Instead, he bent and gave her a light kiss.

Then he muttered, "Gotta get a shower and change and then we'll go."

Then he let her go and walked to the stairs, thinking, As in, eight.

She'd given up on him when he was an asshole but she'd never let him go.

She'd never let him go.

He made it to the top floor feeling that squeeze return in the left side of his chest.

But taking a shower knowing Lexie was in her kitchen downstairs, ready to go out with him for dinner, he let it go.

Walker was on his back, head to the pillows, his wife's naked body using his as her mattress.

Her finger was gliding along the thick swirls and slashes of the design of the tat that inked his left arm from the top of his forearm up his upper arm around his shoulder partially up his neck and across his left upper chest and pectoral. The position of her body did not allow her fingers to roam down along the part that inked across the left side of his abs and middle, curving around his side to his move across his back, meeting the ink that coiled over his shoulder, the design continuing down nearly to his groin at the front, on the top of his hip at the side and along the small of his back.

"This is a lot of ink," she whispered, her eyes on her finger.

"Yeah," he agreed because it was. It took five visits to get that work done and cost a fuckload of cash.

She looked to his face. "What is it?"

"Maori," he told her and she blinked.

"What?"

"Maori," he repeated. "Indigenous people of New Zealand," he explained.

"I know who they are but why do you have Maori ink? Do you have Maori in you?"

He shook his head. "Not by blood."

When he said no more, Lexie asked, "What does that mean?"

He had an arm wrapped low at her waist, his fingers trailing aimlessly on the soft skin of her hip.

When he spoke, he stopped trailing and curled them around.

"When I was growin' up, there was a Maori mountain man, lived a fifteen minute bike ride away in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. He was an old fucker, bad attitude but mostly he had a bad attitude 'cause the kids in town knew he lived up there, alone, didn't come into town often, wasn't social and those kids thought it was a kick to fuck with him. I was one of those kids. Was up there doin' shit to fuck with him when he caught me, dragged me to his cabin and laid me out. I was eight. He looked about eight hundred. He still laid me out, no hesitation, smacked me down."

"Oh my God," she whispered, her finger stopping its trailing too so all of them could curl into his shoulder.

"No, Lex, once he got done layin' me out, he talked to me. Never had that. Did have a Dad who didn't hesitate smackin' me down but didn't take the time to talk to me after about the shit I was doin' wrong and how to pull it together. Had the time to take his hand to me but not the time to teach me lessons. Tuku was not like that."

"Tuku?"

"Yeah, Tuku. That was his name. After that, found myself peddling my bike up there not to fuck with him but because he demonstrated he gave a shit and I didn't have that. I wasn't wrong. He gave a shit. Didn't make a big deal about it but the next time I came he gave me his time, he gave me his company and when I kept coming he gave me his wisdom. So I peddled up there a lot. He was in this country because he married a white woman, an American, came here to be with her so she could be with her people. Got here, she lived long enough to get pregnant and die havin' their baby. Baby died too. He loved her, that fucked with his head, he checked out, stayed in his cabin, lived and breathed and ate and worked but other than that, life yanked away the only good thing he had in it at the same time takin' the beauty they created together. He couldn't deal so he didn't."

"That's awful," she said softly.

"Yeah," Walker agreed because it was and knowing Tuku for fourteen years it was worse because he was a man who didn't deserve that. Not even close.

"So he took you under his wing?"

Walker nodded. "I went up there a lot, any time I could. I did my homework up there because, when he knew I was gonna keep coming, he made me bring it with me. He taught me how to hold a hammer. He taught me how to use a drill. He taught me how to change oil, fix brakes and switch out a clutch. He taught me that any man worth anything works hard and he does it usin' his hands. He creates shit. He fixes it. Although the folks who could afford his stuff were lawyers, stock brokers, he had no respect for them. That was just his way, his opinion and he taught me a man should form opinions, do it for a reason, stick by them but keep an open mind. He was an artist both in New Zealand and here. That's how he made his living. He gave me a pen and ink. This," he lifted his left arm then dropped it back to the bed. "After he died, I had it inked on me. Took what he gave me to a tattoo parlor right after the funeral and got it started."

Her voice held a tone of light dawning as she whispered, "So he was your Ella."

Her light dawned clear for her and for Walker because she was right.

"Yeah, he was my Ella."

"So it was Tuku who brought out my Ty."

My Ty.

My Ty.

Christ. Fuck.

Christ.

Two words. Just two words. Walker had no clue until that moment that two words could mean so fucking much. He'd never belonged to anyone. He'd never belonged anywhere. Never thought he wanted to.

Until he heard those two words.

He couldn't keep the thick out of his voice when he confirmed, "Yeah, it was him."

Her hand slid from his shoulder to curl around his neck when she said gently, "I'm sorry I couldn't meet him."

"I'm sorry too. He'd like you."

She tipped her head to the side. "He would?"

"Yeah."

"How do you know? If he wasn't social "

His arm gave her a squeeze and he cut her off, "Because you are who you are, Lex, no bullshit. Tuku was not a fan of bullshit. And he was old as fuck but he was still a man and, the way you look, not a lotta men wouldn't like that."

She grinned at him.

Then she asked, "Where's the pen and ink?"

"In a scroll in a closet in one of the rooms downstairs. Had it framed but when the movers moved me in here, they dropped it, glass shattered, frame cracked. Wanted it reframed but wanted it done right, didn't get to it before I went down."

She studied him then suddenly she lifted her torso and moved her legs so she was straddling his lower gut. He felt that gut tighten when she unexpectedly exposed the lush beauty of her body to his eyes and he was concentrating on that so he didn't resist when she wrapped her fingers around his right wrist and pulled his arm up between them. Then she ran her fingers down the black marks that wound a line up his forearm starting on the inside of his wrist and ending just under the outside of his elbow.

"What does this say?" she whispered.

"Got that inside. Artist in there, tools primitive, work first-rate."

"Yeah, it's cool," she agreed, still whispering, "but what does it say?"

His eyes held hers.

Then he answered, "Vengeance is mine."

Her fingers convulsed on his wrist but she didn't move her eyes from him.

Then she dipped her head and he watched as she watched her fingertips trailing back up the marks. Then she bent slightly forward, lifted his arm and pressed his hand flat to her chest. Then her eyes moved back to his as she slowly slid his hand down, between her breasts, down her midriff, down over her stomach and down.

All the while he felt her skin under the path of his hand; he watched her face change, get hungry. She did shit like that all the time. Hot. Fuck, he'd never had so hot. They'd just finished fifteen minutes ago and she wanted it again. She got hungry a lot and, to get what she wanted, she was a wildcat.

He fucking loved that about her too.

When she used her hand to curve his between her legs, he curled his torso up, his left arm sliced tight around her waist and her mouth instantly moved so her lips were on his. Her breathing was already labored.

He took over and slid a finger inside and watched her eyes drift half-closed.

He felt his cock start to get hard.

"What you want, baby?" he murmured against her mouth.

"Can I suck you?" she asked, hot, hungry, wanting it but still hesitant.

Like he'd fucking say no.

He answered by sliding his arm up her back and his finger out, pressing in as it glided over her clit, going for and getting that sexy-as-fuck noise she made at the back of her throat, doing all of this while he laid back down, taking her with him.

Once he was settled, he whispered, "Yeah, mama, you can suck me."

She smiled then she moved, taking her time, drifting down, using her mouth, her tongue, her teeth, her hands, her hair sliding all over him as she did and by the time she reached his cock it was hard and pulsing.

She licked and played and stroked awhile before she got serious. He let her, her hair all around, he liked it and so did she. Then she took him inside and fuck, he liked that better because she was always eager, hungry, she could take him deep and she could suck hard and she did both really fucking well.

When he was close, he pulled her up, rolled her to her back and gave back as good as he got, taking his time moving down, working her tits until she was squirming and making low noises, tasting her, touching her then he got between her legs and he ate her, hard and hungrier than she did him.

He loved the taste of her pussy, so much, sometimes he could be working or working out and he'd sense her on his tongue.

He loved that too.

He made her come and moved over her, driving deep inside before she was finished, thrusting fast and hard, watching her face settle then he moved a hand in between them and built it again. She lifted her knees high, pressed them tight to his sides, locking his arm between them, her hands moving on him fevered, he took her there again then he let himself go.

He buried himself inside her, gave her enough weight to keep her warm and worked the skin of her neck with his mouth while her hands drifted light on him.

He didn't talk during sex and didn't like his pussy to do it either. Lexie talked but infrequently and when she did it meant something. She loved his cock in her mouth and in her cunt and she let him know it. She loved his body. She loved his mouth. She loved his hands. She let him know this too. She liked him giving it to her however he wanted. He'd been creative; she never made a noise of protest, just offered her pussy however he wanted to take it, as often as he wanted it and she got off, did it hard and didn't mind him knowing she did that either.

He loved that about her too.

He pulled out and moved down, brushing his mouth across her chest, he rolled off.

She rolled the other way and moved to the bathroom to clean up. He lay on his back staring at the ceiling when she did but turned his head to the side to watch her walk back in the room. She tagged her panties from the floor, tugged them on, turned out the light on her side then put a knee to the bed and moved into him. She settled, pressed to his side, cheek to his pec, leg tangling with his. He reached out, turned out his light then down, pulled the covers over them then curled his arm around her and tucked her closer.

"Thanks for dinner," she murmured against his chest, her arm draped around his gut giving him a light squeeze.

He didn't answer. He'd buy her an expensive dinner to celebrate her getting a job and he'd buy her an expensive dinner to celebrate the fact that he woke up next to her. In time, she'd come to know that without him saying it and she'd come to know that because that was what he intended to give her.

Instead of speaking, he stared at the ceiling he could see in the moonlight. Wood planks and beams. And he felt the soft bed underneath him, Lexie's softness at his side. Not cement and industrial paint overhead. Hard, thin mattress under him. Narrow bed that didn't fit his frame and allowed no room to move. And no chance in hell of pussy tucked to his side, definitely not sweet, classy pussy who dressed nice, laughed often and didn't give a fuck who saw her run across the forecourt of a garage on high heels and launch herself into his grease-stained arms just because she found herself a part-time job as a receptionist in a fucking salon.

He stared at the ceiling and waited for it.

Then it happened, her weight settled. She'd found sleep.

Then he waited again.

She detached in her sleep and rolled away.

When she did Walker did what he always did. He moved out of bed and across the room to one of three thermostats in the house. He jacked the AC up then turned to move back to the bed but stopped when he saw her purse on the dresser, it was open, the stuff inside spilling out.

Instead of going back to bed, he moved there and tagged the digital camera. He turned it on and moved his thumb over the buttons on the side, the screen displaying the pictures. Three she made their waitress at The Rooster take of them cuddled in one side of a booth. But he stopped on one.

Lexie's head turned and tipped back, facing him but even in profile you could see her smiling big, her nose pressed to the underside of his jaw, filled champagne glasses on the table in front of them. Her arm was wrapped around his middle, his arm around her shoulders, his head was partially turned to her, dipped down, his eyes were closed and he remembered what he was thinking with his eyes closed. Lexie pressed into his side, feeling her tits, smelling her hair and perfume, knowing she was smiling because she'd just been laughing. He was thinking something whacked, so whacked it was fucking insane.

He was thinking he didn't mind doing that time because he walked out and found all that.

Standing there, staring at the display, Walker remembered her sitting in the booth after the waitress gave back the camera, head bent, looking at the photos on the display and muttering, "Need another frame. The mantel is looking naked."

Her muttering had proved him right. She was making him a home, them a home because she'd never had one either, and she intended to keep doing it.

He turned off the camera and set it on the dresser. Then he joined her in bed, curling into her back, his arm going around her pulling her close. He did this every night since he took a shot at trusting her and made them a them. And like every night, in her sleep, she snuggled closer before settling and he knew she wouldn't detach because every morning since they became them he woke up with his wife tucked right there.

And like every night since they became them, he fell asleep smelling her hair, not a correctional institute filled with men, feeling her body tight against his, not rough covers, the air cool, not hot as fuck and moonlight shining through huge-ass windows not small ones covered by bars.

But that night, he fell asleep thinking it was whacked, fucking insane but it was true.

He didn't mind doing that time when doing it meant he would walk out to Lexie.

Chapter Eleven.