Sinful Southern Hero: 2 (8 page)

Without any groans and none of his muscles shaking with the
effort, Dalton smoothly transferred her to the wheelchair.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she grumbled, embarrassed.

“Yeah, I did.” A corner of Dalton’s lips lifted as though he
were fighting a smile.

“Well, don’t make a habit of it. I’m too heavy to be carted
around like a sack of potatoes.”

He stepped into stride beside the wheelchair as the nurse took
control and pushed Lucy into the hallway. “How do you think I got you from your
apartment to my truck, and my truck to the ER? I sure as hell didn’t use my
Jedi mind tricks to do it.”

Her mouth fell open and she stared at him in shock. He’d
carried her and she hadn’t remembered? Carried her down a flight of stairs and
hefted her up into his truck? Okay, she wasn’t huge, but she wasn’t a waif
either. Her focus narrowed on the muscles moving and flowing under his thin
t-shirt before the nausea from her concussion forced her to face forward and
close her eyes for the rest of the wheeled ride to her overnight
accommodations.

Lucy’s eyes snapped back open.
Wait. Why is he still
here? He doesn’t plan to spend the night in the hospital with me, does he?

“I told you, I’m fine. Go home.”

Lucy’s disgruntled words drew a sigh from Dalton.

The contrary woman had been a strange mix of appreciative,
confused and angry at his attention since he’d found her knocked unconscious
yesterday. He suppressed a grin remembering her reaction when she’d figured out
he intended to stay overnight with her in the hospital.

“I’m not going anywhere, you should know that by now. Get
used to it.” Dalton made sure to keep the volume of his voice low even as he
injected his words with a deep, dominant tone.

He watched the fair, smooth skin on her cheeks flush as he
raised a brow and stared her down, daring her to go on. Her pale-pink lips
parted and her pupils dilated. Yes, his Lucy responded well to a taste of his
darker edge.

Lucy’s ability to argue with him, and her response to his
dominant nature, pleased Dalton. For a woman who had been through years of
abuse, it meant something special that she was able to argue with him, stand up
to him, without overwhelming fear. Whether Lucy knew it or not, she trusted him
on a deeper level than their short acquaintance accounted for, unless she had
feelings for him. The feelings of a submissive toward a Dominant…

His thoughts were interrupted by Lucy muttering about “stubborn
jerks” as she shuffled into the small bathroom inside her apartment. He watched
her slowly turn and ease the thin wooden door shut, careful not to move too
fast. She didn’t want to admit she needed help but it was obvious the
concussion was affecting her.

The snick of the lock being engaged on the bathroom door
made his jaw clench. What if she needed him? What if she got dizzy and hit her
head on something? Not that he couldn’t break the lock if need be, but he’d
rather not.

Instead of demanding she unlock the door, he told himself
she’d been through enough and decided to let it go this time. He’d have a talk
with her later about shyness overruling common sense. For now, he tamped down
his worries and leaned his shoulders back against the wall beside the bathroom
door. Close enough to hear if something happened but still giving her privacy.

Dalton studied the tidy interior of Lucy’s apartment. The
wooden floors shone as if she kept them polished and they scented the air with
a trace of lemon oil. Sunny and fragrant like Lucy.

Though pleased she felt comfortable enough to argue with
him, the reason she argued also pissed Dalton off. She worried he’d get hurt in
the crossfire with her ex. It grated on Dalton that she didn’t think he could
protect himself, let alone her. Although he had done a piss-poor job of
protecting her so far, hadn’t he? The proof was written in block letters on her
delicate skin.

How long would it take for the permanent marker to wear off?
A week? Longer?

“Uh…Dalton?” Lucy’s voice was no longer combative, but full
of hesitation.

He straightened from his slouch against the wall. “Yeah,
babe? You all right?”

She remained silent for a moment before releasing an audible
sigh. “I’m fine, but I need your help.”

Dalton stood in front of the door, his head cocked to one
side, listening as Lucy muttered what sounded like an expletive. As soon as he
heard the lock snick open, he placed his hand around the cool brass knob and
pushed the door open.

The sight that greeted him made his heart pump faster, lust
swelled and burned inside him. Lucy stood next to the white vintage claw-footed
tub, a teal-blue towel wrapped around her middle and not doing a thing to
conceal her delicious curves. The color of the towel set off her reddish-blonde
hair and enhanced her blue eyes. She chewed on her bottom lip, pinching the
plump morsel between straight white teeth as a blush stole up her neck and
covered her cheeks.

Dalton cleared his throat, trying not to stare but unable to
stop himself. He also couldn’t keep his dick from hardening at the sight of
Lucy standing nearly naked before him, her eyes downcast like a perfect
submissive.

“I want to take a shower, but I can’t remember what Abigail
said about taking care of my tattoo while it heals. Is it okay to get it wet
and soapy? It looks a little red.”

Dalton nearly choked on his tongue when she parted the towel
to reveal a teasing glimpse of her creamy white thigh and the steampunk moth
residing there on her skin. “Umm…”

“See?” She twisted her leg so more of her inner thigh
showed, as if it would help him make his brain work again. “It’s red here,
around the outside.”

He licked his lips, imagining sliding to his knees and
shoving her thighs apart after doing away with that nuisance of a towel. He’d
bury his face in her—

“Dalton? Are you okay?”

Her question snapped him out of his daydream. He shook his
head and scrubbed a callused hand over the two-day stubble on his cheeks and
chin. “Right, the tattoo. Let me have a closer look.” He didn’t need one, but
what the hell. He stepped into her space and knelt on one knee. She shivered as
he lightly ran the tip of his index finger up the inside of her leg from her
knee to just below the new tattoo.

“Well?”

“Looks good, real good.” Dalton’s voice came out a husky
rasp. He tried again, happy when he sounded more normal. “A little redness is
to be expected. How does it feel?” When Lucy didn’t respond, Dalton stood and
waited until she met his eyes.

“It feels fine.”

He narrowed his eyes. He knew damn well she lied. A tattoo
always hurt the worst the day after it was first inked. “Tell me the truth,
Lucy. You should know, I don’t like lies. Even small ones.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m weird.”

“Lucy,” he growled.

“It feels kind of…good. I mean, it hurts, but in a good way.
Is that crazy?”

“It’s not crazy at all.” In fact, Dalton knew exactly what
she meant, though he’d never in a million years expected her to understand good
pain. “Explain what you mean by ‘hurts in a good way’.”

“Pain has always been something totally negative for me, but
the pain always came from something someone else did to me that I had no
control over. Each time I felt the discomfort from a bruise or a break or a
cut, I’d remember something bad happening to me. With the tattoo,” she lifted a
hand as if at a loss for words, “each time I feel the discomfort, I’m reminded
I
did something I wanted to do. I remember there’s something permanent and
beautiful on my skin I chose myself. Maybe having control over it changes my
perception. I sure as hell don’t feel the same way about the pain in my skull.
That just freaking hurts.” She laughed, but it was a nervous sound and she
stared at her feet, curling and uncurling her toes into the plush black
bathmat.

Dalton drew in a deep breath, knowing he had to go easy with
Lucy. But he was so fucking excited that he might actually have a chance to
enjoy his brand of kink with her that he wanted to bend her over the sink right
then, spank her pretty pale ass and fuck her senseless. Getting himself under
control was no easy task.

“Do you think I’m a weirdo now?”

Lucy peeked up at him from under her lashes, her eyes more
blue than gray next to the teal-colored towel around her middle. Dalton folded
his hands in front of the zipper of his jeans, not wanting her to see the rock-hard
erection threatening to escape the band of his boxers and peek over the waist
of his jeans.

“No, babe. I don’t think you’re a weirdo. It’s called
pleasurable pain and there isn’t anything wrong with you for feeling it. In
fact, I know all about turning pain into pleasure. Someday, I’ll teach you
everything I know and you will love every single second of it.”

Her lips parted on a little gasp, her chest heaving and
straining against the towel clasped about her breasts. It was nearly his
undoing. He strode through the open door into the living room, sure if he
didn’t put some distance between them he’d do something to push her too far.

He turned and met her startled gaze. “Take your shower,
babe. I’m not going to ravage you, not yet anyway. We’ve got a lot to work out
between us before we get there.”

Dalton pulled the door to the bathroom shut, more as a
barrier for him than privacy for Lucy. After adjusting the erection straining
against his zipper, he moved into her bedroom and rummaged through her closet
until he found a large duffel bag. He hadn’t mentioned it to her yet because he
knew it would cause another argument and, on this, he wouldn’t take no for an
answer. Whether Miss Stubborn Lucy Ellingsworth wanted to or not, she was going
to move in with Dalton. At least until they were sure she was out of danger,
and hopefully a lot longer. For the first time, Mister Never-Commit Dalton
Loretto wanted a serious relationship. Now, he just had to convince the woman
he’d begun to love.

* * * * *

Lucy scrubbed at the words “YOUR MINE” written on her lower
tummy until the skin was pink and raw. The words remained, bold and misspelled
and taunting in their permanency. She tried three different soaps in an attempt
to both keep her mind off of Dalton’s strange erotic promises and the knowledge
that her ex-husband had found her…and touched her.

She didn’t know how long she sat huddled under the spray of
the shower head while sitting in the porcelain tub. Her head felt like a lead
balloon that’d been bashed with a hammer and she’d given up trying to stand
while swaying with dizziness. The water ran pink as she rinsed conditioner from
her hair, the small wound on her scalp irritated by the attention and bleeding
again.

Once her hair was rinsed clean, she hugged her knees to her
chest and lay her head on her knees. Wondering when Dalton would wise up and
get the hell out of her life, and wondering why the thought of him leaving hurt
worse than the contusion on her skull. With the water running and the ceiling
fan on, she felt safe enough to finally let go and cry. She hadn’t cried at all
at the hospital, not wanting to seem weak or worry Dalton further, giving him
another reason to stick around and possibly get himself hurt.

The tears started and she choked back a sob, trying to keep
as quiet as was possible when releasing twenty-four hours of backed-up
emotional turmoil and pain. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to soothe
herself by rocking back and forth but even the gentle motion set her stomach on
a whirl.

A frigid gust of air and the rustle of the shower curtain
had her eyes snapping open. Dalton stood with one large hand clenched in the
vinyl of the curtain, sweeping it to the side and exposing her naked and
disheveled state. He said nothing, but the fierce look on his handsome face
told her he was pissed.

Lucy flinched when he reached a hand toward her and a
flicker of sadness crossed his expression. She hadn’t flinched away from him
since they’d first met. Now she was raw in more ways than one and, damn it, she
was scared. Scared of Ross finding her, scared of all the things he could have
done while she lay unconscious, sick at the thought of him touching her and
afraid anyone she made friends with now would end up a casualty of the war she
wanted nothing more than to avoid.

Dalton stood tall and broad, with strong arms and a clenched
jaw. Heavy boots and work-worn jeans. The tattoo snaking up his neck had never
bothered her, it still didn’t. She wished she could take back the flinch so she
never had to see that sadness in his eyes again.

She stared up at him with tears flowing down her cheeks,
wanting things she could never have. Things Ross would never let her have. When
Dalton grabbed the blue towel from the counter and knelt next to the tub, she
remained still, waiting.

“I heard you crying, darlin’, though you tried to hide it.”
He reached inside the tub and turned the water off. “Don’t hide from me, Lucy.
There isn’t anything you could do or say that will make me think badly of you.
If you need to cry, you do it on my shoulder. If you need to yell, you yell at
me. Hell, you need to hit someone, hit me.” A half grin quirked his lips. He
wrapped the towel around her and lifted her from the tub like a child instead
of the plump woman she was.

“Dalton, don’t—”

The grin disappeared. He looked at her then, held her gaze
with his deep-blue eyes. “No. Let’s get this straight right now. I’ll pick you
up when and where I want. You’re not too heavy. Not even close.”

Lucy made a non-committal “humph”. She really was too woozy
and worn out to argue. Instead, she draped an arm around his neck and allowed
herself to enjoy his sawdust-and-leather scent. Damn him.

He moved into her bedroom and slowly lowered her to the edge
of the bed. She tried to wrap the towel around her tighter, but he tugged it
out of her hands and began briskly drying her.

“I can dry myself. I’m not that badly hurt.”

“Just because you
can
do it, doesn’t mean you should
have to. Relax.”

His gaze went to the words written below her bellybutton and
the same growling sound he’d made in the hospital when wonder-cop wouldn’t shut
up came out of his throat again. Embarrassed, she covered the words with her
hands.

“I tried to scrub it off. Let me put on a shirt and you
won’t have to look at it.”

He continued with his ministrations, shaking his head. “I’ll
still know it’s there. I’ll still know that bastard touched you and I didn’t
stop him.” He stood, turning and opening the drawers of her dresser, grabbing
everything she’d need down to the panties, as if he knew exactly where to look.

“It’s not your responsibility to keep me safe. We barely
know each other.”

Dalton laid her clothing on the bed and went to his knees in
front of her, holding a pair of pink lacy panties. Of course he’d choose those
instead of the mounds of cotton underwear taking up the majority of space in
the drawer. He slipped them over her feet and started tugging them up her legs
before she grabbed them and nudged him back with a toe to his chest.