Zane (Inked Brotherhood 3)

“Can’t.” He jerks his hands from mine and rubs them over his face. “Told you I can’t do this.”

“Zane…”

His face scrunches up, and he presses a hand to his chest. Crap, this doesn’t look good. Whatever caused those scars seems to scare the shit out of him, and for Zane to be scared, it must have been something terrible.

I don’t know what to say. Silence fills the space between us. I have to do something, or he’ll leave again.

“Stay,” I say, aware that’s what he asked of me the first time I visited him. “Please, stay.”

He takes a step back and another. He’s going, and I just can’t do anything right. I can’t stand it.

“You don’t have to tell me anything. Just…” It’s my turn now for my voice to crack. My eyes burn. “Can I hold you? I mean, you didn’t seem to mind before, and…” Crap, what was I thinking? I wipe a hand over my face, and shit, I find my cheeks wet. “Forget it.”

He doesn’t turn to go, as I expect him to. He doesn’t speak. But he’s still there, looking at me, and for the first time tonight, his beautiful eyes are no longer blank, but lit by some strong emotion.

“Yes,” he says, just that one word, and the air leaves my lungs.

Yes? Does he mean...?

He’s just staring at me, with that uncertain light flickering in his gaze, as I step up to him and slide my hands around his neck, rising on tiptoe to reach him. I’m not short, but Zane is really tall.

He’s still, letting me hug him, not moving a muscle. It’s like holding a statue made of stone, but against my chest, I can feel his heart hammering.

Then his arms come around me. He tucks my head under his chin and crushes me to him so hard I can’t breathe. He holds onto me like a drowning man, and for a long while, I can do nothing but bury my face in his chest and inhale his dark scent.

Truth is, it feels so good to finally feel him, solid and real, in my arms, that nothing else matters. I could stay like that forever, forget about breathing. Who needs air when I can have Zane hold me?

He finally relaxes his hold a fraction, and I suck a deep breath. His head is bowed forward, and when I lift my face, our lips touch. His are soft and hot, and I want more.

I expect him to jerk away and let me go. Zane doesn’t do kissing. Tessa told me so. He showed me so.

But his eyes close, lashes resting on his cheekbones like dark crescents, and he brushes his mouth over mine once more.

Then he pulls back, his whole body tensing, and whispers, “Let me take you home.”

***

The drive is quiet. Zane is clutching the wheel like a lifeline, and his jaw is tight, a vein jumping in his neck. I try to look away, give him space, but my gaze keeps returning to his dark eyes, his beautiful mouth, and my body leans toward him without any input from my brain.

He reaches for something in the glove compartment, and the movement snaps me out of my daze. I slump back and pretend to be fascinated by the hem of my short skirt. My black tights are ripped, and my T-shirt is old, with a faded band logo. I’ve never given too much thought to how I dress, because this is who I am: the music I like, the style I prefer.

Never thought if it looks sexy or not. I mean, Zane’s dressed in worn jeans and a faded T-shirt, and has more piercings than I can count. I think he digs my style, but still… I can’t help but watch, mesmerized, as his strong hands move on the stickshift and hold the wheel, as the muscles in his corded arms swell and shift, as his eyes narrow at the road—and wish I’d pulled my hair up and worn a T-shirt with fewer holes and more cleavage.

He turns into an avenue and parks his truck along some trees planted in the sidewalk. He bows his head, lets out a long breath and kills the lights and the engine. His hands rest on the wheel.

Quiet spreads, and my heart thunders in my ears. Tessa’s building is just a block away. I can see her lit window from here. I should thank him for driving me over, get out and go.

I bite my lip and tug on the hem of my skirt. I gaze out the window, at the street lamps. “Zane, I—”

“They are burn scars.”

My head snaps around.

He’s breathing fast, and his hands are gripping the wheel so hard the plastic casing creaks. “The scars on my back,” he clarifies. “I don’t remember much about them, but I remember pain. The smell of burned flesh. I remember hands…” He swallows thickly. His voice drops so low I strain to hear it. “Hands on me. On my back, and lower… Fuck. Pain and pleasure and goddamn fear.”

My heart is in my throat. I’m terrified of what his memory might mean. I’m frozen, petrified, cold to the bone. His pain hurts as if it’s my own.

“You asked…” He unclenches his hands from the wheel. “You asked what you can and can’t do. Don’t touch my back when we’re doing it. Don’t hug me from behind. Don’t climb on top of me. I’m…” He’s hunched over the wheel, his shoulders bent, as if he’s carrying a heavy weight. “Christ, can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”