“Tesoro mia,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and tilting his chin farther back, allowing me better access to unbutton his shirt.
I have the buttons unfastened halfway down his shirt when he grabs my hand to stop me. Pressing a kiss to his sternum, I glance up at him. “Why don’t you ever take your shirt off in front of me?”
He haphazardly shrugs, one palm still squeezing the flesh of my hip. “I don’t like how I look with my shirt off.”
“Really?” I firmly rub my hands up and down his solid, lean, muscular torso. “It feels like you look damn good under all this.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I can tell from the clench of his sharp jaw that I’m tiptoeing the line separating him from a foul mood, so I let it go. We’ve been getting along great for a week, and it’s vastly preferable than us fighting like we were. I have no intention of ruining this fun, unnamed thingby making him go on the defensive.
Inching down the chaise lounge, I redirect my attention to his belt and fly, quickly unfastening them to free his long, thick shaft and wrapping my fingers around it. He stares down at me through deep sapphire eyes, licking his lips while he gathers my hair into a ponytail.
“Innamorata,” he murmurs.
I draw my tongue over the smooth tip in a full, slow lick, and he groans as he presses his eyes shut.
“Again,dolcezza.”
I repeat the movement, slower this time, and then draw the head of his cock into my mouth for a small suck. His grip on my hair tightens, and he thrusts his hips, silently begging for more.
One thing I’ve realized about myself this week is that I’m actually reallygood at giving head—and also that it is an unbelievable turn on. My panties are already soaked when I draw the full length of him into my mouth, my cheeks hollowed as I slowly bob my head up and down. He alternates pulling my hair and pushing down on the back of my head, showing me the rhythm he wants, and I match it, switching between sucking his dick and licking his head. He’s so long and thick that my lips become swollen, hot, and tingly after only a few seconds.
Lucky switches to stroking my hair as he pumps his hips, thrusting into my mouth and forcing himself as deep as my throat will allow.
It’s all such a turn on that I’m grinding my hips against the chaise, aching for his glorious cock. I claw at his torso, slipping my hands under his vest and shirt so I can rake my hand down those delicious abs he insists upon hiding from me. The pads of my fingers drag over something on his skin that causes me to freeze for a second, but then I continue drawing him in and out of my mouth as I attempt to figure out what it is.
Most of his sculpted torso is covered in smooth skin with sparse hair sprinkled in a line that leads to the chiseled V at the base of his hips. But something else is there, too. Quite a fewsomething elses.There’s a number of these irregularities on his chest and abs. Some are raised, others are sunken into his skin, all of them smooth in a different way, and they feel distinctive under my hand even though I haven’t seen them.
Scars. Significant ones.
I overheard him say to Meyer weeks ago that he’s been shot, but this feels like more than just the four bullets he mentioned.
I glance up at Lucky’s face. The flush of passion has crept up his cheeks, his eyes are squeezed shut, and his jaw is rigidly clenched. He’s almost there, and I suck harder, faster, and deeper, causing him to groan and curse and hold my head firmly in place.
Lucky drops his head backward as he comes deep into my throat. He grips my hair even tighter while veins rise on the side of his neck and sweat beads on his forehead, and I swallow every last drop. His chest heaves as he catches his breath, releasing my hair to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.
He’s at his most docile right after he climaxes, high and sedated on adrenaline and oxytocin, and I take the opportunity to unbutton his vest and dress shirt so I can locate the scars through his thin white undershirt.
I brace myself above him, trapping him in place with my knees straddling his hips, and I kiss his face. “Show me.”
His eyes flicker open to meet mine, then shift sideway. “Ava…”
“I already felt them. I already heard you mention it to Meyer.” I kiss his mouth. “Show me.”
Lucky hesitates for a longtime. So long that I think he’s about to combust and lash out at me, then throw me out of his suite. But he doesn’t.
He picks up his drink off the floor, downs half of it, and then pushes to stand up next to the chaise lounge. Stripping off the vest, he tosses it onto the floor. The dress shirt follows shortly thereafter. And finally, he reaches above his head to grab the back of the collar on his undershirt and pulls that off, too.
He’s standing before me, his chest, abs, shoulders, and arms as scorching hot and perfectly sculpted as I always imagined they would be. But I never imagined he was hiding these kinds of scars.
I don’t want to stare, but I know that I am.
On his left pectoral muscle are two shallow, circular craters. Next to those, a thick, raised line about the length of my hand that stretches from just below the crest of his muscle to the side of his ribs and under his arm. Another raised line flanks his abs from his oblique muscle to the center line of dark hair that trails to his groin; this one thinner, but no less severe. A few others similar to that one litter the rest of his lower abs. There are also a couple of other smaller, circular faded scars, but they’re not the same as the ones that are obvious bullet wounds.
I snap my gaze up to his face, expecting barely restrained rage, but Lucky just looks passive and compliant, albeit expectant. One of his coal-black eyebrows is cocked, and his jaw is rigid. He looks like he’s daring me to say something. Maybe to recoil in horror at the sight of his marred body.
I stand up slowly and approach him even slower, stopping just in front of him.
He lifts his hand to touch his left pectoral muscle. “Gunshots. My ex was involved with a guy on the side, and he used her to set me up. They blasted me and stole my equipment on my way to a gig. I had to start over with nothing but a massive medical debt.” He slides his hand to the thinner lines on his lower abs. “Tryin’ to bring fists to a knife fight when I was twelve. Some assholes were trying to fuck with Meyer, and I had to deal with them. We were on the street to begin with because I ran away from foster care, and he came with me.” He drags his fingers to the smaller, circular scars. “Cigarette burns. One of the reasons I ran away from foster care.” He places his hands on his narrow hips. “Everything under the sun has tried to kill me, Ava. But it didn’t work, and it just pissed me off. It taught me that I can’t trust anyone.” He hitches one shoulder. “Other than Meyer. He’s been with me through everything.”
