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She reached for the first aid kit under the sink and set it on the counter, then moved him to the edge of the tub and sat him down. He went without argument, still silent, still looking at her.
She uncapped the antiseptic and pressed the pad to his knuckles. He didn’t flinch, which didn’t surprise her at all. But she wasn’t fooled. Just because he wasn’t showing that it hurt, didn’t mean it wasn’t hurting him.
She worked carefully, cleaning the torn skin in the split across his middle knuckle. She could feel the calluses on his palm, the thickness of his fingers, the places where old scars had healed over and new ones hadn’t yet. She took a little gauze and wrapped it around his hand over the worst offenders.
His left hand was easier. The knuckles were scraped but not split. She cleaned them just as carefully.
Still, he just sat there watching her, like he wasn’t quite sure if she was his saving grace or a bomb that might detonate at any second.
She finished the second wrap and smoothed the tape flat. Her hand should have let go. Instead, her fingers slid past the edge of the gauze, across the top of his hand, and onto the bare skin of his forearm.
She didn’t plan it. It was as if her hand made the decision before her brain caught up, and by the time she registered what she was doing—her fingertips tracing the inside of his wrist, his pulse under her thumb—she’d already done it.
She didn’t pull back.
His breathing changed. She heard the catch in it, felt the careful stillness in his body of someone who didn’t want to move in case it changed everything, for better or worse. Her fingers stayed where they were, against the warm skin above the bandage, and his hand turned slowly in hers until his fingers curled around her wrist.
“Cassie.”
He slid off the edge of the tub onto his knees. His arms went around her waist, and he held on, his face pressed against her stomach, his shoulders curved inward.
He was shaking.
He’d hit the bag until his hands bled, and then he’d tried to walk away from her, from Zodiac, from everything, because he’d decided he would taint it. And now he was on his knees on her bathroom floor holding on to her like she was the only solid thing left.
He wasn’t performing or strategizing or reading the room. He was just holding on.
Her hands went to his hair. She ran her fingers through the thick strands, slow, because she wanted to. The weight of his head against her stomach and the grip of his arms around her waist told her this was the most honest he’d been since the lodge.
Maybe the most honest he’d ever been.
She gripped his cheeks, running her thumbs along his brow and temple and tilted his face up. His eyes met hers, still studying her, as if she might disappear if he didn’t keep her in his sights.
She kissed him.
His mouth opened under hers, and she felt his hands tighten on her waist and pull her closer. She kept her hands threaded in his hair and kissed him until his grip shifted from desperate to deliberate, his thumbs tracing slow arcs against her lower back through the thin fabric of her shirt.
She pulled back far enough to see his face and found him searching hers like he was waiting for her to change her mind. And if she did, it would be no more than he deserved.
She wasn’t going to change her mind.
She reached for the hem of his shirt that he’d put back on before they left the gym and pulled it over his head. He let her, his arms lifting without resistance, and she dropped it onto the bathroom tile.
“Better.”
“You didn’t like the shirt?”
“I like you without it.”
She held out her hand. He took it and she pulled him up. They moved from the bathroom to the bedroom, his fingers laced through hers the whole way.
When they got to the bed, she pulled her shirt over her head and let it fall. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra. His eyes moved down her body, slowly, breath hissing out of him, then back to her face.
He looked at her like he’d given up hoping for this.
His bandaged hands came up and then hesitated, hovering just short of touching her. She took his wrists and placed his hands on her breasts. He exhaled and his palms settled against her, the gauze rough where his skin was warm.
He traced slow circles over her nipples with his thumbs, and she let out a hiss of breath of her own. He dipped his head, and his mouth replaced his thumb, his lips closing around her, gentle and then, oh God, not.
