He shook his head. “Idiots. How could they not notice you? You are incredibly beautiful.”
He said it so matter-of-factly. He really thought I was beautiful. Even covered in marks and bruises, that was what he thought. No one had ever said that to me before. I hadn’t dated much in university and not at all since returning to the area where I had grown up. No one caught my eye, and it seemed I didn’t catch anyone’s either.
Except some low-life scumbag who wanted to hurt me.
I looked away and shrugged. “Sort of explains the whole virgin thing, I suppose, as well,” I mumbled then stopped, unsure why I’d brought that up.
He stiffened. Our eyes locked and held. The air around us grew warm. It did every time we were close. Every night, I felt his desire when he was behind me in bed, the blankets separating us not hiding the fact that he was erect. He kissed my head before going to sleep, his lips lingering on my skin. A couple of times, I woke to find his leg draped over mine, his hard body pressing me into the mattress, his arms tight as his breath ghosted along my skin, his head buried into my neck.
He found reasons to touch me at times—seemingly innocuous brushes of his hands, but I felt them to my very core. His eyes heated when he observed me. He absently stroked his thumb over his lips, and I remembered their gentle possession. He wanted me. The truth was, I wanted him as well. I had from the moment he had kissed me. I had wanted to feel his lips on mine again, taking what he wanted from me. What I wanted to give him. But he seemed determined to deny us both. I wasn’t sure if it was because he worried about my physical health or my age. Even now, I could see his reaction to my mumbled words.
But he shook his head. “Not a good idea, sweetheart.”
I opened my mouth to protest, and he stood. “You can do way better than me.”
Then he muttered something about lunch and went to the kitchen. I leaned back into the cushions of the sofa. I heard the trace of regret in his voice, and I knew he felt the same pull as I did. But he was probably smart not pushing this—whatever this was between us. I sighed as I went through the facts in my head. He was ten years older than I was, a great deal more experienced, and although I doubted I could do better, maybe he was right. I was probably reacting to the fact that he’d rescued me. Made me feel safe. It was some weird version of Stockholm syndrome. Once I was stronger, that would change and lessen.
I ignored the little voice in my head that laughed.
The next morning, I woke up to an empty apartment. Marcus had been restless all night, and I had feigned sleep most of it. I was acutely aware of his body next to me, of the strength in his muscles. His sheer size and masculinity that he carried with ease. The comfort I drew from his closeness was still there, but other factors were now at play. I felt his heat, the desire he held in check that slipped at moments. I heard his low groans if I nestled too close, felt his hard erection pressed between us. He took longer in the shower in the mornings, and I longed to go join him and put us both out of our misery. Two things stopped me—his reluctance to do anything, and my lack of experience.
He slipped from the bed in the early hours, and I heard him go across the hall to the little room he worked out in. He returned a short while later and headed for the shower, then soon after, I heard the apartment door click and the lock engage.
I tried to sleep, but it was fitful and fraught with memories breaking through, so I gave up, showered, and headed to the main area. I made a cup of coffee, thinking about the night before. The sun had been out, and I had looked outside at the busy area he lived in.
“I can’t remember what outside feels like,” I murmured.
He frowned then held out his hand. “Come with me.”
He directed me to the hall and the back stairs. He punched in a code, and we climbed the steps slowly, my strength still lacking. He opened the door and let me go first. I gasped in delight at the small rooftop garden on one side of the building. I sat on the bench, drinking in the sun and the air. Marcus walked the neat rows, bending to pluck a weed or study a pot of herbs. It wasn’t big since a lot of the top floor had skylights, but it was a nice place to sit and had a great view.