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A quaking breath deflated him. Rowan tucked the photos into the bottom drawer of his dresser.
“You couldn’t have done anything differently, Harry.”
His lip curled. “I gave them false hope, and I fucking hate myself for that hubris.” His gaze hardened. “How can I ever look a patient in the eyes again and tell them everything is okay?”
“It’s not hubris, it’s conviction.” Rowan cradled his face inher hands. “Everything good doctors do is an act of willful defiance against how fragile we are as a species.”
The dam burst. Rowan wrapped Harry tight while he cried in her arms. She held him until the golden sunshine coming through the skylight dimmed to a cool opal glow.
When the rise and fall of his belly against hers gentled and slowed, she led him by the hand to the kitchen and made him one of the few hot meals she was capable of: oatmeal with fresh strawberries and cream. After his belly was full of something other than wine, she pushed him into a hot, soapy shower, and snoozed on his bed.
When he emerged from the bathroom, steam swelled out behind him, filling the space with the sweet scent of his soap. He rubbed a towel vigorously over his wet hair, making it stand out wildly around his head.
“Thank you,” he said.
When he turned the bathroom light off, the room went dark, illuminated only by the weak lamp on the bedside table.
“I do make a superior bowl of oatmeal,” Rowan said, stretching.
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.” He dropped the towel from his waist and crawled up the bed to her, fixing his mouth to the pulse point below her ear. “Let me make you breakfast.”
She tipped her chin up to give him full access to her neck, and his mouth worked its way across her skin, molten hot and slow.
“We just had oatmeal. It’s nighttime.”
The edges of his teeth grazed her earlobe. “Notnow.”
Realization sparked in her brain, sending a sizzle of arousal through every nerve ending in her skin. The tiny hairs on her neck rose in response.
“Oh. In the morning.”
He nodded, eyes solemn. “Stay with me tonight. All night.”
“Harry—”
“Only this once. I promise I’ll never ask again.”
“I told you earlier, I didn’t come here today for sex. I don’t want you to think that.”
“I know you didn’t. And I’m not talking about sex, either.” He reached between them to open the button of her cutoffs, and slid his hand into her panties.
“Getting some mixed signals from you here, Doc,” she breathed.
The dim glow of the bedside lamp skimmed his jaw and his beloved dimple. A sheaf of hair fell over his forehead, and she tucked it back, threading her fingers through the damp strands.
“Has anyone ever made love to you, Rowan?”
The world was hushed as they took each other’s mouths in a lazy, delving kiss. The only sounds were bodies crumpling sheets, skin sliding on skin, and heavy breaths, steady and deep with the sensual tempo Harry set for them. He linked their fingers and pressed joined fists into the mattress, connecting as much of himself to her as possible. His kisses were deep strokes of his tongue, a carnal echo of the slow, powerful rhythm of his hips between her legs. He kissed her as though she were the source of everything good and right, and she answered in kind.
“You are so beautiful,” he whispered, his nose pressed to her temple, hot breath fanning into her hair.
Rowan responded with a watery laugh. “It’s dark in here.”
Harry raised above her, steady and strong. “I don’t need light to see you.”
Much later, he gathered her against his chest, and she tucked her head into the crook of his arm. Rowan stared into the darkness. The oblivion of sleep overtook him fast. His body collapsed a bit beneath her; his breathing turned heavy and deliberate. She eased away and propped up on her elbow besidehim. Slumber softened his features, the tension that often kept his brows drawn together finally relenting. Rowan smoothed a fingertip along his hairline, and he sighed. His full bottom lip cast a crescent-shaped shadow over the subtle divot in his chin.
God,hewas the beautiful one.
