Chapter 7

chapter

seven

JOEY

Holy shitballs!

Not only had creepy Brandon found out where I lived, but Kael was here too. And they had fought. Over me. I'm struggling to wrap my head around any of that.

My reality has never been men fighting to see who could have me. I mean, I've only been asked out, on actual dates, like twice. This is something else entirely.

Focus, Joey!

I survey the damage. Brandon is passed out cold, lying on the ground. Kael is wincing as he lifts his shirt and glances under his arm to a significant wound on his left flank.

"Shit, did he stab you?" I ask.

Kael looks up, frowns and shakes his head. "No, just exacerbated an old injury. Think he might have broken a rib or two though with that iron bar of his." This time he lifts his shirt to reveal skin that is already bruising.

"Ouch, that looks very painful."

He's also got several small cuts all over his torso, arms and hands.

"Let's get you upstairs, and I can clean off those wounds and see if you need to go to the hospital," I say. I wrap my arm around his back and help him over to the steps that lead up to my apartment. "Can you manage to climb these?"

He looks down at me. "My Joey, I could carry you up these stairs on my back. These are minor injuries."

"Sure," I say, with a snort. Still, I lead him up the stairs, then use the keys to unlock my door. Then I deposit him on my decrepit sofa that's more springs than cushion at this point. It makes a groaning sound when Kael drops his weight onto it.

"You stay here and I'll go get my first aid kit." I dash off to the bathroom where I happen to have an actual kit that I bought on a whim one time. The practical side of me determined that it would come in handy for minor things so I could skip a doctor's visit myself. I don't have the money for that kind of luxury.

Practical Joey for the win.

By the time I make it back out to my small living room, the big guy has his head tilted back and his big man feet and his big man boots on my coffee table. Okay, it's not so much a table as it is a piece of plywood over some cinder blocks. I'm crafty!

I sit down beside him, carefully tucking the skirt of my knee-length sundress under my thighs. Don't be too impressed that I'm in a sundress. It's not fancy. In this heat, it's just practical. Even though it's fall, and even though it rained yesterday, the weather is sweltering again. Since I walk to and from campus for my classes to save on gas, I need all the ventilation I can get. Now, with Kael so close, I wish I'd worn something that exposed less of my skin.

I open the kit and examine the cuts along his hands and his forearms.

"This is not necessary," he says. He's straightened back up and is looking directly at me.

Those green, green eyes of his feel familiar in a way I don't understand. I feel like I've seen them before. Like I should know them. Like I should know him .

Looking into his eyes gives me the strongest déjà vu I've ever felt. It's like the prickling of my skin on the back of my neck, only I feel it deep in my soul.

"I am certain if you were to kiss me, my wounds would just disappear," he says.

That's enough to break the spell, because no eyes are pretty enough to make that line believable.

I roll my eyes at him, but can't hide my smile. "Enough of your smooth talking. Get your shirt off and let me see all of the damage."

He gives me a wicked grin, then pulls off his shirt. He leans up, I'm assuming in an effort to keep blood off my sofa. Meanwhile, I'm being a dirty bird because all I'm doing is cataloging all of his muscles. So many muscles.

A breathtaking number of muscles.

But also scars. The nasty gash on his flank is oozing blood, but there are plenty of others that have already healed. Smaller ones that look like the scars from splattered hot oil. Longer gashes seem to match the recent one. They all seem at different stages of healing.

Yes, he's muscular, but the scars speak of a different kind of strength. Scars like this are won over years. Years of fighting for something or protecting someone or something.

Entranced, I run a finger over a couple of them.

When he sucks in a breath, I jerk my hand away. I clear my throat and make a show of opening my first aid kit.

"What is it you do for your job?" I ask him.

"I am a warrior."

"Like a ninja warrior?" That would track because he's definitely built like some of those guys I've seen on that show.

"No ninja," he says.

Recognition hits me. "Oh, you mean like a soldier?"

"Yes. Precisely. I am a soldier."

Again, I run my fingers over some scars. "You've seen battle then?"

"Many battles."

I go about cleaning the worst injury–the one that he says he already had. "I'm sorry he did all this to you. And I'm sorry you didn't think you could fight back." I clean off most of the blood, but more seeps into the wound. It's been sealed with some kind of stitching I don't recognize, though I'm no nurse.

I move on to examine the newer injury on his shoulder, a spot where it looks like Brandon dug the sharp end of the tire iron into his arm. "I should probably call you an ambulance."

He grabs my wrist to stop my movement, then tilts my chin so I meet his gaze. "No ambulance. I am fine. You are tending to my injuries better than any professional could."

"But he stabbed you! And beat you with a tire iron."

"It's barely a scrape." He chuffs. "And that tire iron was barely harder than the elderwood staffs we used to train with as boys."

I dig around in the box of bandaids and ointments and find a pack of wound closure strips. "This should be better than nothing. But no more fighting, so you don't break this open again."

"I can make no such promise."

"And why not?"

"Because I will always protect you."

He gives me another one of those soul-searing looks that make me feel like I'm tumbling backwards into a memory I can't grasp.

When I clear my throat and look away, he asks, "That man–what is he to you?"

"Nothing but annoying. And kind of a creep. He comes into the diner sometimes. And his son goes to the daycare where I work a few afternoons a week. He's been trying to get me to go out with him. Or just sleep with him. I don't know."

"You would do that with him?"

"No. First of all, he is married. So that's a hard pass. Secondly, there's nothing about him that I find attractive."

"He already has a mate, yet he seeks to find another?" He sounds outraged. "To steal another man's be'lashuk?"

"I don't think we have those in this country. But yeah, he wants a side-piece, I guess is what you could call it. Not sure why he latched onto me. Probably thought I was low hanging fruit."

"I do not understand that phrase," he says.

"It doesn't matter."

"I am bothered by the fact that that man was here waiting for you at your residence."

"Why?"

"It is my duty to protect you."

Gah, why is that so hot? Obviously because he's hot. But also because no one has ever protected me before. It's always been just me against the world. Joey Kincaid, party of one.

We're silent for several minutes while I clean off his wounds and bandage the larger ones.

"You are good at this, my Joey. Are you a healer?"

"No. Nothing I'm doing right now requires any special skills."

"Not true. You are taking very good care of my inconsequential cuts."

That makes me laugh. "Way to make a girl feel useful."

He smiles at me and the effect is devastating.

My entire body lights up like a damn Christmas lawn ornament. I lick my lips and force myself to focus on cleaning up the first aid supplies.

"You said you do not find that man attractive," he says. "I know you are drawn to me as I am drawn to you. You feel it too, don't you, Minka?"

Gah, something about that word–Minka–about the way he growls it in that low, rumble of his, kills me.

My entire body comes alive as if he's hit me with a live wire. Nipples hard, panties soaked, I squeeze my thighs together, nearly whimpering at the slightest pressure. I'm leaning towards him like a damn magnet.

What is it about this man?

His other hand comes up, clearly intent on cupping my other cheek, but something catches my eye in the periphery. I take his hand, palm up and gasp when I see his wrist.

Wine-stain marks, very similar to my own, dot along the first two inches of his wrist, climbing up his arm. I run my fingers over them, my mind running through every logical reason why me and this veritable stranger would have essentially the same birthmarks.

"Seed markings," he says.

He shows me his other wrist which is a duplication of its partner.

I know I can't make sense of this matching set of spots we share. I've always hated the birthmarks that dot my neck on either side, partly because one of my foster moms always tried to cover them with concealer. But partly because they're so usual. Something kids used to tease me about when they tired of making fun of my second-hand clothes and my sensitive nature.

Seeing the marks on his wrists, my mind stutters, unable to make sense of them. I shake my head to snap out of it, or I'll end up driving myself crazy looking for reasons and symbolism that aren't there.

I haven't always been a good judge of character or situations. But growing up in and out of foster care houses teaches you pretty quickly how to read things. Before I learned how to do that to protect myself, I was always searching. Looking for any little sign that meant the family would keep me. That meant I'd finally found my forever home.

That's always such a sweet sentimental moment in movies. In reality, there are no signs and you don't get to belong to anyone.

Other people might, but I don't.

So I drop his hands and come to my feet.

"You are upset," he says.

"No, I'm just busy. Have some studying to do."

Firm hands grip my shoulders stopping my movement. Every touch from him, no matter how innocuous, sets my blood on fire.

I swallow thickly.

"My Joey," his voice comes out in a husky whisper.

He's standing close enough for his warm breath to scatter goosebumps all down my arms.

I lean into his touch, my back pressing to his front.

"What do you want?" I ask him.

I'm still so confused by his pursuit of me for so many reasons, least of all the fact that he's way out of my league. That's not even being self-deprecating; that's just stone, cold facts.

"I want you," he murmurs against my skin. His lips and tongue pepper kisses along the back of my neck. "You smell so good." His hands slide down my shoulders, down my arms and settle onto my hips. "Feel so good." This he says with a squeeze of my hips.

The hard ridge of his erection presses into my bottom and lower back. He does want me, there is no denying that.

I certainly can't deny that I want him. I don't think I've ever been this aroused. My body is practically vibrating with need. I turn in his arms, to face him. I search his face, his beautiful face with those intense verdant eyes. Eyes that are looking down at me with unabashed desire.

"We don't know each other," I say.

"The knowing will come later. After the bonding." His fingers dig into the fleshy part of my ass. "Please say I can touch you, Minka. I am going mad without being able to put my hands on your skin, my lips on your lips."

I want to say yes. To believe him. To trust him.

What the hell is that?

Yes, he's hot. Yes, his hands are enormous, as is the rest of him. He practically towers over me. He's huge and strong and intense. So the lust isn't unexpected.

But that… something else… that instinct to trust him… that rattles me.

His hands are warm where they cup my jaw, his wrists brush the skin on either side of my neck, right where my weirdo birthmarks are. A sense of belonging sweeps over me. Of rightness. Of belonging in a way I've never felt before.

"Let me try something," I whisper. Then I lean up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.

He growls—straight up growls—then picks me up and turns us around so that he has me pressed against the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist and deepen the kiss. Holy shit, can he kiss. I open my mouth to him and our tongues slide against each other. Hot, wet and delicious. With my ridiculous short sundress, I'm basically open to him with just my panties up against his—wow!— super hard length. That is currently getting harder and longer.

He rocks his pelvis into me and I nearly come. This man is like sex incarnate. Why does he want me?

"Joey, I want you," he says, his voice raw and full of emotion. His mouth is doing wicked things to my neck and ear. Licking and biting and sucking, oh my!

The honest truth is I want him, too. I haven't had sex in a really long time. And I've never had really good sex. I have no doubt at all that sex with Kael would be mind-blowing. God, I really want to say yes. But I don't know him and there's still much about him that seems crazy.

All that said, being with him right now I feel absolutely no fear or apprehension. He could have taken me. He's strong enough to overpower me and put me in his car and take off. But he hasn't done that. And he's not pressuring me for the sex. Just seducing the hell out of me.

"Let me make you come."

My eyes fly open. "What?"

"Right now. Let me make you come. You're making me insane, and I've got to taste you."

"Say what now?"

He reaches between us and runs a finger up my seam, and I nearly cry out. I'm embarrassingly wet.

"Your undergarment is soaked. I can tell how you ache. I can ease that for you. Let me taste you, Joey."

Slowly he lowers me, and my cheap Wal-Mart sneakers hit the floor again. Then Kael is on his knees in front of me. "Open your legs for me, my sweet Minka."

He leans forward and rubs his nose against me, hitching one leg over his shoulder. "You smell delicious."

Holy fuck. This guy is going to legit kill me. He pulls my panties to the side and then his mouth is on me. There's no subtly to this guy. He just goes for it, eating me without qualms. Tongue, lips and a little teeth and I'm already teetering on the edge. I thread my fingers through his hair and hold on, leaning my head back against the wall and closing my eyes.

He's groaning and growling while his mouth is on me as if he truly can't get enough of me. It's such a fucking turn on, I'm so close. I've never come this quickly. Then again, I've never had anyone this skilled touch me. He slides two fingers inside me, curling them forward and he rubs, hitting that elusive spot that drives me crazy. I have a vibrator that can reach my g-spot, but I've never had a partner find it.

He sucks my clit into his mouth and that's it. I go off like a damn rocket. It's an explosive orgasm, the biggest, most intense I've ever had, and it seems to go forever while he continues his ministrations. Finally, the climax subsides and I slump against the wall. He gives me a sweet kiss at the top of my mound, then pulls my panties back in place. He stands and pulls me to him, hugging me fiercely.

"Minka, you are exquisite."

That's the second time he's called me that. And I want to ask him what it means or if it's another woman's name, but I don't think my tongue works anymore. My mouth is so dry from crying out that all I can do is let him hold me, his big hand rubbing slow circles on my back.

"Come home with me tonight," he says quietly.

I find myself nodding.

He pulls back to meet my eyes. "Truly?"

But then I snap back to my senses and shake my head. "No. Not tonight."

I blow out a breath. This day has been too much. The last hour too intense.

Even though my instincts are screaming at me to throw myself into his arms and let him have his way with me, I don't listen to them. I don't trust myself. I'm clearly swept up in some kind of post-orgasm-euphoria. And everyone knows euphorias can never be trusted.

Kael sighs, looking so disheartened I nearly laugh.

"But I will go out on a date with you tomorrow."

He grins. "What time can I pick you up?"

"I get off at six."

"I'll be here."

What did I just agree to?