The Deeper He Hurts by Lynda Aicher Page A

jolted forward, fell back, holding Sawyer to him through his choked gasps until he could breathe again.
    He sucked in air, hand trembling on Sawyer’s nape. His chuckle was completely inappropriate, but it bubbled out anyway. Despite being a guy who planned everything, he hadn’t seen this coming. Literally.
    Sawyer wiped his hand over his mouth and sat back. Damn, that was a picture Ash wanted to keep. Hair tangled and messy, lips red and swollen, eyes dark and satisfied.
    Ash lurched forward and stole another kiss, this one soft. More of a touch of lips that he held and savored for a long moment before he sat back. “Thank you.”
    Sawyer puffed out a laugh, dimple peeking through. He rubbed the back of his head, a frown dipping his brows for a moment. “It was only fair.”
    His answer sucked away the last of Ash’s euphoria. “Fair?”
    “Plus”—he started to stand, winced, and froze—“I was thirsty.”
    Ash didn’t know if he should laugh or feel guilty for not having water on hand. “Ass,” he finally said, chuckling. He held out a hand to help Sawyer up. “We have a fridgeful of water and sports drinks.”
    “Sure.” He swiped his tongue over his bottom lip in a seductive move that should’ve looked odd on him but didn’t. Not in this moment. “But I was looking for a protein drink.”
    Ash groaned. “Are you always this corny?”
    He shrugged. “No.” His gaze went to the ground. “Any chance you can hand me my clothes?”
    Sawyer’s dick and nuts were still a gorgeous shade of red that appeared far from comfortable. Ash relished the sight and his role in their state: dick soft now, the hair around its base slicked with cream, scrotum bright red beneath.
    But it was the story below his dick that drew Ash’s focus. Sawyer’s upper thighs were a tale of pain and years of anguish. The scars formed a complex pattern of faint lines, grooves, and stained skin. Touching them had been intoxicating. Seeing them—all of them—was stunning.
    He slid forward on his chair, reached to trace a particularly angry, puckered scar on Sawyer’s inner thigh, near his balls. Sawyer flinched at his touch, muscles tensing beneath his fingertips. He didn’t pull away, though.
    Ash looked up, the rough skin teasing his sadist. “How?” The two-inch burn could’ve come from a number of things.
    Sawyer swallowed, gaze stony and hard, like his jaw. The stare-down became a silent test of trust. This went beneath an act into history. Again, the need to understand Sawyer’s past was stronger than Ash wanted to analyze. It was just there, tripping around his brain and digging into his hunger for more.
    “Heated knife blade.” The terse words held an element of challenge. Did he think Ash would judge him? Comment?
    He didn’t. There wasn’t anything to say. He trailed his fingers to a series of faint white lines. “Cuts.” There was no question in that, and he didn’t wait for a response before moving to four burns in a row, each a small circle. “Cigarette.” Down now to a jagged gash that wrapped around half of Sawyer’s leg, edges dark from age. He relished that one, studied the torn appearance. “Barbed wire?” Or something equally punishing?
    He waited this time, holding still until Sawyer nudged his chin down in a silent yes. He continued his study, fascinated and awed at once. Whatever had caused every one of these marks would’ve hurt like a son of a bitch. Some deep, others more superficial, each magnificent to Ash. Where others might see ugly and deformed, he saw strength. Courage. Agony challenged and defeated.
    It eased through him, all the suffering—both physical and emotional—to quiet his soul as nothing else could. His strange, fucked-up center, which saw through it all to the heart of the man, sang in glory. Pain was the great equalizer and the purest exposure of what hid within a man.
    This was what called to him. What he dug to uncover with every flick of his whip and dive into