Page 78 of Saddle Storm

We stumble, trip, and knock into furniture. Kisses breaking long enough to breathe, nip my jaw, whispering my name like I’m all he’s ever wanted.

By the time we reach the bathroom, there’s a trail of damp clothes behind us. Every piece but our underwear.

He crowds me against the counter, lifting me over it. Standing close enough that I can feel every breath he takes, his forehead resting against mine. I’m shaking—not from the cold anymore—from how overdue, surreal . . . and inevitable this feels.

His hands slide over my sides, slower now, like he’s savoring it, like he knows we finally have time.

“You’re so damn gorgeous, Bee,” he breathes. His hands snake around me, unclasping my bra then sliding down my arms. He lingers, eyes dragging over me.

Mine land on the white bandage wrapped around his bicep and I run my fingers over it gently.

He unties the knot and leaves the rest for me. I take my time unwrapping the bandage, careful where my fingers brush his skin—like he hasn’t put this arm through hell today as it is. The gauze comes away slowly, revealing the incision beneath. It’s clean and neat, a faintly raised thin pink line curved along his bicep, still tender-looking but healing.

I think about how this makes him feel. The daily bandaging, what this might mean for his future. The one thing he loves most in this world.

The reason he left so easily.

“It doesn’t hurt, Bee,” he whispers, seeing my expression. I lift my gaze to his and he smiles. “It can get wet.” He reaches into the shower and the water comes down with a rush, steam blooming almost instantly.

Still getting used to that.

“And it can certainly . . .” he sweeps his eyes over me, “. . . take it’s time in the shower with you.”

Lifting me down from the counter like I weigh nothing, he slides down my panties. Reminding me of the last time he did this. And if it was any indication of what’s to come, I’m going to melt into a puddle.

I flick my eyes down to his boxers. “You suddenly shy, hotshot?”

“No. Get in,” he commands and there’s only a hint of playfulness in his tone.

I do what he asks. In what’s come to be the only time I do what he asks without question. When I’m hungry for what’s to come if I comply.

He guides me under the spray, warm water coming over my skin, washing away the emotional day. I have my back to him when I sense him step in behind me. His hands on my waist. Pressing me against his front.

I gasp when I feel him.

I flip around, eyes wide when I catch his length. His injured hand is wrapped around it, almost controlling it. “Fuck, Storm.” He pushes me against the cool tile. “You have no idea what you do to me.” He chuckles softly. “I don’t know who’s in more trouble—me or you.”

God, I hope it’s me.

Is it wrong to want this man to ruin me?

His touch turns reverent, deliberate, and my breath catches as his mouth finds mine again. Claiming me. I tip my head back, fingers curling into his shoulders. Nothing but heat, steam, and the man of my dreams looking back at me like he’s memorizing me. Like he can’t believe that for tonight, I’m his.

And a look that quickly shifts into a promise that he’s about to worship me.

“Yes,” I whimper out of sheer need for all of it. “Please.”

I don’t know why I beg. I’ve never begged. But I’m so afraid of this stopping. Of him teasing me then leaving me, that my plea is a direct indication of how weak in the knees I am for this man.

What his confession, what I finally discovered in the last twenty-four hours, did to me, to my self-esteem, my worth, my dignity.

He came for me that night.

He’s come for me now.

And if I could just accept that this isn’t forever—that Silas Thorne is bound to leave again—then I can protect my heart.

I can save myself another decade of pining and regret.