“Gonna love you now, beautiful girl,” he whispers as he kneels between my legs. “Gonna love you until you don’t ever want to let go.”

And before I feel even a flicker of anxiety, he thrusts into me, his cock a painful pleasure as it glides through my sensitive inner walls. “You are mine, Sia.” He withdraws and drives in again, deeper this time, ripping a groan from my throat. “I want to look after you. Love you. Protect you. Everything I have, everything I am, I want to give you. I wanna be there when you wake. I wanna be holding you when you fall asleep, and I want to be inside you every minute of every day whether I’m in your head or in your heart or in your very sweet pussy.”

His words sink into me, cover me, warm me. Dazed with pleasure, on the brink of release, I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck pulling him down for a kiss. This time there is no teasing, no violence, no heat. His kiss is soft and sweet, his fingers stroking my face in an almost reverent gesture.

“Sia.” My name is a murmur on his lips, a whispered prayer.

When he moves again, he gentles his stroke, holding me on the brink, giving me enough to keep me on edge but not enough to tip me over. Bracing himself with one hand, he sweeps the other down my body, then up again to caress my breast.

“I can make you feel good without this.” He flicks the piercing in my nipple. “Or this.” He reaches down to my hood and tugs on the little barbell. “You don’t need them. I can give you back what he took from you. Reclaim yourself through me.”

I answer with a kiss, sweeping my tongue through his mouth, tasting him as he drops his weight and we sink deeper into the bed.

“You okay?” He covers my body with kisses and caresses, firing my nerves with sensation and my heart not with fear but with warmth.

“Love me,” I whisper, as he tortures me with yet another slow slide of his deliciously thick, hard cock. “And do it fast.”

One last gentle kiss, one promising quirk of the lips, and then he grips my hips and pounds into me, so hard, so deep, so fast that my orgasm crashes through me in a tidal wave of pleasure, washing away the last of my fears as it ripples out to my fingers and toes. Ray stiffens, hammers deep, and climaxes, his fingers digging grooves into my skin as his cock pulses inside me.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers as he collapses on top of me, his hard body over my soft curves, his sun-darkened skin a contrast to my paler complexion. But we fit together—our bodies mold together in an eclectic contrast worthy of this room.

“You did it,” he says softly.

“So did you. I didn’t hurt you.”

My eyelids grow heavy and sleep falls over me, a thick, black, warm curtain scented of Ray and me and sex, and surrounded by the deep rumble of his voice.

The only thing spoiling this perfect moment is his whisper just before I drift off.

“But you did hurt me.”

Chapter 21

Cut me

The next morning, Doctor Death comes in for his ass addition. I tell him I don’t want to have to worry about Ray ripping off his balls, so Duncan has agreed to take over. Doctor Death is not pleased. He says he prefers my soft hands. Duncan offers to rub some lotion on his skin. I crack up, but no one seems to get the joke. Maybe they don’t like psychological thrillers like me.

Yuri stops by for another tattoo. He is wearing a black hummingbird tie over a white shirt and baggy black pants. Rose regretfully informs him that we’re booked solid for today. She suggests he make an appointment, which is what most people do. For the first time, Yuri loses his cool. He thumbs his nose, showing off the heavy, gold bling on his fingers, then removes his dark sports shades and glares. Spending a lot of time around fighters has made me proficient at interpreting nonverbal aggressive communication. I quickly join Rose at her desk and tell Yuri I have an hour free, and if he doesn’t need a complicated piece, I will be happy to help.

Mollified, Yuri settles himself in my chair. He wants a small pink rose tatted on his bicep above the most evil-looking skull tat I have ever seen. While I prepare and ink his arm, he peppers me with personal questions about where I live, places I hang out, friends, boyfriends, and days I have off, all of which I struggle to avoid answering. He is unfailingly polite, never pushes when I am evasive with my answers, and doesn’t flirt in any obvious way. My mind says there is no reason to mistrust him, and yet instinct has other ideas, making my skin prickle and my pulse pound until the tattoo is finally done.

Slim arrives just as Yuri is leaving. He grumbles about the renos at the old shop. He wants everything to look the same as it was before and has been sourcing used chairs and equipment to replace the furniture that was damaged. He wants character, not shiny new. As he talks, I look around the shop. Although we haven’t been here long, it feels like home to me. Not just because it’s the kind of shop I had always imagined working in, but because of the fighters who have become my friends and how safe I feel when I walk in the door.

“At least Torment scared away that damned idiot who was going to defile the shop with his car race mural.” Slim gestures to the blank wall and snorts a laugh. “Hopefully we’ll be outta here before Torment finds someone to replace him.”

“What would you put on that wall?” Christos comes up behind me and rests a hand on my shoulder.

“Paintings,” I say softly, so Slim doesn’t overhear. “I’d show local artists. Change them out every week.” Maybe even start with my own work. A thrill of excitement slides down my spine at the thought of painting canvases big enough to fill the space.