Overture - Skye Warren Page 0,59
Even the tears that dampen her lashes. I need to feel those signs of life.
Elijah shows up with a grim face. “No ID on the body. The tags are cut off his clothes. The VIN number filed off the car. The sheriff’s going to call in the FBI on this.”
Christ, this place was going to be a circus in a matter of minutes.
“I’m taking her back to the house. They can question us there once they’ve processed the scene.”
“They aren’t going to like the shooter leaving,” Josh says, rueful.
“Wait,” Samantha says, struggling to step back. “I’m not going to leave Laney and Cody here.”
“They’ll be safe,” I say, lifting her body into the air and hauling her to the nearest company car. She gasps in shock, fighting me before I click the seat belt into place and shut the door. Her loyalty to her friends is admirable, but they have a goddamn army to protect them in case there are any more mercenaries lurking in these woods.
And I’m not going to leave Samantha exposed out here for one more second, not for anything, not when I feel her trembling in my arms.
When we get home, I carry her upstairs, even though she protests she can walk. I consider taking her to my room—I want her in my bed, where she’ll be safe. And never leave.
Instead I force myself to carry her to her bedroom. I set her down on the warm tile of her bathroom floor as I turn the water to hot and fill the tub.
She works at the hem of her shirt, getting herself caught in the fabric. She’s too worked up to undress herself—and so I’ll do it for her. I unveil each inch of skin with undue care, mindful of bruises that might form in the next few hours, even days. Small quivers take her muscles, a reminder that she isn’t as composed as she wants me to think.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen her fully naked.
Even with danger so nearby, my body reacts to hers with intense arousal. As I pull her panties down her legs, exposing her slender thighs and the dark curls between them, my cock reacts with a throb. I want the ultimate sign of life, her cunt pulsing around me, slick and warm and soft. She looks like a dream, full of rosy peach hues and creamy vanilla. There is no end to the places I want to taste her. I could make her stand in the foyer as a living statue. It’s sick, the ways I want to see her, use her, the ideas her bare body gives me. Depraved.
Instead I help her into the bathtub, where I wash her with soap. Everywhere. Even when she blushes and murmurs in embarrassment, I slide the soap over her nipples and between her legs. Between the firm cheeks of her ass. There is a primal need inside me, to serve her, to care for her, and I’m as helpless to the urge as she is. She’s Venus with her upturned breasts and demure pose. Her hair falling around her in erotic abandon. There’s never been anything more beautiful than this. Enough to bring a man to his knees. Enough to make me wish I was anything other than her former guardian.
I use the peach-scented bottles to wash and shampoo her hair, my rough hands working carefully through the strands, making them lather and then cream and then clean again.
When she’s dry, I tuck her into bed with its pale pink sheets and white lace coverlet, with the cream-colored throw pillow with a brown violin embroidered on it. God, she looks so vulnerable in that bed. So vulnerable and impossibly strong. The urge to hold her runs through me, a physical sensation that makes me tremble.
I turn to leave her, forcing myself to let her rest. She deserves that much.
“Don’t go,” she whispers.
The bed is twin-size, which isn’t enough for the both of us. And it highlights how young she is, how wrong I was to ever let her climb into my king-size bed down the hall.
Shivers run through her, and I climb in behind her, pulling her close into the fortress of my body. My eyes are wide. Sleep will be impossible tonight. Tomorrow. Maybe ever. All I can do is watch over her. No one will touch her.
She drifts into a restless slumber, her body warm but still shivering.
SAMANTHA
Liam wakes me up just before midnight, nudging me gently out