Roarke put down the drywall sander and wiped his forearm across his forehead. The crew had already left for the day and he was beat. He stretched, wincing at the twinge in his side. He’d been sanding like a maniac for what seemed like hours to have the walls ready for paint and they were all done. Finally. Thank fuck.

Now he needed a hot shower, something to eat and a cold beer. Not necessarily in that order. He swung the door wide on the small fridge on his makeshift bench and decided he’d start with the beer.

He’d had a tough time staying focused today and it wasn’t like him. He kept thinking about Marina. About how she’d felt last night, how she’d sounded, how she’d taken him to her room, no questions asked, and then how she’d taken him. She should have told him to get lost, instead she’d blown his mind.

He grasped his sweaty t-shirt at the back of his neck and tugged it off, letting it drop to the floor in a cloud of white dust. He leaned back against the bench, tipped back his head to take a gulp of ice-cold beer and froze.

“Marina,” he breathed.

Jesus, did he summon her with his dirty thoughts?

“Hey. Your door was open.”

Yeah. He always kept the house wide open, especially when he was creating a shit ton of mess.

Even framed by the fading light in the doorway he could tell she was wearing another pair of those stretchy pants he’d do almost anything to see from behind. He bet they hugged the curves of her ass to perfection.

“You left something at my place,” she added, hefting the axe she held in her hand and leaning it against a wall.

“Careful,” he warned. “It’s sharp.”

Damn. He’d forgotten all about his axe after her ex had shown up. The first guy she’d kissed, the first one she’d been with. The one she’d had a child with.

Roarke had hated him on sight. He was everything he wasn’t—polished and sophisticated with his clean, manicured nails and his hundred dollar hair cut. Not to mention the fancy ride he’d had parked at the curb.

He might make a fortune flipping houses, but he still wouldn’t blow over a hundred grand on a car. He looked down at his hands covered in a layer of drywall dust. Probably some grout and who knew what else. He couldn’t remember the last time his fingernails had been that clean. Shit. Maybe never.

When he glanced back up she was looking at his chest and it probably wasn’t to appreciate his pecs. He knew she wondered. Just as he knew she’d never ask.

“Wrong end of a filthy knife,” he bit out.

The words fell from him. They should have been hard to say—they always had been before—but they weren’t. Not with Marina. He’d given up wondering why.

Her eyes lifted to his. “So they are stab wounds.”

He shrugged. She’d have had more of an idea of what they were than most, although some of them had been covered over by the surgical scars.

“There’s a lot,” she added.

“Nineteen.”

“God, Roarke.”

The number was etched into his consciousness. He’d felt every single one slice their way into his flesh. He dreamed about it, woke up drenched in sweat remembering. Except when those images came at him, they were in agonizing slow motion, not the frenzied fury it’d been in real-time.

“If she’d had better aim and some decent upper body strength, I’d probably be dead.”

Her eyes widened. “She?”

He took another swig from the bottle, looked down as he twirled it by the neck between his hands. “Yeah. She stabbed me while I was trying to stop her detonating the bomb strapped to her and her baby.”

He’d managed to wrestle the trigger from her, but if he’d let go, even for a fraction of a second, they would have all died, including the baby. The knife might have had a short blade, but it’d still hurt like a motherfucker.

“At the time I thought it was a better alternative than blowing her head off.”

The thing was, faced with the identical scenario, he’d still do the same fucking thing. Ignore orders to take the shot and try to be a hero instead. And what had he been left with? Nightmares and regrets. Because he might have saved them that day, but who the hell knew the next day or the next day after that?

He glanced up at Marina. She’d paled, had her hand up over her mouth and he should be kicking his own ass for telling her something like that. That knowledge wasn’t for someone like her. It should be for someone like him to keep to his fucking self.

“Sorry,” he forced out. “People think those of us who came back are the lucky ones. I’m not so sure about that.”

He’d heard it hundreds of times. How lucky he was. To have made it. To be able to come home. For that fucking knife to miss most of his major organs. To live through his wounds and beat the infections. But he’d never felt lucky, not once. Not until Marina looked at him, with that quiet acceptance she had, not until she’d seen him, the real him, but still wanted him anyway.

“Are they part of why you hadn’t been with anyone in a long time?” Her voice was soft and eased some of the tension in his shoulders.

“No,” he bit out.

It wasn’t what they looked like. Seriously, he didn’t give a fuck about that.

“The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done, they stripped something out of me. The ability to feel for one. For good.”

“No.”

He frowned. “You refusing to believe me doesn’t change the facts. I’m broken, Marina. I know it. I accept it. You should too.”

She tilted her head to the side. “I’ll tell you some facts. You feel. Maybe too much and that’s your problem. You’ve shut that part of you down. Like a protective mechanism. Because you care. And you feel.”

He shook his head. “My job was to kill people. And I did.”

Coldly and with precision. Because that was his job. What he’d been trained for. What had been expected of him.

“Before they killed you. Before they hurt—”

“Dead is still dead.”

“Roarke—”

“What are you doing here, Marina?”

He knew. Of course he did. His heart rate had kicked up the moment he saw her. But he wanted to hear her say it, needed her to, even though he wasn’t sure he was good company or any kind of company right now. Even if that kind of company involved her flat on her back under him.

“Sam’s with her dad tonight so I came to return your axe and…” She bit her lip and walked toward him, stopping between his outstretched legs, almost touching but not quite. She dropped her gaze to his chest—then lower—and damn if his stomach muscles didn’t tighten at the look in her eyes. “I thought I could practice my blow job skills.”

Roarke choked on the mouthful of beer he’d just taken. He coughed, wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I mean, I’m not great at it, so don’t get your hopes up or anything, but I want to know what you taste like, how you feel in my mouth, what—”

He reached out and placed a hand across her mouth before the images in his head caused him to combust where he stood.

“Is this your version of foreplay?” he growled.

Her felt her lips move against his palm. She’d smiled. He saw it in her eyes.

She batted his arm aside. Yep. Smiling.

“Is it working?”

And who the fuck had given her the idea she wasn’t great at it? Yeah, no way he wanted to know that, but he had a pretty good idea. Fucker. God, she deserved… He didn’t know what, but it was more than him, more than what he had.

He tossed the empty beer bottle into the wheelie bin he hadn’t taken outside yet, satisfied when it broke with a loud smash.

His touch had left a white streak on her cheek. She bit her lip when he lifted a finger to brush it off and just transferred more to her smooth, creamy skin. He looked down at his dusty boots and plaster-spattered pants. There was even drywall dust in the hairs on his arms.

“I’m filthy.”

She gave him a look so hot he felt the heat in his cheeks. “That’s, um…what I was sort of counting on.”

He groaned. “You can’t say things like that to me, Marina.”

She laughed. “I just did.”

He brushed some of the dust off his chest. “I have to shower.”

“Then hurry.”

Roarke pushed himself away from the bench, already mapping out in his mind how he could have the fastest shower in recorded history.

“Wait.” She frowned. “No crutches?”

“Nope.” And it hadn’t been soon enough for him. “I saw the doctor this morning. She said no crutches, no physio, no follow-up.” He motioned to the fridge. “Help yourself to a beer if you want.”

He’d be glad if he never saw another pair of crutches again. He had his pants undone before he got to the bedroom. He toed off his boots and socks and left them by the bedroom door so that he wouldn’t track the dust into his room. Or not much anyway.

It only took a few minutes to soap up and wash the grime out of his hair, towel off most of the water and grab a pair of sweats to yank on. Christ, anyone would think he was worried she’d change her mind.

When he came out of the bathroom, she was in his room, kneeling on the floor next to…

Shit.

“Roarke, these are incredible.” She held up one of the more complicated 3-D stars. “And you keep them in an old.” She tilted her head to the side to read the print. “Tile box?”

He shrugged. What else would he do with them? He’d taught himself Origami to help pass the time. When he was too exhausted to run, too tired to work on the house, too jacked up to sleep. The level of detail, precision and discipline appealed to him. He’d cycled through a bunch of designs from abstract to animals, even fucking flowers. He’d even started making his own designs. Once he filled up the box, he tossed them and started over.

When she straightened he had a clear view of her ass in those snug pants for a split second and yeah, it was just as spectacular as he’d imagined.

She took a plain black band off her wrist, lifted her arms and put her hair up in a ponytail with a few quick twists. Her gaze was already heated, a flush to her cheeks.

The blood roared in his ears, anticipation a raging inferno inside him. Aw, shit. She meant business.

“I want to do it from when you’re still soft,” she murmured.

He pushed out a rough laugh. Was she kidding?

“Too late.” That ship had sailed the minute he’d laid eyes on her.

He sat down in the only seating he had in the room, an old wooden kitchen chair he used to put his boots on. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but in a few minutes he didn’t think he’d give a shit.

She kept her eyes on his as she knelt between his legs, tucked her fingers in the waistband of his sweats and tugged. He lifted his hips and eased them down enough so that his dick sprang free.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” she whispered.

Yeah. Right. He would have scoffed except she curled her hand around him in that exact moment. All he could do was suck in a breath. Her hand was cool against his hot skin—cool and smooth and so fucking good.

“Are you just going to look at it?” he drawled when she didn’t move. And God, he needed her to move.

She licked her lips and his gaze was drawn to her mouth and those full, wet lips.

“I’m trying to decide.”

She trailed her fingertips up his length then cupped him in her palm for a single, slow, firm stroke.

“On?” he forced out. It was all he could do not to wrap his hand around hers tightening her grip and thrusting up into her hand.

“Well, I could go slow and gentle. Start with some licks and build up from there, maybe just suck the head. Or I could just say what the hell and try to stuff as much as I could in my mouth all at once, as far as I could take you.”

Christ.

He groaned. “You’re killing me here, Marina.”

She bent to him, hesitated. His leg flexed in anticipation, the move so slight she might not have seen it.

A soft, slow lick? Or a full mouth, nothing held back engulf and suck?

“Marina.”

Her eyes lifted to his. “In case there’s any confusion, I want you to come in my mouth.”

Fuck.

She bent close to him, sighed. He flinched at the wash of her breath over him.

“And afterward?” she breathed. “I want you to come inside me.”

“Marina,” he forced out. “I’m not a sex machine, you know.”

She sighed again, her hand tightening around him. “You could be. You totally could be.”

* * * * *

 

Marina woke to heat against her back, an inferno raging inside her. It was a heat that could only be generated by a male body. A solid, unyielding male body. She lay on her side, Roarke pressed against her—close—his hot breath against her skin, his hardness firm against her ass.

She shivered when his mouth closed over the curve of her shoulder, moved up her neck to just under her ear, licking and sucking the sensitive skin there.

“This is your morning wake-up call,” he murmured.

Oh, God, she’d stayed the night. She hadn’t meant to, but he’d shown her how agile he could be without having to baby his leg and she’d been wiped out.

She had work, so she really needed to get going.

“If—if you kiss my neck, I’m not responsible for what happens next.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, rubbing his beard against her neck before closing his teeth over the line of muscle there. He nibbled and kissed and used his teeth to score her skin, over and over. “Then leave it to me.”

She gasped when a hard, rough hand cupped her breast, molded her shape and again when his fingers rolled a nipple between them.

“Roarke, God, I—”

His hand slid down over her stomach until his fingers eased between her legs. And then they were there, right there, rubbing against her clit until her hips began jerking back against him.

It was good, great, God…amazing, but she needed more—more pressure, more depth, just…more.

“Roarke,” she whimpered.

“I’m here.”

A low groan tore from her when he slid two fingers deep. She shuddered, arched back against him and closed her eyes as he thrust them in and out, slow, shallow, and damn, still not enough. The best she could so was rock into his hand, against his fingers as they plowed into her in a steady, mind-destroying rhythm.

She made to turn around. She wanted to look at him, touch him, offer herself to him, tell him he could do anything to her so that he’d stop teasing, but he held her in place with an arm across her body.

“Roarke,” she sobbed.

“Shhhh. I only wanted to make sure you were ready.”

Ready? She was going to die she was so ready.

Her heart slammed against her chest when he withdrew his fingers and she heard the familiar crinkle. The tremble started in her legs and spread until every part of her shook in anticipation. Her throat went chalk dry when his hand brushed the curves of her ass with his movements. Because she knew what he was doing, what was coming. And that it was going to be her. And soon.

She felt the heat and wetness between her legs when he adjusted his position behind her, tried to take a steadying breath, but it was no use. She couldn’t get enough air.

“I want to fuck you,” he breathed at her ear.

Oh God.

“Just like this.”

And then she could barely think as he lifted her thigh over his and slid into her from behind, no hesitation, just delicious expert precision.

She gasped as he filled her, thick and iron hard, the angle driving him against some part of her that almost made her come right then.

Forceful. Gentle. It seemed impossible to be both, but he was. Every. Time.

She wanted to take a second to get used to him, but his fingers dug softly into her hip, holding her in place as be began to move.

Hard heat speared through her, out from where they were joined, his thrusts deep and slow. The hair roughened skin of his thighs against the back of hers created a friction that caused a tingling all the way down her legs to her toes. Or it could have been his thick length, stretching her wide with each pump.

That hand slid down over her tummy again, his fingers spread wide over the soft curve, anchoring her against him. She couldn’t move, couldn’t thrust the way she wanted, the way she needed. All she could do was accept his depth and the pace he set.

Her clit ached, throbbed. Before she was aware of what she was doing, her hand was between her legs. She rubbed against herself, right where it stung, gasping at the sensation of her own fingers. It still wasn’t enough.

“Let me.”

Roarke brushed her hand aside and she whimpered. Until he replaced her fingers with his own. He began flicking back and forth against her clit, fast, frenzied movements, all while he maintained the relentless, unyielding rhythm. God, she could almost imagine it was his tongue between her legs.

Marina arched back against him as he nibbled and sucked and licked at the skin of her neck. She shivered at the sensation of his hot breath against her, sawing in and out of his heavy chest in time to the force of his thrusts, his talented fingers, the sound a roar in her ear.

“I’m…”

She’d been going to say “close” but she never got the chance. Sensation exploded through her body, curling out from where they were joined until it made her a quivering mass of pleasure—shaking, gasping, blind.

She clutched at his arm, driving his fingers harder against her as she rode out wave after wave of pleasure until it evened out, until she could finally open her eyes.

“Roarke,” she choked out because he hadn’t stopped moving, hadn’t even slowed down. “Please.”

His harsh breathing was still a loud roar in her ear and she could feel his thundering heartbeat against her back.

“Sorry,” he rasped, his movements stilling.

He hissed when he eased out of her and Marina frowned. He was still thick and hard. She’d felt him. It was almost as if…

“Roarke—”

“I gotta go.”

He eased off the bed, made for the bathroom. She sat up, her limbs shaky, but no way was she going to miss an opportunity to look at him, not full view. Her mouth went dry at the sight of hard muscles sliding under the smooth skin of his back and the curves of his firm ass. It was hard to believe she’d ridden that body, had had her hands all over him, been under him.

She bit her lip at the surge of heat, but in an instant it was gone. As he walked into the bathroom and turned for the shower, he was still fully erect.

Marina almost stumbled over her own feet when she got to the bathroom doorway, because holy crap.

Roarke. In the shower. One arm braced on the wall in front of him, his head bowed under the spray and his other hand… God, his other hand was wrapped around himself, jerking in a series of sharp tugs.

Heat surged through her, blooming low in her abdomen and then even lower. The muscles of his upper arm flexed with each movement and her mouth went dry, her heartbeat kicked back up, and the still sensitive flesh between her legs throbbed.

He grunted when he came, the sound so low she almost missed it over the running water.

Holy. Shit.

Marina released the breath she’d been holding in a long, shaky exhale as he washed himself off, the movements quick and efficient. She’d never watched a guy do that before, hadn’t realized how…hot it could be, how intense, how much of a turn-on.

Her breath caught at the sharp punch to her gut when he shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. She’d never, ever get used to the impact of seeing him naked. Nothing hidden, no hint of modesty, just powerful male confidence.

He glanced at her before reaching for his towel and she swallowed against the thickness in her throat because she knew. He’d known she was there, watching him and he’d done it anyway.

“That—that might just be the hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” she managed. “But don’t walk away from me to do that ever again. I could have—”

“No.”

She frowned. “Why not?”

She really wanted to ask him why he hadn’t come, why he hadn’t let her help him, pleasure him, but all the old doubts came rushing back at her. Maybe she sucked at this sex-with-the-hot-guy stuff. Maybe she’d sucked at the blow job last night. How would she even know?

He knotted a towel around his waist and turned to her. His face was drawn in tight lines, his gaze dark and intense when it raked over her, lingering on all her girlie parts.

Shit, how could she have forgotten she was naked too?

“What I gave you was a gift, freely given. Just for you.”

“But—”

“If I’d come, if you’d reciprocated, it wouldn’t have been a gift.”

She licked her lips and the look in his eyes caused her breath to catch. “I—I don’t understand.”

“I’ve got precious little to give anyone, Marina, but I can at least give you that. It was a gift, okay? From me to you.” He shrugged. “No big deal.”

Right. She nodded, but not about it not being a big deal. It was huge.

He’d given her pleasure and hadn’t taken his own when he could have.

She walked to him and stopped, her steps slow and sure when everything in her felt anything but. This close she could feel the heat coming off his big body from the shower and smell the soap he’d used. A lone drop of water hugged the hard curve of one pec muscle. What she wouldn’t give to be brave enough to lean forward and lick it.

Marina sighed. He was hot and clean and from the bulge at the front of his towel, not exactly fully satisfied. She wanted nothing more than to drop to her knees in front of him, yank at the towel and thank him with her mouth.

She bit her lip. God, now she could imagine how he’d taste, how he’d feel against her tongue, how he’d fill her mouth, the sounds he’d make. God, she wanted him inside her again. Right now. Up against the wall, on the vanity, anywhere, didn’t matter.

He stiffened when she put her hand on his chest and locked her gaze with his. His jaw clenched, his eyes wary, almost as if he were braced for something.

Everything about him screamed mean and dangerous. The muscles, the stark tattoos, the darkness in the depths of his eyes and God, the scars. He should have scared her. At the very least made her wary. But he never had. She’d known he was different from the first time she’d looked into his eyes.

This man had given up his own pleasure. For her. So, okay, it might have been some screwy logic, but God…it was so damn sweet, so hot, so…

Marina sighed and swallowed back all the words she wanted to say, because she knew he wouldn’t want them. Besides, she’d promised him she could do this only-sex thing. She didn’t want to break any rules, especially her own.

“You know,” she whispered instead, leaning in close, almost smiling when she saw his eyes narrow in warning. “You’re the best damn alarm clock I ever had.”