“But would I let you get hurt, Honor? We both know the answer to that. I let you work in that fucking club. I should have pulled you out the second I found you.”
“Based on what? Knowing me fifteen years ago? I wouldn’t have let you.”
The look he gives me says I wouldn’t have had a choice. “I let Byron stay with you, even though I knew he was using you. He saw it as some kind of karmic retribution for our dad leaving us. I was so relieved when I found out you’d left. Even when I found out the bounty was on your head, and I came looking for you…”
I wait, holding my breath. My heart felt heavy as a stone, sinking. Already underground. “What?”
“I thought that I could be cold with you. I wasn’t the only one with a grudge. I thought I could use you to get in with your father, convince him to see Byron for what he is. And I thought I could use you to get to Clara, to make up for being absent all this time.” He shakes his head. “But I saw you on that stage, and I had to wait. I told myself it was better to wait, to gain your trust. And with the side benefit that I could touch you and fuck you and sink my fingers into that soft cunt of yours.”
That cunt squeezes now, muscles tight and wanting.
“I had principles, Honor. I had plans. But when I looked at you, all I could think about was keeping you with me, whatever I had to do. I threw away everything just to have you, and the only thing I regret is that you got hurt. If it weren’t for that, I’d do it all over again. I’d bind you with sex and money and whatever the fuck else it took, without a single thought to what you want.”
I reach down to the hem of my shirt and lift it over my head. It tugs my wound, and I wince behind the fabric, hiding it because I know he’ll mind more than I do. “Then spare a thought for what I want now, Kip.” My pajama pants go next, shoved down as far as I can bend and falling the rest of the way. It’s far from a sexy striptease. This dimly lit porch is the opposite of a stage. But he is enthralled anyway, watching me, swallowing hard. I see the bulge in his jeans.
There won’t be any lap dances tonight. I couldn’t swivel my body like that if I wanted to. And maybe he’s right after all. Maybe I should be in bed. But I don’t care if I pull my stitches. I don’t care if I hurt. It hurts worse not to be here with him, like this. Not to feel those thick fingers inside my cunt—which is ready for him. I’ve always been ready for him.
He slides a hand over my hip, cupping my ass. His groan is all the approval I need. What is the difference between groping and touching, between stripping and this? The dark heat in his eyes. The hitch in his breathing. Or maybe the way he says, “Is this okay? Am I hurting you?”
The way he cares.
“I’m fine,” I breathe. I’m actually hurting, but not because he’s touching me. I’m on fire, I’m burning up—but his hand on me is cool water, soothing me. I don’t ever want him to stop.
But then he does stop, when his dark gaze lands on my lingering bruises. His jaw clenches. “And you think I’m fucking sorry I killed him. The only thing I’m sorry about is not keeping him alive to do this to him before shooting him.”
And that would only mean more pain for Kip, more guilt. “I’m glad it was quick.”
“You would be,” he says grimly. “You always were too forgiving.”
Maybe so, but I know he’ll never forgive himself. Not for letting me get hurt, not for leaving Clara as a child. Not for killing the monster that was his brother.
I will do what I can for him, though. I’ll give him unconditional support, the best way I know how. All that practice stripping helps for something. I run my hands over my breasts, attracting his attention, offering myself.
He’s staring at them with hunger. With need. His gaze roams lower.
And I freeze, knowing what he’ll see.
I keep myself bare, usually. I shaved when I worked at the club. And before that, with Byron, I waxed. I haven’t been able to do either of those things while I’ve been laid up recovering the past few days. There’s short, stubbly hair that hasn’t been trimmed or shaped at all. Self-conscious, I move to cover myself.
His hand catches my wrist. “Don’t,” he says gruffly.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t hide from me.”
I close my eyes and let my hand fall to my side. Trust. That’s what this is about. He knows it, and I do too. Trust that he’ll like my body when I’m no longer the smooth, sleek stripper he saw onstage. Trust that he wants me for more than sex. I don’t know much about trust. It’s a language I don’t speak. But I hear the sound of it, the heart of it, when I’m near him. I want this badly enough to try. I need him badly enough to shake with the effort.