Martin felt that unnerving instinct again. The one that compelled him to protect her from anything that might cause her pain.
It wasn’t an unfamiliar urge. He experienced it every day with Ricky—the imperative to shelter, comfort, and take care of his best friend.
Crouched beside her, Ricky slid a hand in her hair, holding the velvet curtain away from her face. His other arm supported her midsection as she continued to gag into the toilet.
There was nothing left in her stomach.
“You need to try to eat something and sleep it off.” Martin collected some of her clothes and located her toothbrush. “We’re taking you upstairs.”
Ricky touched his brow to the back of her head. “You’re not alone.”
“Okay.” She breathed out a ragged sound. “Thank you.”
For the rest of the day, she drifted in and out of sleep in Ricky’s bed, curled up against his chest.
As Ricky dozed with her, Martin warmed a can of broth on the portable stove and indulged in the pleasure of watching them.
Ricky’s long, hard body fit possessively around her petite form. His black hair made hers look brown where it caressed its way down her back, reaching toward her firm ass.
There was a caginess about her, too much hesitation in her movements and caution in her eyes. Even as she slept, she exhaled a whimper and squirmed uncomfortably. She wasn’t used to being handled so intimately.
After spending an entire night with her, he’d gained a lot of insight into her personality and circumstances.
Her tattoos gave her a bold, edgy look that stood out against her bronze skin, but she hadn’t sleeved her arms to honor a memory or express her individuality. Last night, she said it was her armor, to look the part of a hardened prisoner.
Beneath the artwork lurked a sweet, modest woman, one who shied away from attention and avoided chaos and drama. Hours of unguarded, drunken conversation had revealed a gentle soul. She adored children, teared up when she laughed, and dreamed of a simple, quiet life.
She was in the most violent prison in the nation, right here, only feet away, but it was so easy to see her in a classroom wearing a conservative dress, her hair gathered in a low bun, and pink lipstick on her beautiful, patient smile.
She didn’t belong here.
She did, however, look perfect in Ricky’s arms.
If she let him, Ricky would treat her like a queen.
Like Martin, Ricky had been sexually trained by Van. Whoever was lucky enough to share Ricky’s bed reaped the benefits of that training. And his expertise was only one of his strengths.
Ricky was, quite simply, the most selfless and dependable person Martin had ever met.
He trusted Ricky with his life. Those brown eyes were his home, and whenever they rested on him, he never felt more whole, more peaceful, or more healthy.
But there was something else there, too. A physical attraction that compelled him to stare too long, too hungrily. Seeing Ricky and Tula together only magnified his desire, doubled the temptation.
A deeply buried need pricked at the edges of his awareness, taunting him with what-ifs.
What if he gave in and finally tasted Ricky’s lips? What if he put his hands all over Tula’s delectable body? What if he buried his damn nightmares and joined them in bed?
It was only a matter of time before Ricky stripped Tula down to her skin and charmed his way between her legs. The thought hardened Martin’s cock and made his blood run hot.
When he imagined them in the throes of passion, he was right there with them, commanding their movements, devouring the union of their sinful bodies, and taking himself in hand, stroking, groaning, and coating their flesh with his come.
Ricky’s hard lines against her delicate curves, his muscled arms holding her carefully, protectively, and their expressions soft with sleep—they were painfully beautiful and mesmerizing in their stillness, like a sculptured masterpiece of the gods.
His attraction to them was visceral, but his desire went deeper. What he felt was the start of a much-needed inhale that pulled through his senses and sank into his chest. It was a starved breath that turned into a hypnotic hum as it hit his blood and fed his soul.
He could watch them forever—sleeping, talking, and Christ, he ached to watch them fuck.
Damn if that didn’t make him feel like a predator.
It made him feel like Jeff.
Jeff and his heavy fists, ruthless demands, and his taking, forcing, breaking…
His stomach hardened, killing the warmth in his groin.
If he had to do it again, he would. He would pick up that hammer and bash the motherfucker’s skull over and over and over.
He scrubbed his hands down his face and looked up.
Ricky’s gaze met his, catching and holding. He tucked Tula tight against his chest and ran his nose through her hair. Without looking away, he skimmed a hand down the back of her leg and tangled the other in her hair.