“You want to know things, but you don’t just ask.” Her hands flailed about but shifted her balance. She reached for his shoulder.
Oliver wrapped a hand around the small of her back and righted her.
“You charm me into thinking you’re just here to protect me.”
“I will protect you. No question.” The questions were…was he trying to charm her, to what end, and was it working?
“You have tons of questions. Where’s this person? How do you know about this organization? Why the betrayal?”
“Well, you don’t answer any of them. Besides, it’s not all tactics. I want to know.” He eased her hand off his shoulder and bolted from the room. What the hell was he blabbing about? He snarled at his Grizzly Adam’s reflection in the mirror. Though, the Griz would never sport a topknot. After choosing a hipster classic button front shirt—that suited his personality not at all, but his persona perfectly—and grabbing the spool of wrap, he headed back into the boiler.
Marina offered him her leg without rejoinder but held the dingy hem of the shirt between her legs, covering her bare sex. He gritted his molars and wound the thin strip of glorified plastic wrap over her bandage and milky white thigh. And lost the battle of self-preservation. Damn his brain to the swampy gutters. It drugged him on thoughts of brushing sweet kisses over her tender flesh. When he smoothed the torn end under the curve of her thin hamstring, he forced his thoughts to ballistics tables.
“I’m going to cut the shirt off you from the back. I’ll look away and let you take it off then I’ll hold the new shirt so you can get your arms inside. You can fasten the buttons.” He moved to the counter and found the scissors from his shaving kit. She sat straight, her gaze intent on him. “You ready?”
She nodded.
“I need your words, Marina. Your consent.”
Her lips wobbled, and she pressed them into a thin line. The emotions welling in her eyes carved his heart out of his chest, and his knees hit the marble floor. If this caused her pain of any kind, she could stink until she was able enough to wash without help.
“We won’t do this if you’re not one hundred percent okay with it,” he whispered.
Her head shook slowly, blond locks matting against the filth of her shirt. He released the scissors.
“It’s not that.” Marina sniveled. “You’re the first…” She blotted tears from her cheek. A dirt smudge defined its wake. “The first to ask for my consent.”
Those cocksuckers would die. Oliver would see to it, revel in it, and lose himself in her vengeance.
“Thank you.”
“Always.” He rumbled. “Always.”
“I’m ready.”
He made quick work of ditching her shirt, covering her, getting the water temperature just right, and setting her inside. “Can you hold this?”
She wrapped a palm around the nozzle he offered and nodded.
“Good. I’m going to grab a washcloth and a bunch of this bubbly, smell-good stuff.”
“Soap?” The corners of her mouth kicked toward the sky as she maneuvered the cascading water over her shins and feet. Dark swirls stained the water coursing for the drain.
“Simple people have soap. I have soap. These people have…” He grabbed one bottle at a time and read the fancy labels. “Bath oils, bath bombs, water perfumes, scrubs, soaks.” His gaze caught the next row of bottles. “Jesus, don’t get me started on the types of shampoos, conditioners, and treatments. Treatments for hair? I don’t even know what that is.”
“Just pick something that smells good and will get me clean.” She sprayed the water over her bare arms but stopped at the shirt.
“It’s just a shirt. Get it wet.” Oliver selected a mallow soap, verbena shampoo, and its paired conditioner, liking too much that she allowed him to choose her scents. He set the three on the teak tray that spanned the width of the tub.
“Oh my goodness.” Her mouth dropped open. “Those are too expensive.”
“Do you like the way they smell?” He opened the shampoo and lifted it to her nose.
“It’s heaven.”
“And this?” He repeated the ritual with the soap.
She moaned, and her shoulders lowered a good inch. His stupid cock did the opposite. Her mouth was supposed to make those sounds. Just not yet.
He lathered the rag and exchanged it for the nozzle. “I don’t want you lifting your arms over your head. I’ll wash your hair if that's okay?”
“That’s”—she hesitated—“that’s fine.”
“If it’s not, you can say. I won’t get mad or hurt you.”
“It’s not that.”
“What then?” He knelt next to the tub.
“It’s…” Her gaze danced around the room before landing on his. “It’s another milestone. You’re the first man I’ve ever let touch me.”
Oliver’s insides roared with equal parts satisfaction and rage. He wasn’t the only one to touch her, but he was the only one she’d allowed to touch her. Trapping the reactions inside proved too much. His fists formed two destructive weapons, and a knuckle popped.
“Why?” she breathed.
Marina’s tiny words and searching gaze dimmed his fury enough to see past the red to her pixie siren face. “Why what?”
“Before…you said you wanted to know about me.”
Why did he want to know about her? He answered the only way he could. “I don’t know.” Or maybe he did know but was scared to admit it.
“Curiosity?” She shrugged and grimaced. “The job?”
“Nothing so easily categorized, Marina.”
“Oh,” she breathed.
“Interest. You interest me and most women don’t.” Not past a casual exploit or two.
“Oh.” Her pout socked him between the eyes.
Oh? He’d never gotten such an underwhelming reaction to his interest. At least it wasn’t a screaming freak-out, demanding he get his perv ass away from her.
“Here we go.” Oliver centered his mind, leaned forward, and angled the water at the crown of her head.
Her neck arched, but her hands continued to toy with the frayed edge of his blue and white plaid shirt plastered to the tops of her legs. He cradled the back of her small head. His hair weighed a thousand pounds when wet, and hers bested his by ten inches or better. Though it wasn’t as thick, in her weakened state it probably presented a major burden. The longer he trailed the easy jets over her scalp, the more she relaxed into his hold, and the more his desire to return to the States for booze and girls dwindled.
To keep from releasing the cradle, Oliver eased the nozzle to the tub’s ceramic bottom and faced it away from her. Oh, the things he could make her feel with those flowing streams…when she was ready. Storing the thought for later, he squeezed a line of clear shampoo onto her head and placed the bottle to the side. He used the meat of five fingers to massage small circles from her forehead to her nape.
Her toiling fingers stilled. Tension eased from the room and his cock—a first for him in the presence of a beautiful woman. The air thinned. Peace smoothed the lines at her brows. Her lids slid closed, her breaths slowed and steadied. The serenity turned his insides gooey and warm like nothing before, not even his Bonneville T100’s smooth saddle and classic black paint job.
Oliver rinsed the soap away and added conditioner, continuing the deep massage. After a while, he shifted over her to run the thick balm across the length of her hair to the very tips. The more he worked, the more easily the strands slid like silk between his fingers.
Too soon, the dirt and knots fled, leaving behind nearly white straight hair. The water he angled atop it poured off in a flat fall to the shallow pool below. The smears of dried blood and grime on her cheeks and mouth drew his attention. He soaked the rag in the spray, relinquished the nozzle, and squeezed the excess moisture from the cloth.
“Can I wipe your face,” he whispered, hating to break the silence but needing her approval more.
Her eyes ope
ned. The fragmented ice irises pulled him into the hot chill. They searched him for a long moment, and then her head bobbed slightly.
His hiked brow demanded her words.
“Yes.” She tongued the slit on her lower lip.
“I won’t hurt it.”
“I know.” A swallow bobbed in her throat. Her chest filled, pressing the points of small nipples against the front of his shirt.
He switched hands, cradling her still, and blotted the woven cotton up the bridge of her nose and over her brows. She watched him as he slid the rag down her cheeks and the cloth brushed the line of her jaw. Her lips parted, and the whisper of a moan escaped.
Warm and gooey shifted to rock-hard bastard in a manner of seconds, but he managed to keep his gaze above the clavicle. Well, on it. His bathing continued around the shells of her ears and the supple lobes to the thin column of her neck. She arched to either side, giving him better access. 86’ing the shirt would help him clean the hollows at the tops of her shoulders. It would hurt his honor, though, and he wouldn’t have that.
Marina’s hand lifted from her lap.
Oliver stilled as though she’d read his thoughts and caught him dirty minded.
Her fingers slid up the back of his hand, in the grooves of his knuckles and between his fingers. He didn’t breathe. She straightened his hand, and the rag plopped into the shallow water. In his ears, blood ebbed and flowed; tidal waves that threatened to pull him under.
She pulled his hand up from her collar and pressed it flat against her cheek. Her gaze held him prisoner as did the sweet side of her face. She pressed it firm and nuzzled in.
“Thank you.”
His gaze zeroed in on her sweet mouth, so very close. Water droplets from the bath clung to the pinked skin. Oliver licked his own lips, adjusted his hold on the back of her head, and finally exhaled.
“Up you go, Bonnie.” So close to taking a kiss without asking, he righted her and slid his hands away from her velvety skin. He snagged the rag, rinsed and soaped it, and handed it over without a word, not trusting his vocal cords to bridle the request.
Give me your mouth.
So easily he could ask, and she’d probably allow him. She was so vulnerable.
“Can I have a razor?” Marina gave a half smile.
Oliver cleared his throat. “You can have anything you need.”
One calm brow hiked. “Except a gun.”
“You don’t need a gun. You have me.” He winked, retrieved a razor off a glass holder on a nearby shelf, and placed it in her open palm.
“Yeah?” She sighed.
“Yeah.” Shit, he needed out of the room. It was closing in on him. It and the thought of Marina dragging the sleek metal blades up her legs. “I’m going to check in with Hunter while you wash up. Holler when you’re finished or if you need anything.”
Like kissed senselessly…
He turned and hurried for the escape hatch but stopped with a hand on the doorframe. “Don’t try to get out by yourself.”
“Bring me a phone and a weapon and I’ll think about it.” She winked back.
“Not funny.”
“No?” Her smile bloomed.
It wasn’t funny but gorgeous as the first snow. He canted his head in warning, and he retreated to the room he’d slept in for the past two nights. He rolled his eyes at the blank white space, grabbed his phone, and dialed.
Hunter answered on the second ring with a, “Hello,” that sounded more like, “’Lo.”
“You found that fucker yet?”
“I’ve been gone less than two hours. I’m good, you know, but give a brother a minute to get his shit together.” Hunter scoffed.
“So no?” Oliver pushed.
“Hell, no. Cops raided the bar. They cleared the place and took some of them to the hospital. The rest are in lockup but will be out by the end of the day.”
“The place is empty?”
“There’s one guy hanging around. He doesn’t look like the rest, dressed nicer.”
“Is he Tor?”
“I told you no. Tor’s a mean lookin’ son of a bitch. This guy’s wearing loafers, for Christ’s sake. It doesn’t fit. He looks like a suburban jock on the brink of eating the end of a pistol.”
“Looking for another hit?” Oliver asked, thinking drugs, but what if the guy was there for a hit of another kind. His gaze slid toward the open door, and his mind conjured Marina’s striking face. Anger bubbled to the surface.
“I don’t know. I snapped a picture. We can run it through the system and see if we get a hit.”
“Fine. Get back here as soon as you can.”
“Why?” Hunter asked, suspicion lacing his voice. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He needed a buffer to keep himself from pulling Marina into his arms and kissing her past away.
“Is Marina okay?”
She was better than he had any right to expect. Hell, what had that hand hug—it was the only stupid way he could accurately describe it—been about? It had caught him like a surprise left hook.
“She’s fine,” Oliver snapped.
“Then what’s the problem? Did I forget we had a dinner and a movie date or something? I can grab I’m sorry flowers on my way back.”
“Just stuff it and get here.” Fast, he added for his own benefit.
“On my way, lover.”
“Asshole.” He ended the call on Hunter’s hysterical laughter and braced himself for reentry.
8
Cold water coursed over Marina’s toes as it had for the last several minutes. Indecision added to the chill that crept back into her muscles.
Never before had Marina’s mind and body been at such odds. She equally loved and hated her reaction to Oliver’s presence. Around him, she was empowered and vulnerable, excited and terrified, alive.
Clean and shaven as best as she could manage, she waited to see which part would reign victorious in the war raging inside her. Logically, she needed distance from the man who made her feel things she’d never before experienced. If only her body would agree.
“Marina?” The deep timbre of his voice dimmed the ache in her ribs and the throb in her thigh and shifted them both higher and lower, to places that had felt a hundred hands and responded to none.
Her vocal cords constricted.
“Are you okay? Can I come in?” The concern in his voice and actions seemed genuine, which only made the realization hurt all the more.
He’d use her for information and then cast her aside, no question. She could weather the storm of him if he treated her like all the other men in her life had. If he’d take his pleasure and walk away, she’d survive. She’d survived it too many times to count.
“Marina? Answer me.”
She wanted to reassure him, but she couldn’t. After two years of captivity, self-preservation overrode all other essential human mechanisms. Decency didn’t register on the scale.
“I’m coming in.”
Corded muscles encased in the white T-shirt distracted from the vibrant watercolor lion roaring on the front. He’d lost the lumberjack long-sleeve somewhere outside the massive bathroom. As he closed the space between them in two gaping strides, those thick masses bound and stretched under the tight cotton. His mane hung loose like the wild animals on his chest. Concern knitted his brow.
“Your lips are blue.”
The tentative consent-seeking man vanished. Oliver plunged a hand into the tub, while another pressed two fingers to her neck.
“You’re freezing,” he growled. “A place this uppity should have a mammoth water heater.” His head shook, tousling his long blond locks. “I should have checked on you sooner.”
A roughened palm, a match to the one that had pressed to her face, pushed up her neck. His fingertips gripped her chin and turned her face to him.
“Marina, talk to me.” His dark blue gaze begged. If she spoke, she’d change her tactic and lose the battle altogether.
He wrenched off t
he water. Metal cried against metal.
The urge to join in, to weep until she couldn’t think, rushed through her veins. She yearned for a simple life—a normal job, a home, someone to love, and someone to love her in return. A chill shook her from the useless thoughts.
Want couldn’t create.
Survival could. And she was so close. Caring eyes, kind words, and a body made to give and receive pleasure wouldn’t railroad her determination.
Oliver’s strong arm banded her back, while his other hooked under her knees. When he hoisted her out, water cascaded in a torrent. Then she was against his chest, the warmest, safest place she’d ever been.
A tingle started in Marina’s fingers and toes and then burned its way up her limbs. Her body shivered against immovable slabs of muscle.
“I’ve got you.”
Boy, did he. In a dangerous way.
He grabbed a heap of towels from the counter and exited the bathroom, hurrying down a long corridor. The wet soles of his shoes squeaked to a stop between two open doorways. With a huff, he dipped inside the one on the left.
The white room smelled like him; a hint of spicy cologne, sweat, and coconut. The tropical scent overpowered the male perfume and sexy musk she’d sucked down on the car ride here. His gaze shifted to the rumpled bedsheets and his hair grazed her cheek. She found the source of the smell but lost all sense of equilibrium.
Oliver dropped a knee to the bed, his bed, and set her in the center. Plush down-stuffed covers puffed up on either side of her sopping form. Gooseflesh prickled her legs while inside, marrow boiled its way back to life.
“Can you unfasten the shirt?” He held a linen towel like a wall between them. “You need to get dry. Now.”
Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Why’d he have to treat her as if she mattered? He made things so much harder.
“I won’t look, promise.” He held one side of the towel between his teeth, grabbed her right elbow, and shoved it toward the buttons. “Let’s go, Marina. If your lips lose any more color, I’ll be forced to warm you with my body.” His jaw flexed. “I don’t think either of us is ready for that.”
Variations (Base Branch Series Book 9) Page 6
