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“You think I don’t know how much it will kill me if we’re not together?”
The throbbing’s so intense, I clench against his fingers. Sparks of pleasure jolt through me, and I can’t believe how close I am to getting off already. It’s ridiculous.
And wrong.
“Forgive me and let me make you happy.”
Just because he’s injured, and I’m sympathetic, isn’t a free pass for either of us. Neither of us can handle the intimacy. “I can’t do this.”
His lips press against my shoulder. “You’re cold.”
I am. One of many reasons this is dangerous.
He gives me a backward hug, which is even more powerful than his sensual caresses. I clutch his arms wrapped around my torso. Just because I won’t let myself have sex with him doesn’t mean I don’t want his affection.
For too brief of a moment, I allow myself to absorb all of his tenderness, conveying the same message back to him as I massage over his forearms. The corded muscles ripple under my hands as if he seeks my comfort just as much.
We’re dysfunctional. That’s apparent. Which changes nothing about how we feel toward each other.
When he slumps forward, I force myself to wiggle out of his embrace. He’s too gone to fight me and stays cooperative as I finish drying him off. “Can you walk?’
His head bobs, and he manages to stand, swaying only a little while he grabs his gun. I wrap my arm around his hips and guide him toward the bedroom. He’s not incapacitated enough to lean on me completely, or we’d never make it.
The carpet sloshes under my toes from the spilt vase as we hobble to the bed where he slumps onto the mattress, never letting go of me. Both hands grasp my hips once he sets his weapon on the nightstand. Sad that in this condition he still has to worry about protecting us.
Even with his diminished strength, I can’t escape, forced to slide in next to him. His arm instantly coils around me, tucking his fingers under my ribs so I’m completely trapped.
Once again, I’m his prisoner.
Tonight—in this moment—I don’t mind.
Tomorrow… Tomorrow, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.
Titan
My head’s on fucking fire.
What the hell? I’ve had stitches before and never felt like this.
I force my eyes open, and everything’s a blur. But damn, even in the haze, Addie’s still the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen as she peers down at me. Her slender hand cups my face.
“How’re you feeling?”
“Never better.”
Except when I twist my head to kiss her palm I almost hurl. Jesus.
“Dr. Crawford said you probably have a concussion.”
Fuck that. “I don’t have time for a concussion.”
Her soft laughter sounds amused rather than irritated. “Do you think anyone has time for a concussion?”
Yeah, but when I’m absent, people can die, including her and my sister. “I’m not just anyone.”
“Don’t I know it.”
I shove myself up to lean against the headboard. The simple effort has me breathing hard and spinning like a top. My eyes involuntarily squeeze shut to try and quell the whirling in my mind and my stomach. Shit.
