Page 82 of Lesson In Forgiveness

Hanging over Grit’s shoulder, her ankles and wrists bound, she lifted her hands with the middle fingers extended in Jasper’s direction. Her dear, dickhead brother was playing chauffeur, apparently tasked with making sure she left the state without taking a sneaky detour to where she actually needed to be. “Fuck you, said the rabbit, and you, and you, and you. Fuck you once, fuck you twice, and fuck all the pretty little maids in a row.”

The rumble of laughter deepened. “Oh, little tiger. Surely by now, you know the only pretty maid I want to fuck is you.”

Tabitha harrumphed in disgust. It was three weeks post-beating and she was feeling more like herself. She wanted to hate that he’d spent those weeks by her side, tending to her like an invalid, keeping her company when the poking and prodding threatened to drive her up the wall, through the roof, into outer space.

Instead, she’d learned—or perhaps accepted—that he was a decent man. Pretty much unheard of in her world, but he continued to show her, again and again, how dominance in a guy didn’t have to be abusive. How he cared for her even without sex in the equation.

Sure, he made… suggestions? Quips? Small, direct hints at what might be if she ever found the courage to let him.

It was more than a little frightening to realize she was standing on a high, unstable peak with huge chasms surrounding her. On one side, she could plummet into a lifetime of loneliness—not that she’d admit such a weakness aloud—but on the other… oh, the other side was her personal hell.

So why, when she was dangling over Grit’s broad shoulder like some warrior’s claimed prize, was she considering doing something stupid like getting drunk enough to straddle the passing out line and climbing into bed with him, naked?

Well, one answer was it would get the awkward terror out of the way, right? Wham, bam, he’d come and all would be good. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if she was so intoxicated she didn’t know what day it was—from experience, she knew getting to that level of drunk didn’t require much alcohol on her part; Dominic always insisted that vices—drinking, smoking, drugs that Rita hadn’t cooked up—were crutches.

The couple of times she’d indulged her curiosity resulted in her head being stuck in the toilet after a glass and a half of wine, several hours of mindless giggling, and random thoughts on why the floor was rocking like the ocean.

The air left her lungs abruptly when her back thumped gently against a seat. All the blood accumulated in her head started to rush back into her body, pounding in her ears as her brain went light and fuzzy. “Whoa, headrush.”

Grit frowned down at her. He reached for her wrists, paused to check the door was closed, then carefully unwound the soft ropes binding her. “Sorry, little tiger. Couldn’t risk you breaking free and bolting across the runway.”

She jerked her feet. “No bolting. Bunny-hopping, maybe. Boing, boing, boing.” The toes of her boots bounced on the plush, fancy carpet with each sound effect. “Wouldn’t get far before the big, bad wolf ate me all up.”

Even as his eyes turned sad, his lips curved into a predatory grin. “I wish.”

Something had changed over the last couple of weeks. Around the time she’d flunked her great escape and almost gotten tased, she mused. It was subtle, more of a feeling, but it niggled at her. There was still the heat in his eyes, the sexy thrum of power in his voice, but they were muted.

Had Jasper warned him off her? Or Atticus?

Hell, it wouldn’t surprise her if both of them and the other Masters of Avalon had discouraged Grit from spending time with her in anything other than a guard dog/babysitter capacity.

“Mr. McCabe? My name is Felicia, I’ll be your hostess for this flight. I’ve been asked to tell you we’re ready to take off when you are.” A stunning brunette with blonde streaks appeared from the cockpit. Her makeup was immaculate, her pale blue uniform matching her eyes.

Tabitha glared at her when those eyes lingered on Grit for several seconds longer than she felt were appropriate. “Tell the pilot to file a new flight plan. We’re going to Dublin.”

Grit’s hand covered her mouth. “Ignore that. Inform the pilot we’re ready.”

“Of course, sir. I’ll return once we’re in the air with refreshments.”

Of course, sir. Tabitha mocked her silently, adding in a mental hair toss and pursed lips. Can I kiss your ass, sir? Suck your dick? Perhaps I can serve you a beer with my big, barely restrained tits?

“I think we’ll be okay, Felicia, thank you. It’s a short flight.” Grit’s tone was flat, uninterested yet polite.

“Yes, sir. Just use the intercom if you change your mind.” She flitted away to wherever gorgeous, sex-doll fantasy hostesses went when their services weren’t required.

Jealousy hissed through Tabitha’s veins. A new and not particularly thrilling sensation. She seethed in silence as Grit dropped to one knee and released her ankles, his big hands rubbing where the ropes had been.

When he glanced up at her questioningly as though he’d asked her something important, the hissing became violent, morphing into popping sounds until she snapped.

Grabbing fistfuls of his hair, she yanked him forward. For a long second, barely enough time to comprehend what she was about to do, she stared into his eyes, seeing confusion and lust twining together.

“Mine,” she snarled, shocked by the possessiveness in the word before she sucked in a bolstering breath and slammed her mouth against his.

Her stomach lurched at the pressure and texture of his lips. It didn’t matter that she was the instigator, that the choice to do this was hers. Her brain just veered right back to when she was a kid, pinned down beneath Dominic, having her innocence stripped away an inch at a time.

No. No. She wasn’t a child anymore. She was stronger now, she was her own woman. There was no need to be afraid, not with him. Lips were just lips. Tongues were just muscle.

Panic sweat soaked into her T-shirt. She couldn’t stop the whimpers tainting every harsh exhale, but she refused to give in. This was a battle she’d started, one she had to win if she stood any chance of being victorious in the war against herself.

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