Shattered (Extreme Risk 2)

But I’m not done yet, not even close. It seems like I’ve waited my whole life for this moment—have certainly waited for it since the second I first laid eyes on him—and I’m not ready to move on. Not yet. Not until I’ve explored my fill of him.

Tightening my grip on his waist, I tug sharply, pulling him down to the bed and over me. Then I roll until I’m stretched on top of him, my mouth skimming across the endless expanse of his glorious, gorgeous chest.

“What do these mean?” I ask, because I’m back at his tattoos. They’re so beautiful, so hot, that I can’t stay away. I want to kiss and tongue and play with them—and him—forever.

“What?” Ash asks, and he sounds like he’s drowning, all dark and rough and breathless.

“Your tattoos. What do they mean?” I nip at his side a little, at the slick ink of the third—and in my opinion, prettiest—of the symbols.

His breath catches in his throat, and then he’s tracing his hand over his side until he meets my mouth. For long seconds, his fingers tangle with my tongue and I lick at this new part of him, teasing him with slow, luxurious swipes of my tongue that run the length of his palm and fingers.

He chokes a little, his breath shuddering out of his body on a harsh and broken sound. “Snow,” he grinds out after a second, his hand moving jerkily from tattoo to tattoo. “Flight. Freedom. Strength. Mountain.”

I pause for a second, my lips resting softly against his skin. The meanings slay me, as wrapped up in snowboarding as they are. The sport means so much to him that he literally tattooed it into his skin, into his soul, and yet he’s willing to give it up for Logan. Because he loves him and wants to do what’s best for him.

It’s an overwhelming thought, a secret glimpse into the beauty of Ash’s soul, and I cherish it. Pull it deep inside myself and just hold it to me.

Except Ash is impatient, his body moving restlessly under mine, and though I don’t have any experience with this, instinct tells me that I’m running out of time. That I don’t have long before Ash seizes co

ntrol and I lose my chance to explore him.

Shifting slightly, I kiss my way back up the flat plane of his stomach to his heavily muscled pecs. I find a nipple, and for long seconds, I play with it with my tongue, relishing the sounds that Ash makes and the way he moves restlessly beneath me. Then, because I’m desperate for him, desperate to make him as hot and crazy and needy as I am, I nibble a little, just to see what he tastes like—and what he’ll do.

“Fuck,” he breathes, hands once again tightening on me. And then he’s pulling me up and over him, until I’m straddling his hips and the hard bulge of his cock is pressing against the apex of my thighs.

He yanks my shirt off with urgent hands, fumbles with my bra. And then I’m naked from the waist up. Naked and trembling and exposed.

Being nude in front of people is nothing new to me. When you have cancer, when you’re ill like that, your body becomes something that isn’t really your own. There are so many procedures, so many people touching and jabbing, poking and prodding—so many people looking at you like you’re nothing but another lab specimen—that you get used to the indifference. Used to the violation.

Being with Ash is nothing like that. His eyes are wide and dark and needy—so needy—as they skim over me that I have a hard time reconciling myself as the object of all that desire. But then his hands are there, his long, beautiful, calloused fingers smoothing over my ribs, my stomach, my breasts with a reverence I can’t miss.

“Tansy,” he breathes, as his hands come up to cup my small breasts. “You’re so beautiful.”

I know it’s not true, know that I have scars small and large that mar my skin in too many places. Know that I’m too skinny and too small and that my bones press against my skin in too many spots.

But as Ash looks at me, as his hands and eyes smooth over my skin, touching everywhere—learning everything there is to know about my body—I lose sight of everything that’s wrong with me and just revel in the joy and the heat that come from being this close to him.

And then it’s his turn to press kisses against my skin, his turn to learn me with his lips and tongue and teeth. I’m panting before he even gets to my breasts, sweat slipping slowly down my spine as he explores every inch of my exposed skin.

“What’s this?” he murmurs when he gets to the large, round port scar that’s a few inches below my collarbone.

“Surgery,” I gasp out, my whole body tensing as he presses a hot kiss against it. “When I was a kid.”

It’s not a lie, exactly—I did have surgeries when I was a kid—but it’s nowhere near the truth, either, and I hold myself stiff and tight against him as I wait for him to either ask for a more detailed explanation or to move on.

Ash must feel the tension and the uncertainty—God knows, I can’t hide it, not about this—because Ash kisses me there a couple more times, as if to tell me it doesn’t matter to him, before moving on.

His hands go to my jeans, his fingers unzipping, then delving beneath the waist to stroke over my abdomen, my lower back, my ass. I gasp as his hands cup my ass, his fingers sliding lower and lower until they’re pressed against my sex from behind.

The feel of his finger, right there—pressing against me—makes me jump even as it sends a host of new and exciting and terrifying feelings coursing through me. Ash sits up, soothing me with murmured reassurances and soft kisses to my neck and chest and shoulders.

“Can we get rid of these?” he asks softly, his mouth pressed to the sensitive spot beneath my ear that he discovered earlier. His hands tug at my jeans.

This is it, the moment of truth. I know it, and for a second—just a second—I hesitate. Not because I don’t want Ash. Not because I don’t want this. But because everything is changing so fast, everything about my life—about me—is so different now than it was two months ago. It’s better, infinitely better, but it’s different, too, and it takes a little getting used to. If someone had told me two months ago that I’d be here, sitting on top of the gorgeous and talented Ash Lewis as he made love to me, I would have laughed in their face. Probably asked for some of whatever they were smoking.

And yet, here I am. Here he is. It feels strange. Good and powerful and as necessary as breathing. But still strange.

Ash must sense my hesitation because he slides his hands back up my spine, then wraps his arms around me and just holds me, his mouth pressed hotly against my shoulder. “You okay, Tansy?” he asks after a second. “Do you want to stop?”