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His words hang heavy, leaving a bitter taste lingering in my mouth as I fight to swallow down my mortification—he's seen so much pain, so much ugliness that it makes my heart bleed for him.
He drops into the chair beside me and reaches out, fingers brushing gently across mine before he lays his hand over mine, engulfing it with his warmth. His touch is grounding—a lifeline amidst the horrific imagery his words paint.
"And beauty?" His fingers trail up my arm, tracing patterns on my skin that send shivers down my spine. His touch is possessive yet gentle—an intoxicating paradox that he masters with ease. His gaze softens as it drops down to our entwined hands. "Beauty isn't just how something or someone looks on the outside. It's about their soul."
His words wash over me, powerful and searing as they expose a glimpse of his innermost thoughts. His chest stirs with an intake of breath.
"You're everything beautiful in this fucked up world, Mila." His fingers trace my face lightly, causing shivers to race down my spine as an unspoken promise dances within his touch. "You aren't just beautiful because of your soft lips or the way your green eyes light up when you're happy," he murmurs, fingers dragging down my neck and across the curve of my shoulder. "You're beautiful because of your strength despite everything you've been through, because of your intelligence, your humor…and your heart."
His hand moves further down till it rests on my stomach, his fingers tracing slow circles against my skin as his next words land heavy in the air.
"And your body, Mila," he breathes, sounding almost reverent. "Your body is a work of art. Each curve, each line, echoes your resilience, your vitality. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."
The sincerity in his tone and the heated look in his eyes sends a jolt of warmth radiating from my heart to every corner of my body. He means every word.
I place a shaking hand against his jaw and lean forward, pressing my lips to his cheek. "Thank you," I whisper against his skin.
"Don't thank me for telling you the truth, baby." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, pressing his forehead to mine. "You're fucking beautiful. If anyone looks at the two of us and thinks you're the lucky one, they're fucking stupid. I know your worth. It's more than a motherfucker like me will ever be able to afford."
"Okay," I whisper, not sure what else to say. He's rendered me speechless.
He brushes his lips against mine and then hops up, circling back to his seat. "Now, books. Explain."
A smile dances on my lips. He's so autocratic sometimes, so demanding. I don't know if it's the cop in him or if it's just his nature, but when he wants something, he never really asks. He demands.
I probably shouldn't like it nearly as much as I do.
"Books were my escape from reality growing up. They were my companions, my mentors, the only ones who didn't leave when shit got hard." My voice wavers, but I press on, his intense gaze pulling the words from deep within me. "They were there for me when everyone else was busy with their lives, too consumed by their own troubles." I glance at him and see the tenderness in his eyes. "They showed me love and compassion when the world turned cold—when my own father turned cold," I whisper.
Roman's expression softens, and his hand seeks mine, large and warm against my chilled skin. His touch is grounding, just what I need. "So this is why you carry your Kindle everywhere you go? To escape?"
"Every book is a different world, you know? A chance to experience something new without having to step outside the room." I give him a devilish smirk. "Where do you think I learned to do that thing with my tongue?"
"Mila…" he pauses, drawing out my name as if tasting it. "You fascinate me. You're so much more than what anyone sees, and I'm…" He pauses again and swallows hard before finishing with a low growl, "…I'm damn lucky to know you."
Smiling at his words, I squeeze his hand before continuing in an excited rush, "Now that I'm old enough, I want to help pass the magic on."
His grin returns swiftly, approval etched onto his gorgeous face. "I love that," he admits. "It's fucking cute as hell and sexy at the same time."
"I want to be the one to show someone else how extraordinary they can be. How there's an entirely different world waiting for them when they need it most." In a barely audible whisper, I add, "Everyone deserves to have something magical in their lives, you know?"
"Hell yeah, they do," he whispers, his expression a dichotomy of soft and fierce. I don't think he's talking about books, though. Not even close. He's talking about me. His thumb lightly strokes my hand, and he gives me a look that feels a whole lot like coming home.
A shadow falls over me, blocking out the sun.
"Roman," I complain through laughter. "I'm never going to finish this book if you don't stop interrupting me every fifteen minutes. I hit the tab to save my place and then flick my gaze up. My mouth immediately goes dry.
Lord have mercy.
He's drenched, water droplets and sand clinging to his olive skin. His hair is plastered to his head. With the sun beating down on him, he looks like a god.
"Just checking on you," he lies, my favorite wicked smirk stretching across his face. "You look hot."
"Oh, I'm definitely heating up," I mumble, squeezing my thighs together as if that's going to help the ache deep in my core. It won't. Nothing short of having this man inside me again will soothe that pain.
I bite my lip, fighting the urge to tangle my hands in his wet, tousled hair. He smells like the ocean and something masculine and addictive. Sin. If it had a smell, it'd be him.
"Maybe I should cool you down then," he suggests, taking a step closer. Heat rolls through his hazel eyes like a pyroclastic cloud, searing me alive. His gaze drops down to my exposed legs, clad in tiny denim shorts.
