“Like I said,” Bowen gently lowers me to the floor, “I’ll get you home in one piece.”
I bend down to kick off my shoes and, suddenly, the sharp aroma of burnt hickory hits my nose. It’s much more pronounced now that I’m back in my room with clean linens and the lingering smell of cleaner.
“I smell like campfire.”
Bowen leans down and presses his cheek against mine, inhaling the flood of curls cascading over my shoulder. A shot of dopamine shoots through me at the feel of skin against mine, but when I rotate my head slightly, he moves to the left and presses his nose into the shoulder of my sweatshirt.
“Yep,” he says, lifting his head, “you’re pretty charred.”
Before I can respond, Bowen reaches up and slowly begins unzipping my hoodie. And I let him, because I wish he’d kept his face pressed against mine. Leaving my hoodie open, he grasps each side and leans down, pulling me closer.
He presses his nose to my collarbone and inhales my t-shirt, “This one’s still clean,” he murmurs.
He lingers for a few moments, but as soon as he lifts his head, I cock my head, eyeing him, “Tall,” I state.
Bowen furrows his brow at me in confusion.
“I didn’t finish telling you about my type,” I explain, “tall, with dark hair and intense eyes, but he has the most beautiful smile.” Bowen shifts his stance and leans his shoulder against the wall as I continue. “He likes to be outside, and he’s kind of an asshole,” I shrug, “but he tells good stories.”
Bowen bites his bottom lip, “Sounds like a real charmer.”
“Anyway,” I glance back into my empty room, “thanks for calling the wrong number last night.”
“My pleasure,” Bowen nods. “So, did you get it out of your system?”
“Get what out of my system?”
He motions to the door behind him, “All that out there where you let me take you on a hike, talk sweet to you, we get to know each other, and then you meet my entire family so you can convince yourself I’m a good guy you can invite into your room.”
Whoa.
I squint up at him, “Are you a good guy?”
But he doesn’t miss a beat, “Do you want me to be a good guy?” Bowen doesn’t wait for me to answer before he pushes off the wall, searching my face as he tries to read me, “I’ll be good to you.” He looks me up and down, his pupils dilated so his brown eyes looked like pools of glossy ink, “That’s all that matters, right?”
That’s all that matters.
He’s so close that I have to tilt my head back to look up at him, “So, was all of that out there real or just for show?”
“Oh, it was real,” he nods, “but now I want to be done with niceties and show you what it’s really like to be with me.”
Goosebumps skitter across my back and down my arms as I realize the Bowen that carried me so gently out of the nighttime shadows and up to my room is gone. In his place is something more akin to a beast that’s waiting to be fed. And I’m glad this Bowen decided to come out to play.
He leans down, “Hope you don’t have neighbors tonight,” he whispers as he reaches behind his back and flips the swing bar shut over the door.
Bowen glances over my shoulder and then tips his chin, motioning to the dim room behind me, lit only by the glow of the lamp next to the bed. The corner of my mouth twitches with amusement as I take a step backward, and then another. His eyes remain locked on mine as I move deeper into the room, him following at the same pace until he comes to a stop just in front of me.
He reaches over his shoulders and pulls both his hoodie and t-shirt over his head in one go, revealing a set of shoulders and traps that nearly buckle my knees. His jeans hang low on his hips, but pieces of another tattoo peek out from beneath his black leather belt. Ribbons of ink curl up over each hip before dipping back down out of sight. Another block of black script is tattooed beneath his chest, curving around the right side of his rib cage, but I can’t read it.
When I take another step back, my ass hits the edge of the dresser, “Why did you take me to meet your entire family?” I ask as he comes closer.
A wicked grin creeps across Bowen’s face, “I like to try things on for size before I decide to keep them,” he reaches up and hooks the hem of my t-shirt in his fingers, dragging it up over my head and tossing my hair over one shoulder.
“Do I fit?” I ask, peering up at him.
Bowen plants his hands on the dresser on either side of me, “You fit in with them as soon as you said hello,” then he leans in close, “and I’ve already decided I’m not leaving this room until you fit me. Or do I need to talk sweet to you some more?”
My core clenches, his voice is so intoxicating. It’s irresistibly sweet until it’s too late, and before you know it, you’re totally wrecked.
I reach up and take his chin in the crook of my thumb, “What if I didn’t want you to be sweet to begin with?”
I feel him smile just before his mouth consumes mine, and he tastes just as good as I thought he would. Pressing my hips into the dresser, he tilts my head back, running his mouth over my throat as he unsnaps my grey lace bra. He lets it fall from my arms and pulls me against him, drawing a split-second moan from me as soon as I feel the warmth of his chest against my skin.
“Then you sound like my kind of girl,” Bowen grins before suddenly grabbing my hips and spinning me around to face the mirror.
Before I can pitch forward, he wraps one arm around my torso and slides his other hand over my shorts and down the crease of my hip. I sink back against his chest, dopamine flooding my brain while he leers at my reflection. He presses his cheek against my temple and hooks his thumb in the waistband of my shorts, slowly pulling them down past my hips. As soon as they hit the floor, he grabs the back of my thigh and hikes my knee onto the top of the dresser.
Bowen gazes at my reflection, his hand tracing the same path over my chest and stomach as his eyes. But as soon as I feel his hand come to a stop over my ribcage, I sober and my jaw tightens, knowing exactly what’s drawing his gaze. He gently runs his middle finger over a thin, six-inch scar that runs arrow straight horizontally beneath my left breast.
“What happened to you, baby girl?” he murmurs in my ear.
I silently cringe at his words before telling him what I’ve told everyone else, what I’ve tried to trick myself into believing after repeating it long enough.
“I cut myself on a nail in a fence.”
It’s plausible, at least enough to placate anyone who asks. And it seems to satisfy Bowen.
My breath catches as he leaves my scar and slides his hand down my stomach and between my legs. All I can look at are his black eyes burning a hole in my reflection.
