Page 105 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

At her jaw. Her throat. The place below her ear. The corner of her lips. As though this still wasn’t close enough. As if he needed every part of her he could reach.

His teeth grazed her collarbone. Sarah lifted her hips toward him.

Oh God.

She was close again.

“Hudson—”

His forehead found hers, his eyes open, dark and unfocused. His rhythm faltered, a tremble rocking through his arms. Sarah slid her hand to the side of his face.

Her body locked around him as his name left her again.

Hudson followed.

He drove deep and held. A rough sound escaped him, and his arms finally bent, bringing his chest down against hers.

Sarah caught him.

Her hands went into his hair. Her face pressed into his neck as the last tremors moved through them both.

Then nothing.

Just breath.

Weight.

The hard thud of his heart against hers.

Hudson’s face stayed buried against her neck. Sarah threaded her fingers through his damp hair. After a moment, he started to shift his weight off her.

Sarah tightened her arms. “Stay.”

She didn’t explain or soften it with for now or tonight.

She just held him. And this time, Hudson stayed.

42

Hudson woke to the sound of running water. For one disorienting second, he didn’t know where he was.

A navy dress was folded over the back of the chair. Memory returned all at once.

Sarah.

He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t want to leave this room and turn any of it into memory. He’d done that once. He wouldn’t do it again.

He threw back the sheets and pulled on his boxers.

The room had a small machine on the counter by the window—one of those single-serve things with foil pods and a tray that didn’t quite sit level. He switched it on and watched the snow fall while the machine hissed and spat its way through two cups of something that was almost coffee.

He added three sugars to hers.

The bathroom door opened, and he forgot about coffee entirely.

Sarah stood barefoot wearing his shirt. The hem reached halfway down her thighs, the collar loose around her shoulders. She’d pushed the sleeves up to her elbows, and her hair was damp, darker at the ends where it touched her skin.

The bruises were still there, visible where his shirt was unbuttoned. So was his shirt. Somehow his brain couldn’t reconcile the two—the evidence of how close he’d come to losing her and the impossible fact that she was here.