Shattered: An Extreme Risk Novel (25 page)

“I just—I wanted—” Jesus. I can barely talk.

“It’s okay,” he tells me, even as he pulls out of my arms.

“Where are you going?” I stand up and try to follow him with my eyes, but it’s too dark. I can barely see my own hand in front of my face.

“I’ll be right back.” The bathroom light turns on, giving the room some illumination, and I watch as Ash crosses to the front door. He flips the light there on, too, then makes his way back to where I’m standing in the shadows.

“A compromise,” he says with a grin.

I smile a little shyly, even as I nod my agreement. Then I hold my breath as Ash lowers me slowly, gently, onto the bed.

I reach for him, try to pull him down with me, but he just grins at me before pulling his shirt over his head.

I gasp, literally gasp, at my first sight of him. Which is ridiculous and juvenile and I honestly can’t give a fuck right now because, ohmyGod, he is so, so beautiful. Even in the semidark, I can see his long, lean torso. His flat stomach. The impossibly sexy ridges of his six-pack.

Licking the sudden dryness from my lips, I reach out to touch—because I finally can—and nearly whimper at the feel of his hot, silky skin beneath my touch. “Can I—” My voice breaks a little as need, sharp and sweet and a little desperate, careens through me.

“Yes,” he answers instantly.

My eyes shoot to his heavy-lidded ones. “You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

He laughs. “Doesn’t matter. You can do whatever you want to me.”

It’s too much, and not enough, and suddenly I shudder, my whole body responding to the careless, crazy beauty that is this man.

I grab on to him then, my fingers digging absently into his hips as I bring my mouth to his stomach. I kiss my way across the flat plane of his abs, pausing to lick around his belly button, before trailing my tongue down the line of muscles that runs directly from his sternum to the light happy trail that disappears into the waist of his jeans.

Ash groans, his head falling back even as his fingers tangle in my hair. I smile against his skin, relishing his response—and the knowledge that I’m the one pulling it from him. High on the power, and the joy of it, I skim my mouth from his belly to the sharp jut of his hip as my tongue licks each and every inch of skin.

“Tansy, baby,” Ash says, his voice low and gravelly and urgent. “You should probably—”

“What?” I ask, my response muffled against his skin because I absolutely refuse to raise my lips from my prize. Because now that I’m paying attention to his hip and ribs, I see them. A string of beautifully wrought kanji tattoos skimming up his side from his hip to right below his armpit.

There are five of the stark, black symbols and I want to explore them all. My fingers tighten on his hips, turning him just enough that I can reach. And then I’m pressing hot kisses over his ink, my tongue licking over each and every delicate line, until Ash’s hands tighten in my hair. Until sweat runs down his body. Until he groans and tries to pull my mouth up to his.

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 control 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?”

“No!” I all but shout the word, my hands cupping his face as I drag his mouth back to
mine.

He tastes amazing, like spearmint gum and pine trees and sweet, pure snow. He groans against my lips, and I take advantage, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. He explored me earlier, kissing me until my body was on fire and my brain felt like it was going to leak out my ears.

I want to do the same to him, want to take him apart so thoroughly that he’s as needy, as desperate, as I am. But I’ve barely licked my way into his mouth when he’s pulling away.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, terrified that I’ve done something wrong. Terrified that he’ll stop.

“Nothing. God, nothing, Tansy,” he gasps out as he pulls a series of shaky and shallow breaths into his lungs. His chest is heaving and the arm he brings up to rest against his forehead is shaking just a little. “I just can’t believe how hot you get me. I need a second or I’m going to lose it.”

Relief courses through me, along with need and joy and something else—something that feels an awful lot like triumph. I did this. I turned him on so much that he’s worried about coming in his jeans. Me, with all my scars and inexperience and insecurities. I did this to Ash.

Along with the relief comes the knowledge that I want him to lose it. I want to drive him straight to the edge and then throw him over, like he did to me last night. The pleasure he gave me—the utter, mind-numbing ecstasy of it—is not something I’m ever likely to forget. I want to share it with him, want to make him as crazy as he makes me.

I shimmy down his body then, unbuttoning his jeans and tugging at them until he gets the hint and lifts his hips. I yank them, and his red—yay!—boxers off, leave them crumpled in a heap on the floor. And then I stare at him, just stare at him. How can I not when he’s the most beautiful—and, if I’m being honest, the most intimidating—thing I’ve ever seen?

But Ash doesn’t give me time to freak out, doesn’t let me wonder for more than a second how on earth something that big is supposed to fit inside of me. Instead, he yanks down my own jeans, tosses them aside. And then he’s lifting me effortlessly, pulling me up until I’m straddling his face, my knees on either side of his head.

“What are you doing?” I squeak, reaching out to brace myself on the headboard. I’m horrified and fascinated and aroused all at the same time, and I squirm against his hands, not sure if I’m trying to get away or if I’m trying to get closer.

Ash smacks a hand against my ass, and though he does it softly, the feel of it rips through me, just as the sound rips through the silence of the room. “I’ve got you,” he mutters, his breath hot against my sex. “Let me take care of you.”

And then he’s there, licking through my folds, toying with my clit, eating me out in a way that is nothing—and everything—like what he did to me last night. The feelings coursing through me are the same, the pleasure and the desperation and the all-consuming need to keep
him right here, against me, forever. But it’s different, too, spread out above him like this, his tongue delving deep inside me and setting me on fire from the inside out. It’s hot and sexy and intimate, so unbearably intimate, that I have to turn my head. Have to hide my face against my arm even as he slams me over the edge of an orgasm so intense I can barely think, barely breathe.

But Ash reaches up even as I’m coming, presses hot fingers against my chin. I follow his request blindly, turning my head until my eyes connect with his. I’m so drunk on pleasure that it’s hard to focus, but at the same time, I can’t look away. Not with his eyes so clear and hot and commanding on my own.

Then he’s rolling again, tucking me beneath his body as he brings his lips to mine. I can taste myself on his mouth and it’s strange and sexy at the same time. I thrust my hands through his hair when he would have pulled back, hold his mouth to mine in a kiss so deep that I don’t think I have any secrets left.

When he finally pulls away, when I finally let him go, Ash is nearly panting with need. I can feel him against me, hot and huge and hard—so hard—and for a second, panic sneaks through the pleasure still zinging inside of me.

Somehow, he senses it again, and he leans down for another kiss. “Are you sure this is okay?” he whispers against my lips. “We can still stop.”

I can’t imagine what it costs him to make that offer when he’s so obviously aroused. When he’s already gotten me off. “I don’t want to stop,” I tell him softly, skimming my lips over his perfect jaw. “I want you inside me.”

He groans then, shifts away.

I panic, clutch at him, but he just drops soft kisses on my hands as he reaches for his jeans. I’m confused, until I see him open his wallet, pull out a condom. Then I feel like an idiot. How could I possibly have forgotten? How could I have been so far gone that I’d forgotten the most basic rule?