Page 24 of Iris' Lying Eyes

I need a barrier between us. I will not beg, even if my body is one hundred percent on board with the notion.

I find a series of built-in drawers toward the back of the closet and pump my fist before pulling out a T-shirt and dropping my dress to the floor.

My breasts fall free, and I moan at the glorious feeling before a weird choking noise brings me around.

Bastion stands at the threshold, his eyes glued to my ass, but as soon as I turn, they lift to my boobs.

The heat behind his eyes makes me shiver, and my nipples pebble with my need. For a moment, I’m breathless, but then he meets my gaze, and a shutter drops over his eyes, denying me the contact.

Averting my gaze, I pull the shirt over my head and fluff my hair. “Do you mind?” I murmur, and he grunts.

When he doesn’t move, I try to slip past him, but he grabs my waist, making me pause. His large, warm hand rests on my hip, and I bite my lip.

What would I do if he traced his way down and touched me? Probably orgasm on the spot.

We speak no words, and after a moment, he drops his hand. Sliding past him, I suck in a quiet breath and exhale. That was intense, and he was barely touching me.

Bastion disappears into the closet, and I move to the bathroom, searching out the toothpaste and brushing my teeth with my finger.

If I were staying, I’d demand a damn brush of my own, but it won’t matter soon. Still, I shouldn’t tip my hand.

Stalking back into the room, I hold up the toothpaste and say, “Since you’re holding me cap . . .”

The words die on my tongue because Bastion is standing before me completely fucking naked and holy Jesus, but he is a beautiful specimen. His huge shoulders are covered in tattoos that cross over the expanse of his chest, down his hard abdominals, and end at his dick.

He’s so huge, he makes me look like a doll in comparison. Once upon a time, I traced my fingers over that glorious chest, and my skin warms at the remembrance.

Maybe it was all a lie, the second time around at least, but it was explosive, nonetheless.

Fuck me. Looking away, I clear my throat twice before saying huskily, “I need my own toothbrush.”

“Tell the staff,” he says dismissively, and I nod, watching from the corner of my eye as he pulls back the covers on the bed and lies down with a sigh.

My chest clenches at that weary sound, but I ignore it because I don’t care how he fucking feels.

Dammit.

“Why are you in my room?” I rasp, dropping the toothpaste on the counter.

“S’my room,” he says sleepily.

“Then where’s mine?”

He raises his head with a grunt and says, “You don’t have a fucking room.”

“Let me get this straight,” I say, slamming my hands on my hips. “You expect me to sleep in that bed with you?”

While you’re completely fucking naked? Is he trying to torture me?

“You can sleep on the floor,” he says, rolling over so his back is facing me.

I rove the expanse of his skin before looking away. He’s got scar tissue from neck to navel, evidence he was beaten—often. The marks point to a whip or something thin. I’ve seen them before. They’re not easy to hide.

Still, the sight makes my stomach churn. Did Roman do that?

After a moment, I breathe deeply and remind myself I’m supposed to be angry.

“Fuck off,” I snarl.