Rafe (Inked Brotherhood 5)

Killing. A splash of red behind my closed eyelids, a touch on my arm, and I jerk back, this time hitting my head pretty hard against the wall. Bright pain shoots through my skull. I prepare to do it again, craving that lightning moment when my senses focus on a physical ache, emptying my mind from other thoughts.

That’s when I feel it again, that prickling sensation that makes my body tense and my stomach muscles clench in anticipation. Excitement, the kind you feel as the lights in a movie theater go out, or as you dive down on a rollercoaster, that moment of breathless joy, when anything, everything is possible—everything good and wonderful.

She’s here. I know it before she even speaks, before I can focus enough to see her. She’s right here, in front of me—a blur in the darkness that transforms into her pretty face and sweet curves. Her glossy hair falls over one shoulder, glinting like gunmetal in the dim lights.

Holy shit. My body reacts as if struck by lightning, jerking, tightening. The piercings on my cock pull as it hardens to the point of pain. I’m out of breath. It’s damn scary how much I want her. It’s as if I know that if I bury myself inside her, the pain and doubt will go away.

“Rafe, are you all right?” The din of the bar is too loud, her voice low, and yet it’s all I can hear. Soft like velvet, brushing over me.

“Better now,” I say, and reach for her hand before my brain can catch up and stop me. “Come here.”

Chapter Three

Megan

I’m staring at Rafe’s hand. Big, strong, callused. A scar runs from his thumb to the index finger.

He’s looking at me, waiting.

So I lift my hand, place it in his. It fits on his palm, smaller, darker, thinner. He seems as entranced by the contrast as I am. His fingers curl, closing around mine. His lips part, but no sound comes from his mouth, and his gaze remains fixed on our entwined hands, pale lashes hiding the gold of his eyes.

Now I’m the one caught, transfixed. His mouth looks soft, vulnerable, at odds with his strong, angular features and the broad set of his shoulders. The need to touch his face is overwhelming, and I step closer, so close I can sense his scent. Not a cologne, but the deep scent of his skin, like musk and warm metal. I can see the rise and fall of his chest underneath the black Deathmoth T-shirt he’s wearing under his open jacket, see the outline of his strong pecs.

We’re standing so close our breaths mingle, and our bodies touch in places as we shift, feathery brushes that send fire across my skin, into my belly, making me ache. He places his hands on my waist and I grip his thick, sinewy forearms. My stomach drops as if I’m standing at the edge of a precipice, on the edge of a moment that can change everything.

What’s happening? It’s as if in the hollow darkness, the barrier between us is crumbling, the wall he’s set between himself and the world is falling.

His hands tighten on my hipbones and his lashes lift, his gaze moving to my mouth. His breathing is ragged. He tugs me against him, his fingertips digging painfully into my flesh, his arms flexing with barely controlled strength.

His arousal presses into my stomach, hot and thick, caught sideways in his jeans.

My mind fills up with static. Rafe wants me. There’s the solid proof of his desire. The heated gaze I’ve felt so often on me is translated into a physical reaction, and it makes me feel so hot I might burst into flames. He’s so handsome, I can’t help myself. I want to stroke his square jaw, drag my fingertips over the golden stubble on his cheeks, kiss those damnable dimples.

I whimper, the sound coming from deep inside me, and he freezes, goes so still I’m not even sure he’s breathing.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He’s pulling away, his face closing off. “I’m—”

“Please, don’t go.” I lift my hand to his face, fingertips skimming over the smooth skin of his cheekbone. Warm. Satin soft.

A pang goes through my chest, an ache that feels too much like sorrow, and I’m not sure if it’s mine or his.

He jerks away, his eyes wide in his pale face. He reaches up, his hand hovering over the spot I touched.

Then he whispers, “Oh fuck,” in a strangled voice, turns and rushes off into the crowd, his broad shoulders easily opening a path.

A knot is gathering in my throat, in my chest, cutting off air. My hand is still hovering in midair. I don’t know for how long I stand there, staring at my splayed fingers, trying to figure out what happened.

Or maybe trying to find another explanation for his reaction, desperate for him to be different from any other handsome, arrogant guy.

Maybe I imagined the pain in his gaze—or maybe that pain is real, but it doesn’t make a difference. Traumatic past or not, he’s sorry he touched me, sorry he desired me.

Big surprise. Why would he desire me, of all girls? There are so many vying for his attention. Girls who have witty, sexy things to say, and who don’t go stiff like cardboard when he touches them.

The thought of him touching other girls shouldn’t hurt quite as much as it does. And this is a bad sign.

Very bad sign, Megan, I tell myself and lower my hand that touched him. I feel as if my fingertips are numb, burnt by the feel of his skin.

I groan and rub at my face. This is crazy. I should stop thinking about him, keep away from him as I’d planned all along.