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“I don’t want to sleep alone, and since you said you’d take the sofa, I came here.” She sits up and opens the duvet for me to crawl in.
“What are you wearing?” The big windows bring in enough light so I can see it isn’t one of the pieces I bought her.
She shrugs. “I dug… I’m sorry. I dug in your cupboard and borrowed a T-shirt.”
She’s going to kill me. So fucking slowly. Death by blue balls.
“All I want, Steph, is to hold you, and be held in return when I need it.” She sucks her bottom lip. “Nothing else. Please. Just that.”
She needs to be held. I knew this.
Control freak.I smirk. She called me that on our wedding night, and now, she’s testing me. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
“Fine.” I unbutton my shirt, trying my hardest to ignore my fucking cock that’s begging for everything we’ve agreed is off the cards.
“What happened to you?” she asks as I toss the shirt to the side, her eyes wide as they travel the expanse of my chest and sides. “You’re hurt! You’re?—”
“Just bruised. I sparred in the gym this morning.”
“Sparred? Steph?—”
“It’s fine. I’m used to it.”
“Is this what you do to?—”
“Yes, angel,” I say as I slip under the duvet and into her arms. “This is what I do. This is me.”
Raw and undiluted. Who needs tattoos if your skin is an ever-changing landscape created by battles you fight with the monsters within? I slip my hand under the T-shirt and over her butt, and sigh in frustrated relief to find she’s wearing panties.
“You need to stop, Steph! It’s cruel?—”
“No, it isn’t. I need it like Franco Fiore needs to cut into people.”
She shudders in my arms. “God. Please don’t compare yourself to him.”
I have more in common with Franco than I’d ever admit. “Shh. Go to sleep.”
She burrows her head under my chin, her hand on my chest wandering, feeling for where I’m swollen and bruised. I sigh into her hair, sinking into the feel of her gentle touch and soft curves against my harder, tougher frame.
“Whatever you do, angel, don’t kiss it better.”
36
GIGI
I wake up, and Steph is next to me on his side. His eyes are closed, but his fingers are playing with strands of my hair. I blink into the light.
“How did this happen?” We’re not downstairs on the sofa, but in the loft and in bed.
“That sofa is uncomfortable as all fuck,” he says, a hint of a smile on his lips.
Maybe we’re both asleep and in a dream. “You carried me upstairs?”
“Hm-hmm.”
I didn’t notice any of that happening.
