Earlier that evening, her scrutiny had detected an unfamiliar wince on his face whenever he had to twist to reach something.Even now, the muscles along his spine were far too bunched under her skimming palm, when they should be supple in post-orgasmic relaxation.
“I know you were hurting tonight,” she added. “Don’t bother denying it.”
He made a rumbly, dismissive sound in his chest. “It’ll be fine. Just standing a lot lately.”
In other words, he’d been working extraordinarily long hours to make time for her. Which was his choice, but she hated that he was suffering for it.
“While you deal with the condom, I’ll get the massage oil I bought today. I can give you a good rubdown.” When he began to object, she cupped his skull and shoved his face harder into her neck, until his protests became indecipherable. “What, you thought you were the only one who liked taking care of your, uh...”—what were they, anyway?—“your lover? Wrong, Dean. One hundred percent wrong. As per usual.”
Nudging him until he rolled off her and to the side, she smothered his continued bitching with a lingering kiss, then got up, put on his tee, and took care of her post-sex bathroom visit. By the time she got back with the bottle of sweet almond oil in hand, he’d disposed of the condom but not done much else.
Sprawled facedown across the bed, the poor guy looked exhausted.
Since her return to Harlot’s Bay, he’d been trying so damn hard. Staying late at the bakery, so they had more hours to spend together on the weekends. Dealing with nosy customers and neighbors and friends and family and protecting her from their scrutiny. Cooking for her. Planning exercises and outings. Catering to her preferences whenever possible. Making her come at least twice as often as he did.
Somehow, even amidst all that effort, he’d still found the time and energy to listen to his family’s excited chatter every night, give Charlotte and her kids a ride whenever her parents needed the family car, unofficially cater an erotic book club, and mow his elderly neighbor’s lawn at the crack of dawn on Sundays.
He was such a good man, and he would make an excellent life partner. That much she now knew, despite all her hard-won cynicism.
At tonight’s weird Pictionary game, each clue had felt like a neon sign pointing toward the obvious: She was a goner for Karl Andrew Dean. And because earnestness was in fact very important, she’d had to admit the anxiety-inducing truth, if only to herself: If he asked her for a long-term commitment, she trusted him—trustedthem—enough to express herself and say yes.
Hopefully he’d give her the opportunity to tell it to his heart. Sooner rather than later, because her time in Maryland was running out far too quickly. Yesterday, an email from her usual airline had reminded her to reserve her preferred meals on her upcoming flight. She hadn’t responded. Kept hoping she wouldn’t need to.
Kept hoping he’d talk about a real future together.
But that was a problem for another time. Not now. After all his hard work, Karl deserved her full attention, and she’d give it to him.
Pouring her affection into each stroke of her hands, she took her time with his massage. Rubbed his shoulders and arms and back and thighs, and everywhere else he seemed tense. When he didn’t object to oil in his hair, only rumbled in happy-soundingapproval, she gave him a scalp rub too, alternating between gentle pressure and firm strokes. At which point he started snoring, exactly as she’d planned.
Doing her best not to jostle him, she settled more comfortably beside his sleeping form and kept kneading until her hands cramped. As soon as she lifted them, though, he woke with a snort.
“Molly? Where the hell—” His arm flailed in an arc, reaching for her, and he sounded half panicked. “There you are.”
Using his hold on her forearm, he pulled her down beside him. Then he turned over with a groan that sounded less pained than before and rose up on an elbow. His brown eyes searched her face, a deep line carved between his brows.
“Sorry I fell asleep on you. Felt too good to stay awake.” His hairy thigh slid between hers. “Forgive me?”
She shook her head. “I hoped you’d fall asleep. You need your rest.”
“So do you.” A rough thumb brushed featherlight beneath her right eye. “I see these circles, Dearborn. I kept you up most of last night, and you’re tired as hell. Giving me a fucking incredible massage didn’t help that shit.”
Her eyelidsdidfeel spectacularly heavy, but she had her priorities. “I enjoyed taking care of you.”
The concern creasing his brow didn’t disappear, and his gaze never wavered.
“Want me to return the favor?” His thigh nudged higher, where she was still tender and sensitive. “Or make you come again?”
Smiling, she smoothed a strand of oil-soaked hair back from his temple. “It’s a sweet offer. But I think we both need sleep more than anything else right now. Why don’t you shower off the oil while I change the sheets?”
“You sure?” His jaw promptly cracked in a wide yawn. “Ignore that. Wide fucking awake. More than happy to finger-blast you into goddamn oblivion.”
When he immediately yawned again, she laughed at him. “I’m sure.”
“Fine.” Disheveled and grumbling, he heaved himself out of bed, then bent down to kiss her forehead. “Don’t change the sheets yet. I’ll help you with ’em. Always easier with two.”
“Okay,” she agreed, then remembered a crucial point as he headed for the stairs. “Be careful! Your feet are slippery!”
He grunted in response, then disappeared down the steps.
