and harder until my head fell back and I was overtaken by him. By this moment and the bliss that rolled through me as strong as the sun on a summer’s day.
Tanner groaned, then thrust into me one last time, emptying himself inside me. His heavy breath washed over my shoulder, causing shivers to trickle down my spine. Our skins were slick and damp and covered in the blood that had been on Tanner’s arms and chest.
But I didn’t care. As I caught my breath, Tanner still hard inside me, I held tightly on to him as the room regained its stifling thick silence. But my heart didn’t stop racing. It couldn’t calm as the adrenaline died and the fact that I had been with Tanner hit home. I’d had sex with the infamous White Prince of Texas. For all intents and purposes, an enemy of the Quintana cartel. And Tanner Ayers, from the moment we had met, had been nothing but an adversary of mine.
Yet here we were. The princess and the prince of opposing kingdoms, unable to stay away from each other.
Tanner moved his head back with a heavy sigh. I straightened my shoulders—I wouldn’t let him see me nervous, though I was shaking like a dying fall leaf inside. Tanner’s face was streaked with blood. And as I dropped my eyes to his arm, an arm that was now shaking, I saw the bullet wound. Swallowing my trepidation, I whispered, “Your arm.”
Tanner didn’t look at his arm. He didn’t look away from me. His cheek was a deep red from my slap, and he had nail marks all over his arms and neck from where we’d fought and then fucked.
But Tanner remained silent. For once I wanted to hear words spoken from his mouth. I needed him to speak. Instead, he lifted one of his hands and brought it slowly to my face. His jaw was clenched, his teeth gritted. I held my breath, wondering what he was about to do, then he pushed a piece of my hair back over my shoulder. My heart flipped in my chest, swelling at his soft gesture. As though he couldn’t take away his hand, he trailed it down my cheek, my neck, then over my breasts until his hand fell away and dropped by his side. His eyes had tracked the entire path.
His intensity left me breathless. Then he moved, taking me with him. Tanner walked across the room, but I wasn’t paying attention to where we were going. I was solely focused on him. Focused on his face, on my racing heart, on trying to understand what had just happened.
The sound of water finally made me look up. Tanner had brought us into the small bathroom. Steam began to rise from the shower. We stepped under the spray, letting the water rinse the blood from our bodies, me still in Tanner’s arms. He put me down, then took the soap from the rack and started washing my skin. I let him, my heart in my throat at the sight of this man—this man I had fought with for weeks—taking care of me. He kneeled down and started washing my legs, my thighs, between my legs . . . then he stopped. His head snapped up. I stiffened. I knew what he must have seen. I stepped back, suddenly awash with embarrassment. But Tanner didn’t let me move. He kept tight hold of my leg. His face was stern, and there was tension in his eyes.
I held my head high. Tanner stared at me, the shower washing away the blood to reveal his face, the one I was sure was now imprinted in my brain. I couldn’t read what was going through his mind, but he pulled me closer again and delicately, almost reverently, began washing between my legs. My stomach flipped, but I pushed the feeling away. I wouldn’t allow myself to be too drawn in to this man. I had to stop any emotion rooting its way into this moment.
Tanner stood and looked down at me. I didn’t want him to say anything. I didn’t want to have a conversation about what I knew was on his mind, so, “My turn,” I said in a betraying fragile voice. Taking the soap from his hand, I moved it to his chest and started cleaning away the blood. This close I could see each of the tattoos in detail. So many tattoos of hate and prejudice drowning his skin.