like his skin on mine. I like the inferno. I like the burn. Those thoughts have me pulling away before I can stop myself, my mind in meltdown. Of all the people on this planet I could chose to defy or be attracted to, Danny Black should be the last on the list. Yet my natural instinct to comply is shifting. It also might save my life. As long as Black doesn’t kill me first.
“You don’t like me touching you?” His voice is soft yet hard, and it has me clenching my eyes and burying my face in the pillow.
Yes. I hate it because I love it.
“No.”
“Liar,” he claims, not for the first time. “So if I put my hand here.” His palm lands on my naked hip, and I squeeze my eyes closed into the pillow, battling my way through the torture. “You don’t like it?”
“Get your hands off me,” I spit, and he does. It surprises me.
“Remember I told you that you reminded me of someone?” His question, which is soft and quiet, has my anger shrinking and my body slowly turning over to face him. I can see him, not clearly, but he’s looking at me, his eyes shining in the darkness. “Yes.”
“That person was saved.” Without warning, he moves, pushing me to my back and spreading his body all over mine. He doesn’t pin me down, simply lays his palms over my arms that are above my head. The weight of him is intimidating and exhilarating all at once. Every naked piece of him is touching me. My body isn’t the only thing to go up in smoke. So does my mind. “You haven’t been saved,” he whispers, his nose skimming mine. “Yet,” he adds, knocking me further off balance with a grind of his hips. “What’s your name, baby?”
“Rose.” I deliver my answer on a mere whisper, and I sense more than see his smile.
“Get some sleep, Rose.” He dips and kisses the corner of my mouth. “You’re going to need some energy to keep resisting me.”
And then he’s off my body.
And I’m missing the feel of his sinful weight immediately.
Chapter 7
DANNY
* * *
You haven’t been saved. Yet.
And what? I’m going to save her? I shake my head to myself as I lie in bed next to her, watching her. She’s curled up on her side, as far away from me as she can get, her back to me. One poke in her shoulder would have her tumbling out of bed.
The dark waves of her hair fan the stark white pillow; her hair tie is loose and has nearly worked its way to the end. I reach forward without thought and pull it free. I see her shoulders rise, just a fraction, and I smile to myself. She’s awake but pretending not to be. The kid in me that never really existed appears from nowhere, showing up to the party years too late. I take the sheet that’s pulled up under her arms and peel it down her body, slowly, softly, exposing the full length of her spine. The morning light is dusky through the blinds, hazy and slight, but I still see the nasty bruise. And my morning mind is a little foggy, but I still feel rage fuzzing my head. The black mass stretches from one side of her back to the other, just above two cute dimples that sit a fraction above her arse. It’s not old, not yellowed or purple. It’s solid black. Fresh.
I reach forward and glide a soft fingertip across the battered planes of her lower back. She tenses, and I look at the back of her head. Who did this to her? What the fuck do I care? She’s a whore with a mouth on her. Doesn’t mean she should be fucking beaten . . .
I quickly take back my hand and swing my legs off the bed, sitting up. I need to get in the gym and burn off some of this . . . weirdness.
As I stand, my phone lights up on the nightstand. It’s 6 a.m.
Swiping it up, I pull on my boxers. “Morning, Perry.”
“Please don’t hurt her.” He gets straight to the point, not ashamed to hide his feelings now he’s not in public. “She’s delicate.”
I have to force myself not to laugh. Delicate? She might look it, but the woman in my bed is as hard as nails. A warrior. That bruise, though. Adams? Did he do it? The American public think he’s