Complicate (Deliver 9)

The piece he’d attempted to lift had a wicked sharp edge, and now, it was stained in blood.

For a moment, he just stood there, his brown eyes fixated on his hand. Beads of crimson welled from a deep gash on his palm and trickled down his fingers, dripping from the tips.

Momentary shock held her immobile, her pulse propelling through her veins. He didn’t move, either, probably stunned by the pain.

The gush of blood didn’t slow. Rivers of it collected in a growing puddle on the floor between them.

“Put pressure on it.” She glanced around for something to stanch the flow.

There was nothing soft or clean in the vicinity. It was a stone factory, for fuck’s sake. All hard surfaces and layers of dust.

“Shall I use my filthy hand to put pressure on it?” He cocked his head, chillingly calm. “Or some other part of my unwashed body?”

There was a first-aid kit somewhere in the private quarters. She shrugged.

“You didn’t throw me in that room for sixteen days to let an infection take me.” His gaze lowered, scrutinizing the material of her dress.

She stepped back, gripping the skirt. “I’m not destroying my clothes to bandage your hand.”

“Give me your underwear.”

Her head jerked back, her mind running at top speed. But once she got over the shock of his command, she saw it as an opportunity to negotiate.

“There’s a rumor going around.” She toyed with a lock of her hair. “They say you won’t touch a woman.”

His jaw twitched, his expression otherwise blank.

“Is it because of her?” She directed her eyes to the dancer tattooed on his arm. “I know you still love Danni. But it’s been seven years. You let her go and yet, you’re still faithful to her?”

That prompted a reaction. His nostrils pulsed. His shoulders tightened, his whole body fighting to rein in his temper.

“That’s right, Cole. I know her name. I know what she means to you, and I know she lives in the penthouse of The Regal Arch Casino and Hotel in St. Louis.”

He squeezed his hands into fists, wringing a torrent of blood onto the floor.

“I’ll give you my panties if you give me something in return.” She winged up a brow.

His eyes fired menacingly, his mouth a slash of unholy objection.

“Calm down.” She softened her accent. “This is easy. Just tell me the last time you had sex.”

He drew in a long breath through his nose, released it, and said nothing.

“Be reasonable,” she said. “You’re so close to eating a decent meal. Just give me an honest answer. Then you can wrap up that hand and finish the last few stones.”

He straightened his spine and took a step forward. She held her ground, gazes locked.

His heat enveloped her, his scent ripe with sweat and dark masculinity as he put his mouth near her cheek.

“Seven years.” His head tipped, his eyes sharp, confident, and oh-so-close. “The panties. Now.”

Seven years.

Holy.

Fuck.

Her heart galloped at his proximity, the authority in his voice, and the implication of his words.

Seven years ago, Cole ended his relationship with the woman he loved. Yet he’d remained faithful to her all this time?

Whatever the reason, his answer filled Lydia’s chest with giddy warmth. Too much. Damn her, but she respected his self-restraint at a depth that had nothing to do with the job.

There was something so very appealing and admirable about a man who didn’t fuck everything in a skirt. And let’s be clear. He absolutely could. With a crook of his finger, he could have any woman—single, married, or cloistered in a convent—on her back and moaning beneath him. The man was virile. Sexually charged. A deadly ladykiller.

And celibate.

How rare was that? It told her that sex meant something to him. It also confessed an inhuman degree of self-control. She couldn’t abstain like that. She’d never even tried.

Christ, what would it be like with him? Seven years of pent-up intensity? The hunger and urgency? The explosiveness? She couldn’t fathom it.

She would soon find out. Except it wouldn’t be real. The only relationship she could entertain with him was a false one, steeped in lies and coercion.

Even so, she never backed out of a promise.

Without breaking eye contact, she reached beneath the dress and dragged down her panties. He didn’t give her space, not an inch, as she carefully worked the silk past her hips without flashing the room.

In the bent position, her gaze went straight to his fly. It was right there, clinging precariously to the bulge beneath and exposing a trim patch of hair. Amid the short brown curls lay the base of his cock, thick and angled down, trapped by the sagging waistband. Even in his flaccid state, the root was substantial, promising the rest of him would be more than satisfying.

She wanted it. The dirtiness. The wrongness of it. She wanted him.