Page 29 of Break Me Beautifully
My mouth goes dry. "I ... thank you." The moment the words leave me I start blushing. I wish I'd said something cleverer. Talking to him has been hard since, well, it was always hard, but after the club the other night it's been hell.
He continues to stand there, his hot stare making it impossible for me to look away. I can't even see what he's wearing, I'm too distracted by the powerful, electric pull that he creates inside of me. I say, "Sorry I took so long."
"What?" he asks.
"The Gala. You said we have to go." The corners of his mouth lower. It's his only movement. I wait anxiously for him to say something, to do anything. "Are you angry at me?" I nearly shout, because I can't hold the question back any longer. "I didn't mean for things to go too far at the club. I thought we were just dancing, having fun, but ..."
"You think I'm mad at you fordancingwith me?" he asks incredulously.
"I don't know. Maybe? You've barely spoken to me since we went to there. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells around here. If I did something wrong, just tell me so I can apologize properly."
A ragged breath exits his lips, caressing my forehead. "You can't apologize for this, Leona. It's too big."
"Let me try. Just give me a chance."
"Can anyone apologize for existing?" he asks curiously.
"What?"
His lips close on mine in a swift motion. Heat radiates from my mouth; he makes me feel scattered, like my pieces are shifting away from my center to opposite ends of the world.
On an island somewhere there's a lone thought that says, “You shouldn't do this.”The voice is smothered by the waves that roil in my blood. I squeeze my knees together, moaning around his warm tongue. I know he's a good kisser because of what happened in the elevator, but I'm still not prepared for how dizzy he makes me, how furiously my pussy drenches itself with a few seconds of lips on lips.
My hands wrap around his shoulders, letting me feel the smooth texture of his suit. Through blurry eyes I can tell it's a dark navy. He's dressed so classy that, when he lifts an arm, brushing my cheek, I'm confused by the tattoos I glimpse on his wrist. I forgot they were there.
"Stop," I manage to say. He kisses me again, gripping my jaw, holding me against his hard body. "Marshall," I whimper.
"I'm not stopping this time," he assures me in a throaty growl.
"I don't want you to." I press harder until he releases me. Raking my eyes down his body, I take in the sight of his pin-straight navy pants, matching jacket, the peek of a white shirt and sapphire tie, and how his combed-back hair makes him look sleek, like a predator cat on the prowl.
Reaching across, I trail a finger over his tie. My voice trembles. "I just wanted to see how you looked before we changed."
"Changed?" he repeats curiously.
I shake my head, because I know I can't explain. Maybe he won't be different after this, but I know I will be. Nothing survives a hurricane like Marshall. When we leave this room, I'll be transformed forever.
"Let me see," I say, tugging at the top button of his jacket.
He lifts his eyebrows with a knowing smirk. "You want me to get naked so quickly?"
Yes. But not for the reasons he thinks.
Well.
Some of those reasons.
What I'm after is more than the reveal of his sculpted, muscular body. I'm eager to get a close look at the secret ink splashed over his skin. I've only seen it in snapshots. The best glimpse was when he was wearing a towel, but I covered my eyes.
In a couple of button flicks, the peeling of a jacket to the floor, the opening of a shirt, I'm there. Like his back, his chest is dark with swirling clouds and blue dragons. Red scales mix with fire down to his wrists. He's nearly fully covered; the art piece vanishes into his belt. "Wow," I whisper honestly. "This must have taken forever."
He hesitates, then grabs my fingers, pressing my palm to his skin. The ink hid the roughness of old scars, but I can feel their raised surfaces. His heart is beating, just not as wild as mine. How is he so calm? "It took as long as it took," he says gently.
It reminds me of what he said about oil paints. What makes him worship the idea of time so much? And where did he get all these injuries? He's slipped off a layer of clothing only to reveal more mystery.
Curling my fingers, I ask, "How did you get these scars?"
"Just by living," he whispers. His hand crosses over mine. Leveling his half-lidded eyes, he dips his head to kiss me. He's soft as butter until his teeth tug my bottom lip. A rich moan ripples through his chest, making my hand flex as I feel it in my fingertips.
