Page 17 of Vital Signs (Wayward Sons #7)

The fentanyl had settled into a warm hum beneath my skin, making bad decisions feel brilliant. The break-in, the near-miss with security, Misha's mouth on mine… All of it had cranked my system into overdrive.

"You should stay here tonight," Misha said. "Too cold to walk back to camp. Wright might have people looking for us."

"I'm not a charity case."

"I know." Those dark eyes held mine. "But you helped me get those files. Least I can do is offer you somewhere warm to crash."

We both knew it was bullshit. This wasn't about the cold or Wright or practical safety measures. This was about what had started in that clinic hallway, what had exploded when he'd kissed me.

"Okay. Thanks."

"Come on." He climbed between the seats and into the back. "Let me show you what I've built."

The van's interior was impressive with its cedar paneling, hidden storage, and a tiny kitchen. His territory.

"Damn."

"Watch this." He moved to the bench seating, pulling up cushions to reveal the mechanism underneath.

He moved around some of the benches, transforming the back into a queen-sized bed.

I tugged at my collar. "You built all this yourself?"

"Rebuilt it from wreckage." He pulled water out of the mini-fridge. "Gave me something to focus on when the nightmares wouldn't quit."

I stepped closer. "You know a lot about managing withdrawal."

"Someone who's dead now taught me." He pushed water toward my mouth. "Drink."

I took the water. "This is a bad idea."

"I know." He leaned in until his lips almost brushed mine. "So stop me."

"We're not thinking clearly. The adrenaline, the drugs—"

"I'm thinking very clearly." His smile was wicked. "You're the one making excuses."

He was using the fact that I was high. That I was vulnerable. That every defense I normally kept in place had been dissolved by chemicals and desperation.

And he knew it. Wasn't even trying to hide it.

"You're trying to make me lose control," I said.

"Is it working?"

"You know it is."

His smile could cut glass. "Then stop pretending you don't want this."

"I'm making a choice," I said and set the water aside. More to myself than to him. "Right now, high as I am, I'm choosing this."

"Are you?" he challenged.

"Yeah." I pulled him closer. "So stop pretending you're not exactly what I need right now."

I kissed him hard enough to hurt, hard enough to shut him up, hard enough to make him forget I was supposed to be the one seduced here. Misha made a sound between a growl and a groan, his free hand fisting in my hair.

The kiss turned brutal. My grip tightened, pulling his head back to expose his throat. I bit down on the sensitive skin just hard enough to make him gasp.

"Tell me to stop," I challenged.

Misha bared his teeth at me. "Fucking try it."

He pushed me backward onto the bed, landing heavily on top of me.

"You think the drugs make me safe?" I asked.

"I think they make you slow." He ground down against me, and shame burned through my chest when nothing responded.

I flipped us. One second he was on top, the next Misha's back hit the mattress with me looming over him, hands pinning both his wrists to the bed above his head, knee between his legs.

"There we go." He smiled up at me. "Show me what you've got."

I stared down at him, breathing hard. "You have no idea what you're asking for."

"Then show me." He arched up against the pressure. "Or admit you're too scared."

"Scared?" I laughed, bitter and sharp. "Of you?"

"Of wanting me." He wrapped his legs around my waist, pulling me closer. "I can feel you holding back. Worried you'll break the poor traumatized boy if you're too rough."

The words hit too close. "That's not—"

"Bullshit." He arched up against me, testing my grip. "Everyone treats me like I'm made of glass. Even you, right now, you're being so fucking careful—"

I kissed him hard enough to split his lip. The copper taste bloomed between us as my tongue invaded his mouth, claiming every inch without permission or apology. This was what he'd been pushing for. This was me without the careful control.

When I pulled back, we were both breathing hard. Blood dotted his lower lip.

"Better," he said.

"You're insane."

"And you love it." He reached between us, palmed where my cock should have been responding. Still soft. Misha stroked gently, trying to coax some response, but nothing changed. "Poor loup."

My jaw clenched. "Don't."

"Don't what?" He kept stroking, sympathy replacing the teasing. "It's the drugs, Hunter. Not you."

"I know what it is." But the humiliation bled through anyway. I wanted to be hard for him. Wanted to feel something besides this frustrated half-arousal.

"Hey." He caught my face, made me look at him. "Look at me."

I did, reluctantly.

"Tu me veux tellement," he said softly.

I didn't understand the words, but that didn’t matter. The sound alone, that accent wrapping around syllables I couldn't parse, went straight to my nervous system.

"What did you say?"

His smile was wicked. "You'll figure it out. Or you won't. Either way works."

"Say it again." My voice had gone rough. "In French."

"Tu me veux," he repeated, watching my reaction.

My hips jerked involuntarily against his despite my softness. "Fuck. The way that sounds..."

"You like when I speak French?"

"Yeah." The admission came out strangled. "Keep doing it."

"Pauvre chéri." The words washed over me, meaningless and devastating.

I had no idea what he was saying. Could be praising me, degrading me, planning my murder in beautiful French phrases. The not-knowing was part of it. Being at his mercy even in language.

"Misha—"

"That's okay, baby." He softened his voice. "You'll find another way to please me, won't you?" He traced my lower lip with his thumb, then slipped it into my mouth.

My tongue immediately curled around it, sucking gently. The submission came naturally, easier than it should have.

Misha groaned as if I'd punched him.

This was different from the fentanyl. The drugs took control without asking. Misha was making me give it up willingly.

"Please," I heard myself say.

"Please what?"

I didn't have words anymore. Just need and heat and the overwhelming knowledge that I was letting someone take me apart, piece by piece, and I wanted it.

He pushed me backward, reversing our positions. "Take my shirt off."

I sat up immediately, reaching for the hem of his sweater. My hands were steadier than they should be, all that clinical training overriding the tremors. I pulled the fabric up slowly, revealing skin inch by inch. When the sweater cleared his head, I stopped.

The tattoos were beautiful, but underneath… Underneath were two perfect pink half-moon scars, faded, but still there.

"Jesus Christ," I breathed.

“You should see the other guy,” Misha quipped.

My hand came up instinctively, then stopped just short of touching. "Can I—"

Misha caught my wrists and placed them directly on his chest, on the ink-covered scars.

The scars were smooth under my palms, slightly raised in places.

I traced them gently, following the path the surgeon had taken.

The petals of the cherry blossoms hid the worst of it, turning surgical necessity into something beautiful.

"They're part of me," Misha said quietly. "The scars. The ink. All of it."

"I know." My thumb brushed over a particularly thick line under the clockwork. "They're—you're—"

I couldn't find the words. Beautiful seemed inadequate. Perfect seemed like a lie. So I just kept touching, learning the landscape of his chest with careful fingers. I brushed my thumb over one of his nipples, and Misha's breath caught.

"That okay?"

"More than okay." He pressed into the touch. "Don't be gentle."

I increased the pressure, rolling the sensitive peak between my fingers until his eyes rolled back and he bit his lip.

Mine, some primitive part of my brain whispered. Mine to touch. Mine to learn. Mine to keep.

"Harder," Misha ordered, and I obeyed, giving him exactly what he asked for. He rewarded me by muttering something devastating in French.

Another shiver ran through me at the sounds. My free hand moved instinctively to palm my still-soft cock, frustration building behind my ribs. My jaw clenched. Eyes squeezed shut.

"Stop." Misha caught my wrist, pulled my hand away from my cock. "You don't need that."

"I want to be hard for you."

"I know, chéri." He brought my hand to his mouth, kissed my knuckles. "But right now, I want your mouth on me. Can you do that?"

I blinked, pulling back from the edge of frustration. "Yeah. Yes."

"Bon garcon." Misha leaned back against the pillows, letting his legs fall open in invitation. "Show me what that pretty mouth can do."

I kissed down his throat, his chest, following the cherry blossoms with my tongue. His hands found my hair as I kissed lower, not pushing, just resting there. Grounding himself or me, I wasn't sure which.

When I reached the waistband of his jeans, I paused. "Show me what you like."

Misha sat up slightly, hands going to his button and fly. He worked them open slowly, giving me time to change my mind. When he hooked his fingers in his waistband, he paused, meeting my eyes.

"I'm a nurse, remember?" I said. "I know anatomy."

Something flickered across his face. "It's different when it's—"

"I know." I covered his hands with mine. "Tell me what you like. What feels good. I'll follow your lead."

His shoulders dropped. "Yeah. Okay."

Misha yanked his jeans and boxers down in one motion. Something silicone tumbled out onto the bed between us.

"What the—" I blinked at it, then understanding hit. "Oh."

"Fuck." Red flooded his face. "I forgot I—" He grabbed for it, but I was closer.

I picked up the packer, turned it over once. "Impressive."

"Shut up." But his mouth twitched.

"No, really. Good weight. Nice detail work." I tossed it toward the counter, where it landed with a thud. "Very realistic."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"No," he agreed, still flushed but grinning now. "I don't."