“Ow.” Seychelle rubbed her bottom and glared at him, not that he was looking at her. “Sheesh. Will you stop doing that? It’s not like I’m wearing much padding. I guess I should qualify that statement—I meant in the way of clothing.”
“You deserved that. And don’t remind me of your lack of clothing.”
“I take great exception to your reasoning. Receding hairline is the number one reason for men shaving their heads. I’m sure I read that statistic on the internet.”
He reached over his head, found her hand and put it on his head. “Get to work, woman, and stop trying to defend a completely indefensible position.”
“You told me I didn’t have to massage your scalp.”
“I changed my mind. Fuck, woman, you have a mouth on you. Why aren’t you afraid of me like everyone else?”
She could tell him the truth. But if she did, if she told him she could “see” inside him, he would probably take out one of his many weapons and shoot her. Or he’d leave, and she’d never see him again. Because she wasn’t going to go to the Torpedo Ink bar and audition with their band. She didn’t dare be around Savage more than she absolutely had to. He wouldn’t want her to know his secrets, and he had so many it was frightening. She could see straight into him where no one else could, where he had gifts he didn’t want anyone—especially the men and women of Torpedo Ink he loved—to know about. She saw into him and knew he was a good man, when he didn’t know it and would never believe it even if she told him.
“If you crawled into my bedroom to hurt me, you already would have done it.”
“Not if I wanted a killer scalp massage first.”
She heard the trace of amusement in his voice, and it slid inside her like a gift. Instinctively, she knew Savage didn’t do with anyone else what he was doing with her—sparring verbally and enjoying himself. It was a little exhilarating.
“I see. You plan to kill me after the massage.”
“Maybe, so you’d better make it a long one.”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Turn over, then. I’ll massage your shoulders and back. You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders.”
There was the briefest of hesitations. If she wasn’t so tuned to him, she wouldn’t have noticed, but she saw everything about him. Inwardly she cursed herself for gravitating toward the wounded and the dark. She couldn’t go near him after this night. She vowed to herself she wouldn’t.
Her life had been about taking care of others, watching herself, being disciplined when she had to, so she could take this night, for however long he stayed, and enjoy herself. He’d made it clear he wasn’t after sex, so she didn’t have to worry that she would have a wild night with him and then stalk him evermore.
He rolled over, a show of muscle, and the light spilling through the window spotlighted his back and the tattoo he had there. She’d seen the Torpedo Ink insignia on their vests. But this one was very detailed. The light also highlighted the terrible burns on his back. Like on his chest, someone had burned letters into his flesh. Master of Pain. The letters were distinct in spite of the fact that the skulls buried in the roots of the trees had been inked over them. She hadn’t known one could ink over burns, especially burns so severe they went layers deep.
She reached for a bottle of lotion she kept on the nightstand, shifted position and straddled his thighs, reaching up to run her hand over the exquisite ink work. “Who did this? It’s beautiful.” It was. She wasn’t going to comment on the Master of Pain and what that meant because she was afraid she already knew. She’d seen the other burn, the one in front proclaiming him the Whip Master.
“Usually don’t let bitches touch my tatt.” His voice was gruff. Muffled by the blankets. He turned his head and looked at her with cold blue eyes. So cold. Flat. Almost dead.
“Well, since I’m not a bitch most of the time, and I’m massaging your shoulders and back, I guess it’s sort of mandatory that I touch it.” She didn’t. She waited for his permission, because it meant something big to him. Huge. The tattoo was not just on his skin. It was a part of him and it had great meaning.
She actually felt him at war with himself. He didn’t show it outwardly, other than in the tension running through his body, but instinctively she knew this was another first. No one really touched his tattoo—or those burns neither of them were going to talk about.
Seychelle counted her breaths while she waited. She didn’t know whether she wanted him to give her permission or not. It would tie another thread between them, and she knew she couldn’t afford too many more. Being close to a man like Savage was dangerous. Trying to soothe him, trying to help him with the horrible monstrous demon that was eating him up inside, was a two-edged sword. She wanted to just take it all away for him, tell him she’d do whatever was necessary, be whatever he needed, but she already knew she wasn’t that woman. He was so damaged, and she was terrified for him and terrified for herself.