Dangerous:Made & Broken (A British Bad Boy Romance)(6)

When I walked into the en-suite bathroom and caught a look of myself in  the mirror, I was suddenly extra glad I had my own clothes available-I  looked like a big, poofy nightmare. My mother had decided on puff  sleeves, a full skirt that accentuated my already rounder-than-ideal  hips, and so many sequins it looked like a fairy had had an acute round  of diarrhea all over me.

But it wasn't just the dress that composed the horrifying image that stared back at me from the mirror. It was also my face.

It wasn't so much the makeup-I never bothered to wear much, if any, so  the lack of pizazz wasn't unusual-as it was the red rims underneath my  eyes and the pale, taut look of my skin. I looked like an abuse  victim-all that was lacking was a badly covered bruise or two.

Angrily, I tore off the dress, ripping it in my haste. I wasn't a victim-not anymore.

I took a swig of the bottle I'd hijacked from Blaine, and then I went to work.

There were bottles of tonics and lotions on the shelves next to the  sink, and I didn't hold back. I washed and scrubbed and sprayed and  smeared until my skin glowed rosy and the woman who looked back from the  mirror was closer to who I'd become in the past eight years rather than  who I'd been for the first eighteen of my life.         

     



 

When I loosened my hair from the tight braid it had been in all day and  ran my fingers through it, some of the tension in my shoulders finally  melted away. My chestnut locks fell over my shoulders in unruly waves,  encircling my breasts and upper arms.

I grazed a hand over the white scars on my soft belly as I looked at  myself in the mirror. Not that any amount of scrubbing would ever make  those go away. The permanent reminder of who I'd been-the unbreakable  proof of my inherent weakness. I hated them almost as much as I hated  the people who had put them there.

Fighting a shudder, I pulled the nightie I'd brought from the closet  over my head and slipped on a pair of panties before taking a final slug  of the whiskey. Dwelling on that was not what I needed right now.  Blaine Steel was a dangerous man-I knew that on a near-instinctive  level, but I couldn't fall back into my old patterns. I had to be strong  enough to get through this, just as I'd somehow made it through the  night I'd gotten my scars.

The bedroom was dark when I finally stepped out of the bathroom. I  frowned into the shadows, not remembering when I'd turned the lights  off, but I was a bit too drunk to give it a second thought.

Instead, I fumbled my way to the large bed I could vaguely make out in  the small bit of light that made its way through the curtains, intent on  falling into a deep, dreamless sleep. Tomorrow was a new day, and I was  planning on spending it teaching Blaine that he wouldn't be pushing me  around.

I found my way to the big bed without stubbing my toes on the wooden  frame and-with a bit more fumbling-located a nightstand where I dropped  off my glasses and the bottle of whiskey, and then climbed in.

The soft embrace of the mattress and duvets was heaven. I sighed at the  feel of cool sheets wrapping around my body, and again as I rolled over  to bury myself good and proper in the middle of the luxurious sensation.

And that's when my hand hit something hard and warm and decidedly skin-like.

I've never shrieked quite like I did then. The mixed shock of realizing I  wasn't alone in the room-or even the bed-and the unexpectedness at  touching someone made me lift at least half a foot off the sheets.

"What the actual fuck!" I rolled to the bedside table and searched  wildly for a lamp until my fingers finally connected with a button and I  illuminated the room.

Blaine-topless Blaine-squinted at me from the other side of the bed. "Fuck, you could deafen dogs with that scream."

I stared at him, mouth halfway open, as my addled brain tried to process  the situation. Which unfortunately included the full view of Blaine's  ridiculously chiseled, tattoo-covered torso. I couldn't stop my eyes  from following the pattern of swirling lines until he cleared his throat  demonstratively, and I realized I'd been ogling him for a good thirty  seconds at least.

"Changed your mind about that shag, then?"

It was impressive, really. He had a gift for sounding equal parts annoyed and smug, and the result was absolutely infuriating.

"Get out of my bed!" I was all too aware of the heat in my cheeks, but I  did my best to push the embarrassment aside and focus on the indignity  of finding him near-naked in bed with me. I pulled the duvet up to cover  my chest, but regretted it the next second. Apparently, he wasn't just  near-naked.

"Jesus Christ!" I clamped my mouth shut, but not before my startled  exclamation made it impossible to pretend like I hadn't seen anything.

As if it wasn't bad enough that I was now staring at his cock. No, it  was made so much worse-and it was freaking enormous. And semi-erect.

Blaine stretched out, folding his arms behind his head. He was obviously  enjoying my flustered state. "I'm not going anywhere. This is my bed  too, if you remember-wifey."

"You're not going to sleep next to me, you creep!" I hissed, doing my  best not to look below his navel again. The problem was that restriction  either left me with his hard abs and chiseled pecs, or his smirking  face. With as much dignity as I could muster I turned around so I could  no longer see him at all. "There's a perfectly good couch in the  lounge."

"Sorry love, I'm gonna be way too hungover tomorrow to wake up on a  couch. You're just gonna have to deal with it." He yawned and stretched  in what I was certain was the most provocative way possible, making  every defined muscle in his body roll. "Turn off the light, will ya?"

"No! Get out!"

"Not a chance. But no one's stopping you from sleeping on the couch, are they?"

There was just enough challenge in his rumbly voice to make me see red.  Perhaps in hindsight, I should have just given in and slept on the damn  couch, but his arrogance-and possibly the vast amounts of whiskey-got to  me. And it got to me good.         

     



 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? I'm telling you right now, you're not  going to boss me around in this marriage, you absolute …  twat!" I gave  him a baleful glare, which I immediately regretted when my eyes caught  sight of his absurdly huge cock again. Either I was hindered by my lack  of glasses, or the damn thing was even bigger now than it'd been before.  My cheeks flushed with heat, and I quickly tore my gaze away and  flopped down on my back, arms folded over my chest. "I'm staying  here-and you need to leave."

"Whatever you say, love."

The bed creaked, and for a moment I thought he was actually getting out.  My rush of victory proved short-lived. Before I could blink, Blaine  rolled over on top of me, only barely keeping off of me by resting on  one arm a mere inch above the duvet. The other arm he extended out so he  could turn off the lights.

I got a full view of his strong body as he hovered over me before the  lights went out-just long enough for the more carnal parts of my brain  to awaken.

Heat spread from low in my abdomen, racing all the way up through my  body and down my thighs until I could feel my pulse throb everywhere he  would touch if he lowered himself that small inch to press down on top  of me.

Looking back, my body's mutinous reaction wasn't all too surprising. As  much as I hated him for who he was, Blaine was so perfectly male and  ruthlessly handsome most women would find it hard to breathe with him up  close and personal like this-especially when he didn't have a shred of  clothing on. The fact that he was as dangerous as they come seemed to  have been erased by my drunken state, and the result was perfectly  predictable.

Unfortunately for me, I wasn't at all prepared when my abdomen seemed to  melt, the liquid proof moistening my panties in a warm rush.

My first instinct was shocked humiliation that a man I hated could make  me soak my panties just by being on top of me. Then, thankfully, came  the fury.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I slapped my hands up, both  palms connecting with his pecs with a satisfying smack. "Get off me!"

Above me in the darkness, Blaine hissed at the impact. "Don't ever hit me again." It was a warning.

Perhaps if I'd been sober, I would have taken his threat to heart, even through my own fury. Too bad I was anything but.

"Or what, you'll beat me bloody? Slit my throat? Exactly how much  violence do you need to inflict to feel like a tough guy?" I shoved his  shoulders in an attempt to get him off me, but all that accomplished was  to make him lose his balance so he fell down on top of the duvet,  pinning my body to the mattress with his.

"I'd never harm a woman-even if she is the most obnoxious little bitch  I've ever met." Blaine raised up on both arms this time, and I could  sense him hovering above me as close as before. "But if you push me  again, you're going to be sorry."

I pushed him. Hard. Because fuck him-and the horse he rode in on. "I'm not afraid of you!"