Torn (The Fosters of New York 3)

"Hours before that." I follow the path of her fingers with my own, running the pad of my thumb over her bottom lip. "I was so fucked up that day. I knew I wanted to see you but I didn't handle it well. I'm sorry about that."

Her eyes drop to the laptop, she pushes it closed. "Did you ever suspect? I've seen articles online about you and your family. I didn't think any of them were real."

My brows rise. "I've had suspicions for years. I'm a lot different than my brothers."

"Do they know? Did you tell them about this?"

I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't. I know it's going to pain Gabriel when he realizes that I've known for this long and I didn't tell him. He's always been upfront with me about everything. I wanted to deal with this by myself, by my own terms. I'm hoping he'll see merit in that. I want him to be proud of me, Caleb too.

"I haven't told anyone else. You're the only one."

She slides closer to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. "I'll do anything to help you, Asher. We can talk, or you can yell or we can ignore it all until you're ready to tell your family."

I reach up to cup her chin in my hand. "I just want you. The only thing I want right now is to make love to you."

CHAPTER 41

Falon

"It's been killing me, Falon," he says gruffly. "Not touching you, not tasting you. I've felt like a starved man since I went to Philly."

"It felt like forever, Asher," I say softly as I watch him undress.

He'd taken his time helping me out of my clothes. He knelt down as he pulled my shorts down, showering my legs with kisses before he touched me through the lace panties I'm wearing. They'd gotten wet not only from his finger on my clit, but from the way he was growling, telling me that he loved my body, that he wanted to be inside me.

When he finally pulled my panties off, he licked my pussy, moaning the entire time. I didn't come. I wanted to but I wanted to touch him more. I'd tried to slow his movements by pulling on his hair. He chuckled, pushing me onto the bed before he moved his lips up my stomach.

He unbuttoned the blue blouse I'm wearing slowly, telling me that my skin is so soft and that he dreams about touching me almost every night. By the time he unhooked my bra, my nipples were tight points, hard and aching.

My hips bucked off the bed when he circled one nipple in his mouth before he bit down hard on it. I cried out and he silenced me with a lush kiss on my lips. I tried to help him undress then, but he'd pulled back. He's standing in front of me now, completely nude.

"Your tattoos are beautiful." I lean forward to press my fingertips against his chest. "Tell me what they mean."

He glances down, his eyes raking over his own muscular frame. His body is remarkable. It's a testament to hard work and dedication. He gestures towards his right arm. "I had a design in mind for this arm but it all went to hell."

I laugh as I study it. It's an intricate blend of symbols and images, all woven together in a design that is as unique as he is.

"I went to a different tattoo artist in each city I've played in. During some of those sessions I knew what I wanted, other times I didn't. This is the result so far."

"Is there one from Philadelphia?"

"No." He kneels on the floor in front of me, pushing my thighs apart. "We'll go back together one day and you'll help me decide what to get."

I nod softly, studying his handsome face. His beard is almost full now. It's dark, unkempt. He looks beautiful and dangerous, desirable and tortured.

"What about this?" I rest my hand on his chest over the Roman numerals. "It's the number twenty-six, isn't it?"

"I got that one the day of my twenty-sixth birthday." His hand leaps to cover mine as he holds my gaze. "Someone once told me that I wouldn't live to see my twenty-sixth birthday. They told me that I'd die before then from an overdose. That person told me they'd die if I did."

I stare at the definition of the tattoo. It's faded some but it's bold, strong, a testament to the man whose body it adorns. "Who said that?"

"My dad did." He exhales audibly. "I was twenty-one at the time."

"You were young."

"Young and stupid," he whispers. "He dropped by my dorm room one afternoon. It was a Wednesday, in the spring. I was so high I fell over. He didn't help me up. He just stood there telling me that I needed to clean up before I died."

"You did clean up." I stroke his cheek with my hand. "Look at you now. You're a rock star."