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Caine was hard in a fucking instant. Because now he had some new things to add to that catalogue. The way her leg nudged against his balls. And the tight press of her core against the muscles of his thigh. And then, Jesus Christ, she whimpered in her sleep and her hand fisted in his shirt. A breath shuddered out of her. Caine held her tighter, unsure if she was having a nightmare but wanting her to remember that he was there. Just like he’d promised to be.
By the time the first gray light of dawn crept into the room, Caine was struggling against the leaden weight of his eyelids. He yawned so wide his jaw cracked.
Emma stirred against him, her lips pressing to his neck.
He groaned at the sweetness of it, and at the fact that he’d been hard so much overnight that he was strung fucking tight.
“Merry Christmas,” Emma whispered, not otherwise moving.
Caine debated how to respond. Christmas wasn’t something he usually recognized. It’d been a source of torment for him as a child, so as an adult, he’d never seen the point. But he knew it was important to her. One look at this house proved that.
“Yeah, it just might be,” he managed. And then he went one step further, giving her a piece of himself that he’d never before given anyone. “It’s already the best Christmas morning I’ve ever had.”
“Nothing’s happened yet,” she said, a soft, sleepy humor in the words.
“Not true. I got to hold you.” His heart beat harder at the admission.
“That is…the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“I’m not sweet, Emma.”
She shifted so that her chin rested on the center of his chest, more of her body coming up on more of his. “You’re not only sweet, but you are absolutely capable of sweetness and gentleness.”
Fuck, what pretty words, even though they painted such a false picture of him. And fuuck, what a pretty face staring back at him, so soft and affectionate and open. “I’m not a hero, Emma. You need to remember that.”
She gave him an appraising look, one he feared was too observant, too insightful. “A hero is merely someone who risks himself in some way to help others, even if he’s scared of taking that risk or putting himself out there for others. By that definition…” She reached for his face and traced patterns over his skin. Around his jaw, his eye, his mouth. And then her fingers pushed into his short hair, her fingertips scratching against his scalp so good he nearly groaned.
All he could do was shake his head. She had it all wrong. All wrong about him, anyway. Tell her.
But before he could, Emma shifted again, bringing her face closer to his. Close enough that if he just leaned up, he could have a taste of her again. “You know what you are?”
Yeah. Yeah, he really fucking did. A jagged boulder slid into his gut. But he wanted to hear what she had to say. “What?”
“You’re the man who risked himself and saved me, we now know, from being dragged away to God only knows what fate.” She blew out a shaky breath, and damn if her fear didn’t reach into his rib cage and make it hard to breathe. Or maybe what invaded his chest was his own fear—at realizing how close he’d been to losing Emma Kerry before he’d ever met her at all. White-hot anger lanced through him at the thought.
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m not done.” She pressed a soft kiss against his lips, and the freeness of her affection stunned him. “You’re also the man who recognized that I was in danger and took it upon himself to watch over me and my house, to even talk to the police about it.”
He shrugged with one shoulder, his gaze falling somewhere in between them. “Providing protection, investigating threats, and installing security, this is what I do for the Ravens. I know you don’t know a lot about us, but we have a whole mission around defending people who can’t defend themselves. So I just slipped into that mode. But I should’ve told you what was going on. I just… I didn’t want to worry you until I was sure. And I didn’t—fuck, I know this was selfish—but I didn’t want you to hate me for letting the guy get away.”
“Yeah, you should’ve told me. So I could be more aware and know I might need to defend myself. Look at me,” she said, tilting her face to try to align their gazes.
He lifted his and met those warm blues head on, ready for whatever criticism and anger she wanted to dish out.
“But last night, out on the street, you admitted you had something to tell me. And then you did. Just…next time, maybe tell me at the start, okay?”
