Because his hand was no longer clenching my thigh at that point but creeping up my leg. Every single inch it moved closer to the throbbing core that was crying out for him was a moment my breathing shallowed. That the blush crept up my neck.
Gage’s face was marble.
And he continued to talk, as if he wasn’t almost at the apex of my thighs. As if every inch of my skin wasn’t on fire.
“And the price you pay for freedom isn’t something that can be earned through honest channels,” he finished.
“Of course,” she said, nodding and taking a sip of her wine. “The best things in life aren’t free. They’re usually very expensive and very illegal.” She smirked.
The corner of Gage’s mouth turned up and his hand reached the top of my thighs, mere inches away from my core. It was covered with fabric, but Gage’s hand seemed to sear that away, his bare palm scorching into my skin.
I gripped my water glass and counted myself lucky that my grandmother was focused on Gage; otherwise, she would’ve spotted my discomfort and connected the dots immediately.
But he had that effect. He was the puppeteer of every room he walked into, commanding the eyes of all. You wanted to stare at him all day long but also avert your gaze because you knew there was something about him that repelled humanity. That welcomed pain and danger.
That was what drew me to him in the first place. But I was learning there was so much more to him than his pain. Than his scars.
Something changed in my grandmother’s expression, something that distracted me enough from Gage’s teasing fingers, inching toward the apex of my thighs. Her words even stole away the blush, the need that was coming from his brutal touch.
“So you sell drugs?” she asked, her voice bland. Casual. As if she were asking if they sold car parts.
But there was nothing casual about my grandmother’s question. Nor about her thoughts to the answer. Because she was okay with a lot of things. She was okay with outlaws, with illegal activity, with people who operated outside the normal parameters. She preferred those people, in fact.
But not those who peddled the substances that stole my brother away from us.
Gage’s hand froze at my thigh, and the pads of his fingers pinched painfully into the soft skin underneath my pants. I didn’t notice the pain. No, I was too busy focusing on the white-hot agony that came with her question. With the fear of what the answer would be.
I noticed the change in Gage’s demeanor immediately. He had been hard, cold, and menacing so far. But not completely. His edges were purposefully dulled, obviously as dull as they could be for the situation. But now they were razor-sharp. Now he was ice, wearing that cruel mask he yanked on to keep the world from seeing his monster.
The silence following Grandma’s question was long. Yawning. My heart was pounding in my ears. Gage’s jaw was clenched tight enough to shatter his teeth.
“No,” he ground out with enough force that it hit me physically. He sucked in a rough inhale and the fingers at my thighs relaxed. Slightly. “Club doesn’t fuck with drugs. Not now. Never.”
Grandma smiled, as if the moment wasn’t strained, as if the air weren’t laced with razors. “Oh, well that’s nice, then,” she said mildly.
Her response and light and airy tone did a lot to ease the tension. Gage’s mouth didn’t twitch up, but his jaw relaxed.
She leaned forward, eyes bright and curious. “So, if not drugs…?” she prompted, not addressing Gage’s intense and dangerous reaction to her previous question.
She did that, my grandmother. Had a sixth sense for pain and exposed nerves and deftly avoided such subjects where most people would prod, hungry for someone else’s pain. Which was why I’d guessed she’d failed to ask a single question about Gage’s past. Or his family.
Because she knew they were land mines.
I hadn’t even realized how big until her sense exposed them. Until I realized I knew nothing about Gage, the man. The man underneath the cut. Underneath the scars. The reasons for his scars, not just the ones on his arms but the ones etched behind his eyes.
I ached to know his pain, to feel it myself just so I could know him more. Get closer to him. I knew that if he ever told me, I’d hurt for as long as I was in his presence. His pain would be added to what I carried around. It would be agony.
And I craved to share it.
For now, I had to do what everyone was doing—dodge the emotional land mines. Until the right moment. Or the wrong one. Then everything would explode. I just hoped enough of me—and more importantly, Gage—would remain when it was all over.