Elite Metal Warriors - Sabrina York Page 0,57
spent most of his life alone, solitary, a rock, he struggled to understand the emotions roiling in his soul.
On the one hand, there was a clawing hunger, a desire for more. The thrumming temptation to hold her close and never let her go. A riot of want.
On the other, there was a deep, welling peace, like nothing he’d ever known. A sense of rightness in his own skin. The sense of coming home—when he’d never even had a home.
Funny, how the conflicting feelings melded so perfectly.
It was a damn shame he was who he was. A dead man. A ghost. There was no place for her in his life and no place for him in hers.
It would be hell letting her go when the time came.
He feared it would be sooner than he could bear.
* * *
Michelle curled up against George, pillowing her head on his chest. His powerful arms surrounded her, making her feel safe, cosseted. Her body still hummed from the most mind-blowing orgasms she’d ever had, and her ass still burned, but it was a delicious, warm glow.
It was difficult wrapping her mind around the dynamics between them, because she’d never been what she considered a submissive woman—she was far too mouthy for that. And she probably still would not classify herself as a sub. But she’d known, at the core of her being, what he’d wanted and an answering call had risen from the well of her soul.
She was glad she had answered it.
She’d loved every second of his rough lovemaking. Reveled in it. And she loved this. She loved the way he held her, soothed her, stroked her. He probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it, it was that deeply ingrained in him.
She lifted her head to gaze at him and was struck once again by the beauty of his features. Hard and harsh, yet boyish, vulnerable somehow. She stroked his cheek where scars pocked his perfection. “What happened here?” she asked softly.
He captured her hand and kissed her fingers. “I don’t know.”
“You…don’t know?”
He shook his head. A shadow passed through his eyes. “Can’t remember a damn thing.”
“And this one?” She touched a scar on his shoulder.
“Same mission.”
“And this one?” On his arm.
“Yeah.”
“And this one?” She stroked a scar on his abdomen.
His lips turned up. “Appendix.”
“Oooh. Brave man.”
“I was six.”
She stilled as a vision of a six-year-old George—with no mother—alone in a hospital bed filled her mind. “Were you scared?”
“Terrified.” He chuckled at the memory. “And then, afterwards, I was pissed.”
“Why?”
“One of my foster brothers had his tonsils out a week before and he got ice cream.”
“They didn’t give you ice cream?”
“No.” A pout.
“Bastards.” She chuckled and lay back down, stroking him gently. His skin was warm and smooth. She splayed her palm on him and soaked him in.
“Michelle?” he said, after a while.
“Mmm?”
“Did you…? Are you…?”
She peeped at him. “Am I what?”
“Are you okay? I mean…” he waved toward the table where he’d shown her heaven.
She snorted a laugh. “I’m wonderful. That was…”
He stiffened. “What?”
“Amazing. Unbelievable. Perfect.” She leaned up and punctuated each word with a kiss.
“I wasn’t…too rough?”
“No.”
His hold on her tightened.
“There was one thing I didn’t like though.”
His eyes flared. His nostrils pinched and his lips worked. “I… What?”
“I wanted to call you by your name and I couldn’t. Because I don’t know it.”
“I told you it’s—”
“Nope. Not calling you that. And you told me not to call you George,” she added teasingly. “Although, you do look like a George.” She stroked his curls.
“I do not.”
“Anyway, I wanted a name.”
He stared at her for a long while as he fought some inner battle. Finally he blew out a sigh and looked away. “No one knows my real name. No one can.”
“Why not?”
His smile was sad. “I’m a ghost, remember?”
“What would you like me to call you?” She huffed a laugh. “Other than Sir.”
His chest shook as he chuckled and then his arms tightened. “You could…”
“Yes?”
“If you wanted to, you could call me…Ben.”
Ben.
Oh heavens. Ben.
Something warm and wonderful nested in her chest.
Because she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he’d just shared something with her. Something precious and real.
“Ben,” she said. “I like the taste of that.”
He threaded his fingers in her hair. Caressed her cheek with his thumb.
“Ben. Ben. Yes.” She nodded. “Much better than George.”
Much better than George, indeed.
Chapter Six
Morning came too quickly.
Of course, the fact that he’d kept her up most of the night could be to blame for his fatigue. Still, once Benedict awoke, he couldn’t go