can’t stop it, I can’t."

He cups my cheek. "I don’t want to cause you any further grief or upset you…or unduly influence you. It’s why I didn’t want to take off my shirt or my jeans."

"Too late," I mutter. There’s a thread of bitterness running through my tone, and he hears it for his gaze narrows.

"I am so sorry for everything I did. And I promise you, I got the tattoos for myself. I want to wear your touch on me for every second I'm alive. I want to feel you close, want you to become a part of me. I needed to ink your touch into my skin so I could carry you in me forever."

A shudder grips me. Something hot coils in my chest. Every part of me insists I lean into him, melt into him, fuse our skins together and become one with him, and yet…

I can’t. I can’t. I shake my head, take a step back, then stop.

He’s bleeding, I need to focus on his wounds.

I’m not curious where else he had himself tattooed. I’m not.

He looks at me from under his thick eyelashes.

His jaw is tense, and his muscles are coiled.

He holds my gaze, and the air between us shimmers with unsaid words, emotions, and that chemistry which slithers down to coil in my lower belly.

Even hurt, the power of his presence doesn’t lessen.

If anything, it adds to his appeal. He shifts his weight from foot to foot.

He’s in his underwear, but the power inherent in every dip and jut of his body turns him into someone who’s not quite mortal. Someone who’s larger-than-life.

Someone I can’t stop loving, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise.

I retrieve another clean washcloth, then walk over to the sink and wet it.

I return and press it into the wound at his side.

I don’t intend to be rough in my actions.

Well, maybe subconsciously, I do want to punish him for everything he’s done.

Either way, I must hurt him, for he hisses.

I glance up to find sweat beading his brows.

Pain clings to the edges of his eyes, but he doesn’t make another sound.

“It’s okay to show you’re in pain,” I say around the ball of emotion in my throat.

“I can’t bear to see you in pain.” He raises his palm, and I know if he cups my cheek or touches me, or shows me any tenderness, I’ll fall apart. And I don’t want to do that. Not now. Not when I’m trying to figure out what I want to do with the feelings I have for him.

“Don’t.” I put a little distance between us, but not enough that I can’t tend to him.

His jaw tics. His eyelid twitches. It’s a clue that he’s not as much in control as he’d like me to believe. Funny how I know his every tell, his every expression, his every gesture of tenderness, of anger, of dominance. I know him almost as well as I know myself and that...is not a surprise.

I wipe away the blood, plop the washcloth on the counter, then reach for the antiseptic. I smear it across the wound, and his breath catches. It must burn, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s back to being his namesake—that damn Stone I hate so much.

I want him to say something, do something, anything that will reveal he’s suffering as much as I am.

I finish dressing the wound, and he still hasn’t said anything.

He hasn’t stopped watching me, either. I glance up at his features, then flinch when I see the turmoil in those cerulean eyes.

Apparently, he’s not the Stone I knew anymore.

He holds my gaze and I see the plea in them.

The apology. The longing. My heart knocks against my ribcage. I can’t forgive him. I can’t.... Can I?

I look away then back at him. “Did you tattoo yourself anywhere else?”

“On my back,” he offers.

“Your back?”

He turns around and I sweep my gaze across the solid expanse. Sure enough, the same half-moons—which is where I’d dug my fingernails into his skin—dot the top of his shoulders with a few tracking across his shoulder blades.

"Is that it?" I clear my throat. "Any more I should know about?”

He turns back to face me. "You sure you want to know?"

"I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t."

"You don’t have to see this. I don’t want you to feel obliged to—"

"Forgive you? Want to take you back? Fuck you?" I burst out.

He doesn’t smile. "All of it. I want to earn back the right to be in your life. These tattoos are not a quick fix for that, I promise."

"Okay.” I lock my fingers together. My heart rate kicks up, and my pulse points turn into pockets of quicksand absorbing all my feelings and amplifying my nervousness.

Why am I so nervous about what he’s going to say or do next?

It’s only a tattoo, a tattoo of where I dug my fingernails into him, where I bit him, where he’s forever etched the evidence of my passion into his skin.

Where he’s marked his flesh with the proof of how I lost myself in him. How we lost ourselves in each other.

He reaches for the waistband of his briefs, then stops. "I don’t think you should see this, and—"

"Okay, enough already." I push his hand aside, then tug down his briefs. His cock springs free, massive, huge, bigger than I remember it. And on the skin that sheaths his length are a row of tiny quarter moons. He had them tattooed into the most sensitive part of him?

I push my knuckles into my mouth to stop myself from crying out.

"Why, how… Oh my god, this is unbelievable. Why did you do it? What made you do something this crazy?" I shoot out my fist until it connects with his chest. "You’re crazy, certifiably insane. How could you—" The rest of the words are lost against his chest, for he pulls me in close.

"Shh, baby, it’s okay."