Page 57 of Wells

I push into her, slowly, watching her face as I do. Her mouth falls open, and her breath catches.

That hunger inside me goes quiet. It isn't calm, and it sure as hell isn't safe.

It's worse, but I couldn't give a fuck.

FIFTEEN

Cera

The Favor: A masker would hand a chosen partner a small token from the costume, a ribbon or a charm, proof of the person beneath the disguise. He hands her his mother, his brothers, the coordinates inked on his ribs, pieces no costume was covering.

Wells' arm is draped across my waist, and his breath brushes against my shoulder. It's hard to believe it's barely nine in the morning and Wells has already been out working, I've almost finished our project, and we've slept together for the second time since I started working for him.

The first time we fucked, I could call it an accident, just heat, a thing that got away from us. This time is a choice, and choices are how I get attached, and attachment is what leaves me alone in a room everyone else has already walked out of.

"Well, that was amazing," I say, staring up at the ceiling. Weren't we just talking about graphs and breakfast and flight times?

His palm rests flat against my stomach, fingers spread. Each one is its own tiny conductor, sending heat from his body through mine.

"You're quite spectacular, Ms. Simum."

I shift, turning toward him, curling my right arm under my head. I notice the black ink on his ribs, dark against his pale skin, for the first time. I don't know why I'm surprised to know that Wells Stone has a tattoo under that perfectly fitted Armani suit.

"Look at you, bad boy." I trace the edge of it with my fingertip. It's not large. Just a single line of numbers, tiny circles and dashes, running down his ribs.

"Is this a secret billionaire treasure map or something?"

His chest rises and falls under my hand.

"Coordinates."

"I figured. Of what?"

He turns his face toward mine, and the edge of his mouth turns up. He doesn't answer right away. His gaze holds mine, and I wonder if he's deciding whether to tell me at all. Maybe it's some top-secret location.

"The house I was born in, the one my mother restored."

My hand stills. I didn't expect to learn a quiet piece of him, sentimentality.

"My brothers and I decided to get a tattoo before one of us, Reeves, left for the Navy. Everyone got their own design, but we did it together. I liked the idea of a specific location that belonged to all of us."

"How many of them are you? I know there's Ridge and Reeves. Are there more?"

"There are six of us."

"That sounds like the beginning of a joke. Six brothers walk into a tattoo parlor…"

"Technically, it was five of us. The youngest wasn't even in high school yet, so he didn't get one. At least at that point."

"I like that." I commit the numbers to memory, how they trail down his ribs in a perfect line, the sans serif font, clean and precise, just like Wells.

"You don't talk about her much."

"No."

I curl closer into his chest, and he pulls me into him. That's all he has to say right now.

I settle back down, my fingers tracing idle patterns across his ribs