“You sound like Dr. Whitcomb.”
“She is influential.”
His thumb stroked my temple.
“Lie down.”
“You shouldn’t be taking care of me.”
“Why?”
“You’re recovering.”
“And you’re hurting.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“No.”
His voice strengthened.
“It does not have to be the same to matter.”
He pulled gently.
I resisted for half a heartbeat.
Then I let him guide me onto the mattress.
Noah lay behind me.
The reversal felt so strange that I nearly turned around.
His arm came across my chest.
His palm settled over my heart.
“Stay,” he said.
I did.
He pressed his face between my shoulder blades.
Marlowe grumbled at the rearrangement and moved to the foot of the bed.
Noah’s hand traveled slowly over my chest.
Not sexual.
Soothing.
My breathing began to follow his.
“I’m not very good at this,” he murmured.
“At what?”
“Knowing what you need.”
