“I’m not. Scared of you, I mean.”
“Good.”
After a moment, he leaned forward again, intensity suddenly full force—she absolutely should have been scared of that crazy light in his eyes, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t.
“You may be runnin’ from some bad shit, but you still got attitude. I respect that about you, Uma. Always liked that in a woman. But I’ll tell you somethin’. I see a look you get in your eyes sometimes. I recognize that look. Seen it on Squeak’s face after I took her from the guy who had her chained up in his yard. Used to beat the shit outta her. I seen it on…” He trailed off, obviously holding back. That was okay. He didn’t owe her anything. And maybe she didn’t want to hear what else he’d seen. “But I find out who your man is? What he did to you? I see him sniffin’ around here lookin’ for you? I will tear him apart, Uma.”
Oh. She could imagine the scene clearly—Ivan taking Joey down neatly with a surgical punch to the nose, then holding him for her while she worked his skin with his own stupid tattoo machine. Vengeance like she’d never imagined. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of needing a big man to help her exact it, but the possibility was heady. There was no way to take to the courts for revenge. No, the law was Joey’s domain, but this…
Absolutely not. Uma stopped her thoughts cold, feeling like a psychopath.
“No. You’re not beating anyone up for me.” She softened the words with a smile and met his eyes, where bloodlust still shone, perhaps even reflected in hers. “But thank you.”
It took all the courage Uma had to reach out then and place her clammy hand over his warm one.
It was her undoing, that contact. Or maybe it had been his tirade—the idea that this man who hardly knew her, this stranger, was willing to defend her. Or perhaps the sight of his heartbreakingly beautiful face, lovely and bare. Either way, Uma crossed a line with that touch. Like in a movie, when the shot pans around the room, flip-flopping the perspective, she’d changed the rules, broken the barrier, dragging them into unknown territory.
They both stared at her hand for a beat or two before their heads lifted and their eyes met.
He moved first, flipping his hand so their palms came together. That touch was so much more intimate than it should have been, like lying belly to belly, naked. Their skin rasped gently as his thumb rode the bumps of Uma’s knuckles.
Ivan’s lids looked heavy, and when she glanced at his mouth, it was no longer stern but lush and ripe and hungry. Her eyes fled the invitation there and skittered back to the safety of their hands, but that was ten times worse. Because watching that rough, callused thumb—capable of so much violence—barely skate across the surface of her hand, more gently than she’d ever been touched in her life… That was too much. Like hand porn.
Which obviously wasn’t a thing.
Although, maybe it was a thing, and if it wasn’t, damn it, it should have been. She could imagine the Tumblr feeds, ogled by closeted pervs like herself. She pictured herself hunting down shots of scarred, manly, thick-knuckled hands toying with pathetic, unsuspecting, small ones.
But then, in a moment of clarity, she knew, without fully understanding it, that what really turned her crank here wasn’t him dominating her. Oh no. It was the other way around. Her own tiny hand lording it over his big one. She had the power here—or at least the illusion of it. And it was heady.
“C’m’ere.” He sounded gruff when he tugged Uma toward him. She resisted briefly, but not out of worry or fear. No, she resisted for the stupid regular reasons: Would she make a fool out of herself? Did her breath stink?
She gave in and allowed him to pull her closer, to the edge of the armchair, and met him halfway.
Their noses were first to meet, hesitant and intimate. Brushing lightly.
“Can I get a kiss?” His hot breath shuddered the question against her, and she could feel his anticipation, nearly as strong as her own.
Without letting herself think too much about it, she did as he asked. It was so easy to brush her mouth to his. A dry touch, with none of the messiness his lush lower lip promised, but enough spark to make her want more.
The second was a real kiss, the kind that makes a noise, lips pursed. Another like that, chaste and neat, but ridiculously exciting in its simplicity. They tilted their heads in easy, mirrored unison, lined up for a deeper one.
And then his tongue, the tip against her lip, sweet and soft, requesting permission. Permission was granted, and he slipped in, sipped at her. Not a perfect kiss, because there were still teeth in the way and noses and such, but with such synchronicity and heat that it was by far the best she’d ever had. Massive hands stroked her cheeks, her ears, her shoulders, making her feel tiny and cherished. Fragile, in a good way, but still whole.
It was so right, and he was so patient, that something pushed her to ramp it up a notch, bite his bottom lip—probably a little harder than she should have—pull it taut, then dive back in. He made a little noise when she did that, a sort of surprised grunt, which made the whole thing even hotter. Uma grabbed hold of his hair and positioned his head right where she wanted it, then wiggled against her seat.
That’s when he started to lose it.
His big hands tightened on Uma’s face, then moved to her shoulders, and finally her waist. He pulled at her, though not forcefully—more a suggestion, coaxing, like Why don’t you come over here and get on my lap? But only if you want to. Uma wanted to. She did. But—
“No, don’t. Don’t, don’t.” She pulled back, gulping air. It was too much, too soon. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”
Uma’s face burned, her body finally alive, but she couldn’t do it.
A glance at his face showed his cheek and jaw muscles bunched, his brow furrowed, and his eyes glued to her mouth. His face was stern and hard and a little bit flushed when he looked up and caught her eyes.
“’S okay,” he said, then leaned back, purposefully giving her space.
“I’m sorry,” Uma whispered.
“What’re you sorry for?”
“For freaking out like that.”
“You call that freakin’ out?” He smiled ruefully. “I’m the one who’s sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“I shouldn’t have pushed you.” His next words brought another wave of heat to her face. “You’re so fuckin’ hot, Uma. Got kinda carried away.”
Really? Hot? Me? No, she’d been called pretty or pleasant, but never hot. You clean up well, Joey had said. Like, if she wore the right clothes and got the right haircut and put on the right makeup, she was acceptable for mixed company. But definitely not the type of girl to make a guy crazy. To make this guy look so helplessly lost.
“Thanks.” Pleased but suddenly shy, she turned away, embarrassed by her own skittishness, wondering if she’d ever feel normal again.
“We don’t have to do anything that scares you. Don’t have to do anything at all. Unless you want to, of course. I wouldn’t say no, if you asked.” He shot a shy smile in Uma’s direction before continuing. “We can do whatever you want. Anything you want.”
12
Once the words were out, Ive couldn’t take them back. But as he watched her face go from surprise to something that looked like interest, he decided he didn’t want to. Good. It’d give her something to think on.
The pause before she spoke wasn’t so much awkward as it was full…of promise, maybe. He hoped.
She finally broke it. “I better get back.”
He stood and stretched, whistled for Squeak, and made his way to the door. “Come on. I’ll walk you.”
When she went to grab her empty mug, he stopped her. “Leave that. I’ll get it.”
Outside, the air was bright, their breath visible, their footsteps on gravel the only sounds but for a lone owl and something skitte
ring deep in the woods.
“Thanks for caring,” he said, finally breaking their silence.
“Caring about what?”
“Ms. Lloyd. Not sure most people would give a damn the way you do. About the ad.”
“Yeah. Well, she’s not always nice, but she’s…lonely.” She shrugged. “I guess I can relate.”
He huffed out a tiny sound of humor and agreement and glanced up at the stars, so bright above them. When they rounded the bend and the dark house came into sight, Ive had a moment of panic, like he’d regret it if he didn’t touch her again.
So he reached out a hand, and instead of grabbing hers like he wanted, he rubbed the back of his knuckles against hers. It was probably a reflex that had her turning her hand and stretching out her fingers for his, but he took it, loving the feel of her skin against his, the way she held on as if she liked it.
They didn’t kiss good-bye or anything, but he kept her hand until the last possible second, only loosening when they reached the foot of the kitchen stairs.
She responded to his whispered, “Night,” with a smile, then turned and jogged up to the door.
He stood outside Ms. Lloyd’s house and waited until the lights turned off. Kitchen, hall, followed by a couple upstairs switching on, then off. After a while, he started back up the drive toward the forge, a jumble of things inside him, too mixed up to unravel.
Ive wasn’t the most sensitive guy in the world. He’d always thought of himself as having two basic settings: On and Off. Normal and Angry. Sane and Crazy.
What Uma did to him, though, blew that theory out of the water. Nothing with her fit into any of his usual categories. Nothing with her was simple.
As a rule, he paid attention to what people did, not what they said. He had a learning disability—he’d finally found out in prison. It was one of those things that had made everything difficult growing up. He’d never learned how to deal with the constant frustration. It had always translated into anger. His grandma had yelled; his teachers had scolded. Eventually, the only thing to make a lick of difference had been Uncle Gus taking him out to this very workshop—a woodshop back then—and showing him how to use his hands. Even so, he’d spent his life feeling like he was shouting through a wall of glass.
Everything was different with Uma.
First of all, when she spoke, he actually heard her. That wasn’t something he had much experience with. Usually, words rolled off him. Sounds were meaningless unless backed up by actions.
She’d called him an artist, said what he did was amazing. Her compliment had meant more to him than any he’d ever gotten. People had oohed and aahed over his work before, but their praise had been just words: worthless.
What she said was different. It held meaning, weight. Ive actually heard her. Like English dubbing on a foreign film. But, more than that, he felt like he knew her—knew what she meant without her having to say a thing.
He’d do anything with her, he’d said. But it was more than that. He’d do almost anything for her too. Anything at all to help her heal. When he’d seen her happy, he’d wanted to laugh himself; when she was scared, he’d wanted to die or—no. Not die.
Kill. He’d kill to protect her.
Some small part of him knew this wasn’t normal. It wasn’t what he was supposed to feel, but he couldn’t help it. This was who he was. She’d been here a week, but it was like they’d been together forever. She belonged here.
He pulled open the door to his forge, took a deep breath, and drew in what he thought might be her smell, still lingering on the air. It was familiar, elemental.
His.
The knowledge was fierce and primal. It would have scared him if it hadn’t been so right.
* * *
Anything you want. Those words kept repeating—a flashing neon or a ticker tape in her mind. All the way down the drive, with Ivan by her side, up the back steps under his watchful gaze, closing the dead bolt behind her in the kitchen, up the stairs, quietly, and finally, in the lonely safety of her room, those three words echoed through her mind.
Under the safety of darkness, Uma stripped down to her shirt and underwear before getting into bed, the frigid air lovely against her overheated skin. She could almost hear the sizzle as she slid between the sheets.
It was like being a network of nerve endings, made sensitive by just that one amazing kiss. She couldn’t remember ever feeling like this—so alive, on fire, awake in a way she hadn’t been in years.
Tonight, Uma didn’t want to go to sleep, although for once, she might have been able to without much trouble. Apparently, two moonshines and the protection of a strong man did that to a girl. It had been so long since she’d had that wash of girlish excitement—the crackle of new attraction. She wanted to revel in the sensation.
Anything you want.
After Ivan’s offer, she’d been too shaky to stay without making more of an ass of herself. The walk down the drive had been excruciating—in a good way—filled with an awareness of him and the sort of anticipation that comes with knowing a guy likes you, but not giving in to the attraction.
And that kiss… If she had succumbed, oh wow. What came next would have been amazing. There was no doubt. She’d never been kissed like that. Had never reacted so strongly.
Would he try again? Probably. Did she want him to? Maybe.
Oh, who was she kidding? Yes, hell yes.
But she shouldn’t. She wasn’t hanging around Blackwood, after all. She’d be leaving once the tattoos were gone, and the last thing she needed was something to keep her here.
Uma breathed in, remembering Ivan’s smell, reveling in the recollection. That first slow moment, faces barely touching, getting to know him with her nose before letting her mouth or teeth or tongue get involved. The moment had been distilled to nothing but those senses. She’d never been so turned on in her life.
They were so different, though. He was a man made to inhabit his body; everything in his life centered around his hands, his arms, his muscles, all working together. He was carnality itself, and Uma was—
She was a mess. And so, so tired of inhabiting this useless shell of a body. It had let her down when she’d needed it the most, left her vulnerable, pinned to the floor. Weak. Nothing but a pitiful, weak woman.
We can do whatever you want. The memory made Uma shudder. God, how could someone who’d seemed like such a brute be that way? Would he really let her do whatever she wanted to him? Without trying to force anything on her?
No. No, she was leaving.
But then again, he was a man. And men wanted temporary, right? Lots of them did, so maybe—
Uma’s eyes drifted closed as she remembered how carried away she’d been. She regretted not paying more attention to the feel of him under her mouth and hands.
Oh, why hadn’t she touched more of him? What were his arms like? Those firm biceps, or the long slope of thigh she’d ogled as he worked. His face. Her breath caught at that. She wanted to touch his lips, to test their springy plushness with her hands.
She pressed her thumb to her mouth, wondering how much harder his would be under her fingers. Her imagination skittered on, over the stubble sprouting along his jaw. She wanted it rough, abrasive like sandpaper.
An image intruded: Joey’s smooth, perfectly shaved chin. It was a cold shower to Uma’s budding libido. She gritted her teeth at the memory of him pinning her shoulder with that chin while his hands held her arms and his deceptively heavy legs covered hers. Every part of him had incapacitated every single inch of her that night. She’d been helpless. Utterly.
No. This wasn’t what Uma wanted to think about. She wanted to thrill at images of Ivan, thick and strong and raw. And yet so gentle. The antidote to everything Joey.
Joey. Would he ever leave her alone? As surely as he was out there somewhere, looking for her, he was with Uma, ev
ery second of every day, dogging her footsteps. Haunting her life.
Fucking Joey. Regret fisted her innards, making her queasy as she thought of him. Maybe she needed to let them come, those images. Maybe she needed to let him back into her brain to exorcise him completely from her life.
Thinking about him took courage. Almost as much as it would take to finally work up the balls to look herself in the mirror, at the obscene evidence he’d left all over her body.
Okay, if this is what it takes. Uma opened her eyes, needing to be wide awake to face the memories.
* * *
Uma was a goner the first time she met him. It had been a wedding, some cousin of Joey’s marrying her longtime fiancé. Uma’d been there as the photographer. Considering her free-love upbringing, Uma had been a pretty inexperienced twenty-four-year-old—a couple of boyfriends under her belt, and a single, stupid one-night stand in college. Nothing that could have prepared her for Joey’s laser-sharp attention.
He’d been lovely to look at: tall and wiry, almost slender, with piercing blue eyes that drew a girl in fast. Too fast. He’d had the same appeal Frank Sinatra must have had in his heyday: easy to look at, smooth voice, and pure sex oozing from every pore. Panty-dropping eyes to go with his silver tongue. A deadly combination.
Uma would never forget the moment she’d first laid eyes—or rather, lens—on Joey. She’d taken the photo, knowing it was a good one, and then realized, with a strange jolt of awareness, that its subject had been looking directly at her. He’d gazed right through the camera and literally set his sights on her. Out of all the perfect, well-dressed women there, how strange that he’d noticed the invisible one—the woman behind the scenes.
Uma had never considered herself particularly attractive, but that evening, Joey had made her beautiful. He’d convinced her to dance, to kiss. She’d never done anything so unprofessional in her career, but he’d been pretty darn convincing. So convincing, in fact, that she’d had sex with him later that night.
Under Her Skin Page 12
