He kissed me.
“Let this be my choice.”
So I did.
The worktable was too high for him to kneel safely, and the floor was out of the question. Noah surveyed the loft with the concentration of an engineer solving a structural problem.
Then he pointed toward the adjustable shop chair.
“Sit.”
I obeyed.
He rolled the chair near the table, stretched his healing leg forward to avoid bending it too deeply, and positioned himself sideways on the padded edge.
The arrangement brought him close enough to touch me without placing weight on the injured hip.
My pulse thundered.
“You have thought this through.”
“I consulted a medical professional.”
“Maeve is going to resign.”
“She considered it.”
I laughed as he reached for my belt.
His confidence held until he opened my clothes and saw me.
Then he went still.
His gaze moved over me slowly.
I resisted the urge to fill the silence. This was new for him—not because his body had never known mine, but because his conscious memory could not supply the history.
He touched me first with one tentative finger.
My breath caught.
His eyes lifted immediately.
“Is that good?”
“Yes.”
His hand closed around me more fully.
I shut my eyes.
“No,” he said, amusement warming his voice. “You made me look at you.”
I opened them.
He moved his hand once and watched my body respond before I could hide it.
A smile appeared.
