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By the time his demand breaks through the fog and registers with my mind, he’s already placed my arms around his neck and effortlessly lifted me so my legs are around his waist and my head is on his shoulder.
I shiver when the air whips around my wet skin as he carries me out of the bathroom. I burrow deeper into him and he responds by tightening his grip. He stops walking. I feel his shoulder flex beneath my head as me reaches for something.
I moan against his neck as heat surrounds me. The towel is soft and warm and feels perfect against my achy, overly sensitive skin. I might not have just come from a session in a playroom, or been flogged or belted or shackled or clamped, but I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling is similar to the after effects of subspace.
He dries me like I’m his.
Like he has every right to wipe away the water from some places, and gently pat dry those that are much more tender.
Like he knows the weight of my hair. And what it takes to rid the water from my ringlets.
Like I’m his treasure to touch. To kiss. To call beautiful.
Like I was meant to wear the T-shirt he slips over my head—his T-shirt.
Like his bed was made just for me.
His body molded to perfectly fold around mine.
His lips created to worship my temple.
And then sometime later. Maybe minutes, maybe hours, he speaks words to me I’m not meant to hear. They’re meant to fall on deaf ears. They’re meant to be said to a woman who is asleep. But they’re said in a whispered tone laced with such conviction and sincerity, that even if I couldn’t hear it with my ears, I’d hear it in my soul. Because that’s where I feel him most. Where I know him best. And his words are delivered in true Jake Swagger form.
“For fuck’s sake, Penelope Hart…you’re making me fall in love with you.”Chapter Twenty-Two“You do realize that’s thirty-two flights of fucking stairs, right?” Jake’s voice echoes through the empty stairwell as he leans on the wall, dressed in jeans and a Henley, with one perfect eyebrow—that he swears he doesn’t wax—arched in question.
“I do. Which is why we’re leaving thirty minutes early. So either get to stepping, or be an asshole and take the elevator. But if it gets stuck, don’t expect me to save you.” I start down the stairs alone.
Before I hit the first landing, I hear his loud sigh followed by his heavy footsteps behind me. “Fine. And when you give out halfway there, because you will, don’t expect me to carry your ass the rest of the way.”
“You’ll carry me, if I ask you to.”
“No the fuck I won’t.”
I throw a look at him over my shoulder, surprised to see he’s only two steps behind me. “Yes, you will.”
“Penelope…” His growl is a warning.
To prove my point, I pretend to stumble. With lightning reflexes, he reaches out to steady me. “Watch it, baby.”
Where’s that growl at now?
I want to smirk, but I’m too busy melting on the inside. Just like I’ve been melting for the past two days.
Ever since the elevator crisis, Jake has been overly cautious. Treating me like a precious gem. Doting on me. Waiting on me hand and foot. I’m not sure if it’s because I scared him, or because he’s falling in love with me—his words. Not mine.
He doesn’t know that I heard him that night. I have no intention of telling him. But even if he hadn’t said it, I’d have known by the way he treated me.
After the incident, I’d slept nearly the entire day. When I woke, it was dark out. Jake was still in bed with me—wrapped around me as if he feared I’d take off without him knowing. He’d woken the moment I stirred. Kissed my head. Asked how I was feeling. Made me dinner and brought it to me.
The next morning, I woke up alone in bed. A feeling of sadness and loneliness washed over me. It quickly faded when I found him in the chair across the room. Typing away on his laptop. Dressed in gym shorts and nothing else. His hair slicked with sweat from his morning workout.
I went to him. Needing his comfort like I needed to breathe. When I crawled from bed, he folded me in his arms. And he held me. Rubbed my back. Then carried me to the shower. The fact that he waited to shower until I woke up wasn’t lost on me. And, for some reason, I’d cried at that—my tears disguised by the spray of water.
We spent the day watching T.V. He even let me choose the movie. I, being the hopeless romantic cliché that I am, chose The Notebook. I cried during all of the sweeter scenes. Jake rolled his eyes. But he never complained.
