Hold You Against Me (Stripped 4)

God, his voice when he says that. I can almost forget he’s injured. I can almost forget he’s seventeen and I’m fifteen. I can forget that our fathers would kill us if they found us together.

“What then?” If I can make him feel better a different way, I will. I run my hands up his calves, his thighs—his hands grab my wrists, stopping me.

“No anything,” he says, his voice thick with pain. Or with something else.

I don’t fight his hold on my wrists. I let him keep me there. And I rest my head on his thigh. It’s not really meant to be seductive, even though I can feel the slope of his jeans. Even though I can see the bulge just inches away from my face. I know he’s not going to do anything dirty to me. I’d probably like it if he did, but he won’t. Just like he won’t kiss me again. But he doesn’t make me move away.

Instead he lets out an unsteady breath and releases my wrists. I remain there, kneeling in front of him, resting my cheek on his thigh.

His broad hand brushes over my temple, my cheek. He plays with the braid of my hair for a moment before resuming his gentle, rhythmic stroking. He’s not touching anywhere below my neck, but my whole body lights up with it, tense and languorous at the same time.

It’s a strange feeling, like being a beloved pet. An owned thing. Cared for. Cherished.

It’s somehow sweeter than being the unwanted bastard daughter.

“I shouldn’t let you come here,” he mutters.

“Don’t,” I say. I can’t bear when he talks like that, as if he might not show up one of these days. It’s a lifeline for me, a breath of air while I’m drowning. And if I run away with Honor, then each one of these visits could be my last. Tears spring to my eyes, dampening the denim of his jeans.

“Shh,” he soothes. “I won’t make you stop.”

He traces the line of my jaw and the curve of my ear. His blunt finger trails all the way down my neck.

“So pretty,” he says. “Do you know, bella? I hurt with it, how pretty you are.”

And then I’m hurting too, his words like whiskey. They will take getting used to. I need so much more.

“Byron is hurting her,” I whisper. Because it’s the only way I know how to tell him. We’ll have to leave soon. I can’t let him

keep hurting her.

His hand stills, and I think he must understand my secret message. “All the men hurt women here,” he says. His tone is so dark, so unlike him.

I look up at him. “Gio?”

His hand encircles my neck, forcing my chin up. He just rests his hand there, his palm flush against my skin. Not squeezing. Just holding. “Are you afraid of me?”

I tremble because of the pain in his expression, in his voice. I am afraid—for my sister, for him. I’m afraid I’ll break down and stay just so I can be near him, even if that means condemning my sister for life. But I’m not afraid that he’ll hurt me. “No.”

“You should be.” He leans forward and whispers in my ear. “I’ve done things you couldn’t imagine.”

A tear slides down my cheek. Whatever these things are, they cause him pain. I see it in him. I feel it. And he has no choice—no more than Honor has a choice.

“You’d never hurt me,” I say. My voice is wobbling because I’m hurting for him. But I mean every word. It’s not the first time he’s tried to scare me away. I’m not afraid of him.

The anger I feel in him slides away, replaced by something else. Desire.

His eyes are almost glowing in the moonlight streaming through the window. He removes his hand from my neck. His thumb brushes over my lips, back and forth. Back and forth.

My breath catches. Without even thinking, my lips part.

Then the tip of his thumb is pressing inside my mouth. He gently nudges my lips further apart. I don’t understand all that’s happening, don’t know everything he wants, but I know how to take his lead. This is just like kissing, except instead of his lips and his tongue, it’s his thumb.

He presses until his thumb is half in my mouth, and then it’s only natural to close my lips and suck gently. He makes a soft sound, like a grunt. It sounds like need. Like relief.

The texture of his thumb is rough on my tongue. I slide it against him. He makes a hissing sound and shifts his hips. I never realized my tongue has this much power. Just a flick and the large frame of him tightens.

Before I am ready, he removes his thumb. It’s still wet from my mouth when he rubs it along my lips, painting them, at first hot and then cold when he pulls away completely.