Ten Tiny Breaths (19 page)

His hand lifts to brush my cheek as he smiles
down at me. “You’ve got to be tired. Why don’t you get some sleep?
I’ll stay and watch over things.”

I fight to hide the disappointment from my
face. Being near him feels so good, so right, so comforting.
Adrenaline and attraction rush through my limbs. The last thing I
am right now is tired. But I also don’t want to appear needy. I
give him my best suspicious once-over. “And who’s going to watch
over you to make sure you don’t steal anything?”

“Me? The guy who keeps buying strange girls
front doors?”

“Strange girls!” I gasp, my hands flying to
cross my chest in mock horror. “I take offense to that. Besides,
how do I know you’re not some batshit crazy stiletto-wearing
kleptomaniac who’ll steal Storm’s underwear and drink all the
mustard?”

He rolls his eyes. “It was ketchup and that
was only once. It did nothing for me, I swear it.” I giggle as
Trent’s arms lift to settle on my shoulders. He looks down the
length of my body before settling on my face. “I do have an
appreciation for women’s underwear. Just, not on me.”

I struggle to swallow as my heart leaps into
my throat, the blood pulsing against my ear drum as this electric
pulse channels between us, rousing every nerve in my body. But then
he breaks off, taking three large steps back and exhaling deeply. I
smile to myself. At least I’ m not the only one who feels it.

“We should do something about this door. The
police tape doesn’t exactly keep prying eyes out.”

Another wave of heat roils through me.
What would prying eyes see?
Trent rifles through the closets
until he pulls out an old blanket. “I hope she doesn’t mind.”

I help Trent secure the blanket against the
opening with an array of tape, tacks, and other adhesive things I
find in the kitchen drawers. It’s after one o’clock in the morning
when we finally finish and my adrenaline rush is crashing, leaving
me exhausted. I flop down on the sectional. “I haven’t been off my
feet for more than ten minutes tonight.” Trent takes a seat at the
end of the couch. Gently lifting my feet, he slides first one heel
off and then another.

“Oh.” I moan. “You can stay.” He grins, but
says nothing as his skilled hands rub the bottom of my feet in
smooth, circular motions. Around and around, slowly, deftly. I
groan and lie my head back, enjoying his strength, his undivided
attention. “Okay, you’ve earned at least one underwear strut. Go,”
I fling my arm lazily toward Storm’s room. “Pick your weapon. Storm
has quite the collection.”

Trent chuckles. “Depends on who’s
strutting.”

I open one eye to find heat in his light blue
eyes as they gaze at me. Again, I see this mercurial switch from
the cautious, responsible Trent to the one who seems willing to
have me on my back, and I don’t know what to think of it except
that I know I want the latter version right now. His hand begins
moving a little faster, a little more ardently, his breathing
heavier. And then his hands are sliding to my calves and with a
grip, pulling me toward him. As I slide, my dress slips higher up,
revealing more leg. Luckily it stops at the height of my thighs,
just as my butt reaches the side of his thigh. My bare legs are now
stretched over his lap. One of his hands rests on the inside of my
thigh, shooting lightning bolts through my entire body. The index
finger on his other hand traces along my right outer thigh—up, up,
further …

It stops on my tattoo, on the edge of my scar
and strokes back and forth along the ridge. “Did you get the tat to
cover this scar?”

“If I did that, my entire right side would be
one big tattoo,” I lie.

“Why five ravens?” He asks as his fingers
trail along the tails.

“Why not?” I pray he’ll leave it at that.

But he doesn’t. “What does it mean?”

When I don’t answer, he says, “Please talk to
me, Kacey.”

“You said I didn’t have to.” My voice turns
bitter. Trent has effectively tossed a bucket of ice water over my
body, dousing the heat from a moment ago.

His hand leaves my leg to rub his forehead.
“I know. I know I did say that. I’m sorry. I just want you to trust
me, Kace.”

“It has nothing to do with trust.”

“What does it have to do with then?”

I stare up at the ceiling. “The past. Stuff I
don’t want to talk about. Stuff you promised me we wouldn’t have to
talk about.”

His hand finds its way back to my thigh, his
eyes focused on it as he gently squeezes. “I know I said that, but
I need to know you’re okay, Kacey.” There’s a twinge of something
in his voice that I can’t quite identify. Worry? Fear? What is
it?

“What, are you afraid you’ll wake up duct
taped to your mattress?”

“No.” I catch a hint of anger in Trent’s
voice. The first, ever. It vanishes with the softness in his next
words. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” The air in the room grows somber
as Trent lifts his eyes to my face and I see they’re full of grief.
He leans over enough that he can reach my cheek, brushing a thumb
against it.

His words—or more his tone and the pain in
his eyes—stirs a need to ease whatever is upsetting him.

I
want
to make Trent happy.

And I realize that I
want
him to know
me. All of me.

I swallow, my mouth suddenly going bone dry.
“I was in a bad car accident a few years ago. A drunk driver hit my
dad’s car. The right side of my body was crushed. I have dozens of
steal pins and rods through my body, holding me together.”
Physically. Nothing but ten tiny breaths holds the rest of me
together
.

Trent exhales loudly, falling back into the
couch. “Did anyone die?”

“Yeah,” I manage to say. A sudden explosion
of panic inside curls my tongue, preventing me from saying more. My
hands start trembling uncontrollably.
Too much, too soon
, my
psyche is saying.

“Wow, Kacey. That’s … that’s …” His hand
smooths over the length of my leg again however it’s lost that
intimate feel. Now, it’s comforting. I don’t want comforting.
Nothing he can do will comfort me.

“Kiss me,” I demand, glaring at him.

Disbelief widens his eyes. “What?”

“I gave you what you wanted. Now give me what
I want.” He doesn’t move. He just stares at me like I’ve set myself
on fire. I seize his bicep and squeeze tightly, using it as
leverage to pull my body up and onto his, shifting one leg over a
stunned Trent’s lap to straddle him. “Kiss me. Now,” I growl. His
jaw clenches and I know my persistence is wearing on him. It’s only
more obvious a second later when he squeezes his lids shut.
“Trent—”

He hunches forward, his head slumping into my
shoulder. “You know it’s taking every ounce of me to keep in
control, right?”

“Don’t. Forget control. You don’t need it,” I
whisper into his ear.

He groans, flopping back. “You’re making this
so hard, Kacey,” he murmurs, a pained look on his face.

With my hands on the back of Trent’s broad
shoulders, I shimmy forward until I’m right on him, feeling his
need for me so acutely. I lean in and let my lips brush over
Trent’s neck. “What exactly am I making hard, Trent?” My voice is
breathless, an intentional move to entice him.

It works.

Trent’s hands grab me from behind as he pulls
my body flush against his, his mouth devouring mine with a new
level of hunger. He forces my mouth open and his tongue slides in,
entwining with mine. Gripping the back of my head with one hand, he
pushes my mouth closer against his.

I’m no less forceful, my hands fisting piles
of his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, sliding them through
eyelets to expose a smooth hard chest as I edge myself closer. His
hands push at the bottom of my dress and find their way underneath
to clutch my bare hips. I release a small gasp as his fingers skate
up and around my thighs to my pelvic bone, fitting under the
elastic of my thong and sliding forward and down.

I’m sure this entire ‘going slow’ plan of his
is effectively quashed, but then his finger grazes the ridge of
another scar and his hand freezes. His lips break free of mine and
he pushes my body to the edge of his lap.

“I can’t.”

“You already are,” I mumble, grappling with
hands so I can resume my position against him.

But it’s too late. He’s already ducking his
head, looping his arms around my legs to lift and reposition me,
pulling me to him in a protective embrace. We stay silent for a
long moment, his forehead pressed against my shoulder. “I’d fix it
all for you if I could. You know that, right?” He whispers. I
wonder if he’s talking about my scars or the last four years of my
life.

“Yes,” is all I say. Yes to all of it.

I wake up to silver curtains and an early dawn sky
peeking in. I’m in Storm’s bed, still wearing my dress. Rolling
over, I find Trent laying on his back, bare-chested and in boxers,
sound asleep. One arm is tossed over his head while the other rests
across his torso. I guess I fell asleep on him last night and he
carried me in here.

There’s just enough light that I can study
Trent’s body unabashed and see that it is as gorgeous as I
expected. It’s long and muscular and flawless, with just a thin
line of dark hair trailing down a sculpted abdomen. A tiny silver
line along his collar bone catches my eye. It’s so faint and narrow
that I never saw it before. Peering closer, I look for stitch marks
to identify it as a surgical scar, but I don’t see any.

“See something you like?” Trent’s low teasing
voice startles me and I jump. Grinning, I look up to see a sexy,
crooked smile. His mood has switched back to playful.

“Not really,” I murmur, but my cheeks flush,
giving me away.

His hand cups my face. “You blush a lot. I’d
never have taken you for the blushing kind.” After a pause, he
offers, “go ahead. I’ve got nothing to hide.”

I feel my eyebrow arch. “Carte blanche?”

His other arm stretches back to nestle under
his head. “Like I said …”

I decide that Trent really doesn’t get the
meaning of taking it slow, but I’m not going to argue. “Okay.” An
idea strikes me. Curiosity, actually. “Roll over.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but he obliges,
smoothly flipping over so I can admire the ripples in his back, his
broad strong shoulder, and the span of script that stretches from
blade to blade.

My finger trails it softly, spiking goose
bumps across his skin. “What does it mean?”

He starts to answer, but then he pauses, like
he’s hesitant about telling me. That makes me want to know a
hundred times more. I wait quietly, tracing it back and forth with
my fingernail. “
Ignoscentia
. It’s Latin,” he finally
whispers.

“What does it mean?”

“Why do you have five ravens on your leg?” he
throws back at me, a rare hint of annoyance in his tone.

Dammit.
Of course he’d ask that. I’d
do the same if I were him. I bite my bottom lip as I weigh my
options. Do I shut him down again or do I give him a bit to get a
bit? My interest in Trent outweighs my need to keep everything
hidden.

“They’re for all the important people in my
life who I’ve lost,” I finally whisper, hoping to God he doesn’t
ask me to name them. I don’t want to name the one that represents
me.

I hear his sharp intake of breath.
“Forgiveness.”

“What?” That word hits me like a punch to the
chest. Just the sound of it—so impossible—leaves me nauseous. How
many times had the counselors pushed me to
forgive
those
guys for killing my family?

“My ink. That’s what it says.”

“Oh.” I exhale slowly, my fists balling up to
stop my hands from trembling. “Why do you have that on your
back?”

Trent rolls over and spends a long moment
gazing at me with a grim mask, eyes full of grief. When he answers,
his voice has turned husky. “Because forgiveness has the power to
heal.”

If only that were true, Trent.
I
struggle hard to keep from frowning. I wonder how different our
pasts must be for him to have a tattoo promoting forgiveness when
I’m wearing one symbolizing the very reason why I can’t
forgive.

There’s another long pause and then Trent’s
sly grin is back, his arms nestling his head again. “Clock’s
ticking here …”

I shake the seriousness away. Propping myself
up onto my knees to get a better view, my eyes drift over his lips,
his jaw line, his Adam’s apple. They roll leisurely down his chest
and I make a point of leaning in and parting my lips near his
nipple. I hear his breath hitch, and I’m sure he can feel my breath
against his skin. I pull back as I continue further down, checking
once to see if he’s watching me. He sure is.

A nervous twinge stirs in my stomach and I
focus on the feeling for a second to realize that I adore it. It
makes me feel alive. And I decide I want more than just a twinge so
I push it, sending it into overdrive as I reach up and skim the
elastic band of Trent’s briefs with my index finger. It’s not hard
to see that he’s aroused. I curl my finger underneath the elastic
band …

And find myself on my back in a split second,
with both my arms over my head, my wrists pinned beneath one of
Trent’s strong hands. He’s hovering over me, holding all of his
weight up by that one arm, grinning. “My turn.”

“I’m not done yet,” I fake pout.

He smirks. “Tell you what, if you can last
five minutes with the same level of scrutiny—without moving at
all—I’ll let you finish.”

I make a tsking sound but inside I’m
screaming. “Five minutes. Easy.”

Trent cocks his head, his arched brow telling
me he can see through my bullish exterior to the melting pile of
goo beneath. “You think you can handle it?”