She turned in his arms, looping her arms around his neck again. “We’re due a good omen or two.” She loosened his sling and slipped it off so that she could get to the buttons of his shirt, impatiently pulling them free. But when she pushed the shirt from his shoulders, it was slowly and with care because he was far from being healed.
As soon as his chest was bare, she ran her hands over the hard planes, lightly tracing the outline of his phoenix tattoo. His belt was next and within seconds, his pants and boxer briefs were on the floor and he was gloriously naked. Stepping back, she looked her fill, up and down and everything in between. He was a truly beautiful man.
She started to walk around him, suddenly aware that she’d never seen him from behind. His hand shot out to grip her arm, startling her. Her eyes flew up to meet his.
Where there had been joy and lust, she now saw apprehension.
“What is it?” she whispered.
He drew a breath. “I have scars. On my back. Just . . . be prepared. Okay?”
She nodded soberly and he let her go. Cautious now, she moved around him, grateful he’d warned her. Not because she was horrified. Not because he was ugly.
But the scars were . . . extreme. Had he not warned her, she might have reacted simply out of shock. And rage.
She’d known he’d been beaten, but she thought he’d meant with fists. Not this.
They’d done this to him. Hurt him. There were gouges and stripes on his back and the backs of his legs, like they’d used whips and knives. On a thirteen-year-old boy. On his birthday. After he’d already fended off a pedophile.
His shoulders had tensed, waiting for her reaction, making her heart break yet again. She slipped her arms around his waist, laying her cheek against his back. The scars weren’t raised, and most had faded, but still they . . . existed.
She swallowed hard, praying she’d say the right thing. “I’m so angry right now,” she whispered. “They put their hands on you. They hurt you. I want to find them and I want to . . . well, I want to do things that I probably shouldn’t confess to a federal agent.”
His shoulders relaxed and he chuckled. “You are a bloodthirsty woman.”
Sheer relief had her eyes stinging. “I protect what’s mine, Gideon. Just like you do.” She kissed a line across his back, then traced the worst of the scars with her fingertips. “If you’re worried that I’m . . .” She trailed off, not sure which word to use.
“Repulsed?” he asked quietly.
Now she was horrified. “I’m not. The scars are part of you and you are beautiful. No ‘buts.’” She reconsidered that statement as she studied his perfect ass. “Except for your butt, of course, which is a work of art.”
He snorted, shaking his head, and she knew they’d be all right. She came back around to face him. “Put the worries from your mind, Gideon. There is nothing about your body that doesn’t turn me on.”
He hesitated. “I’ve never allowed a woman to see my back.”
Her eyes widened. “Never?”
His face flushed. “No. I didn’t trust any of them, I guess. They’d want to know what happened and it wasn’t anything I wanted to share.”
But he’d trusted her with it all. The stinging in her eyes returned and she struggled to find the perfect tone. “That means I’m the first to ever see your ass?”
His lips twitched. “Yes.”
“Then this makes me happy.” She lifted an eyebrow. “Wanna see mine?”
He took a step forward, palming her butt with his left hand. “I absolutely do. Why am I naked while you’re completely dressed?”
She smiled cheekily. “I am easily distracted. I may need direction.”
His kiss took her breath away. “Take off your clothes, Daisy,” he growled, all levity gone. He was serious. A man on a mission. It gave her the best kind of shivers.
She complied, then pointed to the unfinished tattoo on her ass cheek. “See? Brutus.”
“I see. I also see a tattoo that I’d prefer you not have filled in.”
She blinked, surprised. He was completely serious. “Why?”
“Because I protect what’s mine and I don’t want a tattoo artist seeing your butt.”
She might have bristled had the request come from anyone else. “Okay.”
He blinked this time. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s a reasonable request.”
He cupped her breast and the thread of the conversation frayed as she made a needy, greedy sound. “And if I requested that you get in my bed?” he asked silkily.
She lifted on her toes to kiss him, humming at the simple pleasure of rubbing her breasts against the hair of his chest. She cupped the back of his neck with one hand and stroked his erection with the other, making him groan.
“A very reasonable request, but considering I’m going to be doing most of the work while you don’t use your arm, you should probably get in first.”
His eyes flashed, dark and hot, and he walked her backward until they reached the bed. He let her go long enough to lie back against the pillows. “Come here.”
She knelt by his head, laying out her plan in her mind to make sure she could do what she wanted without hurting him. She leaned in for another kiss that left her panting. “I’m wondering if you can make me come without using your hands at all.”
His nostrils flared, his jaw going taut. “Come. Here.”
Heart pounding in anticipation, she straddled him, placing a knee on either side of his head, checking to be sure that she was nowhere near his shoulder. She’d planned to tease him a little, but he shocked her by lifting his head from the pillow and stabbing into her with his tongue.
Stifling a scream, she reached for the headboard and lowered her body so that she could ride his mouth. Then let herself go. She didn’t last long.
Her orgasm was swift and sharp and she leaned into the headboard for support as she caught her breath. “Gideon.”
He wore a smug smile when she finally got the energy and coordination to swing her leg over his head and slide down beside him. “Well?” he asked.
She could only blink at him. “I want to do that again when my brain stops spinning.”
He rolled to his side, his lips still shiny and wet. “I want to see if you can ride my cock the way you rode my mouth.”
Her hips gave an involuntary jerk. “Oh God.” It was part moan, part laugh. “Yes, please and thank you.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 24, 3:10 P.M.
“She looks okay,” Frederick said, his gaze locked on his daughter as she and an older woman milled among the people who’d come to Trish’s memorial service.
It had been a difficult service. There’d been stories about Trish, some sweet, some funny, and others definitely not safe for work. There had been some laughter, but mostly there had been sadness and tears. So many tears.
Frederick turned to Gideon. “Is she okay?”
Gideon wasn’t sure how to answer that. Right now, Daisy wasn’t okay. She was grieving so many things—the loss of Trish, the thirty other women who’d died at Carson’s hand, the fact that she’d killed a man—even one who’d needed to be killed—and the time she and her family had lost because no one helped Frederick with his PTSD years ago.
But she’d be okay. Gideon was certain about that. So he went with that, because it answered the question Frederick was really asking—was Daisy’s sobriety at risk? “She will be. She’s going to meetings and she’ll continue using all the coping tools she’s honed over the past eight years that she’s been sober. You’ve raised a strong woman, Frederick.”
“I know,” Frederick murmured. “She’s stronger than I am, that’s for damn sure.”
Gideon wasn’t sure how to answer that, either, because he thought Frederick was right. So he told the truth. “She forgives you.”
The sudden catch in Frederick’s breath sounded suspiciously like a quelled sob and told him that he’d chosen the right words.
“You can forgive yourself now,” Gideon added quietly. “Although I know that’s easier said than done.” Because he wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive himself for what happened to Mercy and their mother. It wasn’t my fault. But it was still so hard.
“That’s the truth,” Frederick muttered, then turned his head to where Sasha, Mercy, and Rafe sat off to the side all by themselves in the crowded room. Rafe was in a wheelchair because he’d been determined to be there, partly for Daisy, but mostly for Sasha, who sat, quiet and too subdued. She’d be okay, too, but it might take a while.
“Your sister gonna stay?” Frederick asked.
Gideon’s stomach clenched at the reality of the Mercy situation. “Not much longer. She only took a week of vacation.” And there was still so much to say.
“She’ll be back,” Frederick said, sounding sure. “Give her time.”
“That’s what Daisy keeps saying.”
Frederick’s mouth curved. “Listen to her. She’s wise. Oh, look. Miss Jones came.”
Both he and Gideon stood when Zandra Jones approached with an older couple that Gideon assumed were her parents. “It was nice of you to come,” Gideon said to Zandra. “I know Daisy appreciates it.”
“It was the least I could do,” Zandra said. “I wanted to introduce you to my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jones. Mom, Dad, Mr. Dawson and Special Agent Reynolds saved my life.”
Mr. Jones pumped their hands and Mrs. Jones hugged them, crying unapologetically. “Thank you,” they said, making Gideon feel both amazing and embarrassed at once.