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“What night?” I ask but even as the words leave my lips, I know the answer.
“The night of your birthday.”
Oh crap. Wow. “That was four days ago.”
He says nothing.
No wonder he’s completely zonked out. Insomnia and depression go hand in hand. Could this be why he came so close to losing it this time?
“That’s awful,” I whisper. “You should get a prescription, I’m sure—”
“No pills.” He shakes harder. “No fucking way. Stopping them last time was a bitch.”
I open my mouth, but don’t know what to say. My heart aches. I want to know everything he’s been through. I want to piece together the puzzle that is Rafe, and above all… Above all, I want to see him
happy.
Not sure how to accomplish that, I struggle backward and he relaxes his hold. Maybe starting with the simple things would be best. I tug him toward the shower stall and start the water running, wait until the heater kicks in and it warms up. Then I drag him under the spray, let him lean on the stall wall and reach for the soap and sponge.
Taking care of the body helps the soul, Grandma Anouk used to say—or so my mom claims. Of course, she used it as an excuse to drink, which makes no sense—so I focus on his.
Not a hardship, really. I lather up the sponge and drag it over his wet skin, over his defined biceps and the hard planes of his chest. I pay special attention to the scar right above his heart, stopping to caress it and kiss it.
After that, I can’t stop touching, kissing. I place another kiss to the center of his chest as I slide the sponge down his side, moving it gently over the darkening bruises to his hip.
He observes me from under lowered lashes as I move away to wet the sponge and take up the soap again. The light is better here and I can see him well. He has dried blood at one corner of his mouth, and his lip is puffy. His jaw is a nice shade of purple, and he has bags under his bright eyes, so dark they look like bruises.
I adjust the spray to hit lower and take his hand, drag the sudsy sponge over his forearm, again and again. His lids droop.
“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask quietly as I soap up his hand and tug lightly on his fingers, then massage his palm.
He drags up his gaze and blinks at me. “Been trying to fix things. But I can’t.” He thunks his head back on the tiles. “Can’t fix a goddamn thing. It’s all useless.”
“Rafe…”
“My family’s murderer is roaming free. They never caught him.” His teeth grind together. “He’s got the tattoo of a hand on his arm. I’ve told the police. But they don’t believe I saw it. Said I was in shock. Goddammit, I saw it. He’s out there.”
“Shh.”
“He’s out there, Meg! Motherfucker’s living his life, free as a bird, after killing my family.”
He’s shuddering, falling apart, like he said he would. And I’m supposed to put him back together. Have to remind him he can be okay. That there’s not only the past, but also a present and a future.
I push up on tiptoe and kiss his mouth, then kiss my way down his corded neck to his chest.
“Meg…” he whispers, and when I look up, I find his eyes dark and wide, fixed on me. He lifts a hand to my face, runs his thumb over my lips. Then he lets his hand drop and sags against the wall.
Wetting the sponge in the warm spray, I press it to his flat stomach and draw it lower, over his semi-hard cock.
He jerks, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. He’s staring down where I’m dragging the sponge under his cock, over his balls, and he spreads his legs a little, giving me better access.
Excitement courses through me, seeing how my touch affects him. He’s hardening again, the thick muscles in his thighs trembling as he fights the urge to move, to push into my hand.
It’s obviously a losing battle, because suddenly he pushes off the wall and presses into me until the sponge falls from my hands and I end up against the opposite wall of the stall. His mouth covers mine, warm and rough, and I moan at his taste. Faintly salty and sweet, with the rusty tang of blood, and the dark spice that is Rafe.
He grabs my wrists, lifts them over my head and crosses them, keeping them there one-handed as he keeps kissing me, nipping at my lips, licking inside my mouth. Every nip, every lick sends bolts of fire down my belly. Heat is gathering between my legs, and when he presses his hard-on between us, I can’t help moaning and writhing, rubbing on his body.
He makes my blood sing and my head spin. I want to clutch at him, drag him even closer, but his grip on my wrists is like steel.
