Standing in the bathroom, I run my fingertips over the edge of the bandage on my chest. Steam billows out from the shower behind me where Artem stands under the hot stream.
When we returned from his father’s bunker, I took a long, hot shower while he got rid of the dead raccoon on the porch and finished bringing wood inside for the night. While the heat from my shower worked its magic on my tense muscles, I thought over what Artem had told me on the drive back.
He explained Seamus’ disappearing act when he was a small boy, how his mother had to navigate single motherhood with no family to support her. She’d come to Boston from Russia with her sister and brother, but when she became involved with Seamus, an Irishman, they’d turned their backs.
Artem had grown up years before any little boy should have to, and then when his stepfather died, he’d had to do it all over again. This time taking on the responsibility of two little girls. And then he’d lost them all.
What if being with me makes him lose everything he’s built for himself?
My thoughts are cut short when the water turns off and the shower door slides open.
My eyes flicker straight to him, watching his muscles tighten and lengthen with his movements as he drags the towel across his skin. So many tattoos cover his chest and arms, but there are almost as many scars.
Battle wounds of a warrior who stands in protection for my family. For me.
He catches me looking in the mirror and grins.
“Don’t get cocky.” I roll my eyes and unwind the towel from my hair, letting the wet tresses fall down my back.
He wraps the towel around his waist, tucking the end in before stepping out of the shower.
I get a glimpse of the bandage on his arm and laugh. “Don’t we make a great pair?”
He eyes my chest. His muscles tighten.
“Does it hurt still?” He stands behind me, the heat from his shower radiating against my back.
“No.” I lie. It throbs a little but if I tell him that he might think twice about touching me. And right now, all I can think about is him getting his hands on me.
“What about your arm?” I meet his gaze in the mirror. The vicious hunger there makes my heart speed up.
“A scratch.”
“When do you need another shot?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Not for two days.” He picks up the brush on the counter and drags it through my hair. “Your hearing is back to normal?”
“It is.” He shifts his stance, gliding his left hand up my back, into my hair where he makes a fist. He drags my head back until my neck is exposed and I’m leaning on his shoulder.
His skin remains damp and warm from the shower, but nothing compared to how wet and hot he’s making me. I press my body back into him, needing more contact with him.
“You were a good girl for daddy today,” he whispers in my ear. A shiver shoots straight down my spine and between my legs.
He presses the back of the hairbrush to my hip. “I’m still going to spank you, though.”
My body stiffens, but my insides melt into a goo that should be studied by scientists. They might be able to find a cure for this insanity.
“But you just said I was good.”
“You were a good girl.” He drags his tongue along the side of my neck. “My very good girl. But sometimes I want to see your ass red for no reason. And you’ll be daddy’s good girl and take it, won’t you, Babygirl?”
He tightens his fist in my hair, sending electricity zipping through my scalp. But it’s all connected to my clit. Every bite of pain he gives me anywhere on my body answers directly to my libido.
I moan without even trying to fight it. What’s the point? He knows he can take whatever he wants from me, and I’ll give it freely. Where is all the control I had before he showed up in Boston?
For years I’d been able to keep myself from showing him or anyone around us how much I really wanted him. I never mentioned him to my brothers or their wives. If they brought him up in conversation, I forced myself to appear uninterested.
Now? He gets close to me, and I can barely control my breathing, much less any other part of my body.