He chuckles, kisses my nose and heads to the bathroom. I scoot up the bed, half reclining in a massive pile of pillows. The rest of his tiny apartment is clean and minimalist. What else was I expecting from Mr. OCD? But his bedroom is a little sanctuary. A soft pillow oasis. His apartment is just like him, sharp edges and hard lines on the outside, with a warm and cozy center.

He struts back from the bathroom, naked, and flops down on his stomach next to me. His head is in my lap and he grips my ribs, thumbing the exposed skin at the side of my breast.

I run one hand through his thick black hair and rub long strokes up and down his back with the other. His contented sigh lets me know he’s appreciative. I don’t know what I like more, fighting with him, having sex with him, or this. The quiet moment stretches out and we’re both content to just be. It’s one of the rare times that I’m living in the moment instead of thinking about what’s next.

I trace my fingers over his shoulder blade and still at the long, thick scar there. I’ve never noticed it before. I probe the white skin with gentle care. It’s long since healed.

“My Pops clipped me.” Devin’s voice turns cold and his body tenses against me.

I pause, my palm covering the old wound. “Clipped you? With what?”

“Vodka bottle.”

I pull him tighter against me, a possessive protectiveness surging through me. “Where was your mom?” I bite out, seething. Devin shrugs with his head in my lap, his breathing slow and even.

“Gone.”

“Gone?” I ask, but don’t give him time to answer. “And she left you with a violent drunk?” I’d like to get my hands on that guy.

Devin pulls back, then, rolling to his side, he props his head up on his hand and peers up at me. “That violent drunk was—is—my father.”

“And an asshole.” I blow an angry breath out through my nose and cross my arms.

“No argument here. Sometimes shitty things happen to good people. That’s life.” He doesn’t sound bitter. He sounds indifferent, and somehow his acceptance is more heart-wrenching.

He peels the sheet down and trails kisses from my side to my belly button. I grab a fistful of his hair with a moan when he flicks my piercing with that dangerous tongue. I’m drowning in lust.

“I bet you still wish on shooting stars,” he teases.

“And you don’t?”

He looks up, those dark eyes consuming me. I pull in a ragged breath.