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His chest moves with heavy breaths. “I can’t. That’s not—I’m not—” He shakes his head and curses again.
“You’re good at fixing things.” I say it into his neck and let my lips linger on his skin. He smells warm and welcoming. I kiss him there.
He shoves his second hand under me and gets a good grip on my other cheek. His hands are full of my bottom, and I love it. But being caged like this sends a dart of anxiety through my desire.
“Things,” he says. “Not people. I don’t fix people. That’s Doc’s department.”
I push through my anxiety and kiss his neck again. And again. I won’t let the darkness steal this opportunity from me. “Doc is helping. The others are helping. In their way. I need you to help, too. I’m tired of feeling broken.”
His throat moves with a swallow. “We’re all broken, baby girl. Every last one of us.”
In a sudden move I wasn’t expecting, he flips us so he’s over me. In a flash, he’s holding both my wrists and pinning them over my head. He plants his knee between my legs, and every good thing I was feeling goespoof,and the darkness rolls in from the corners of my mind.
“I know what it is to be held down,” Scrap says. His words hold the darkness at bay. Barely. I focus on them like a drowning woman swimming for a life ring. “I know what it is to have my body used and marked up.” His eyes are wild and bright. “The cuts and bruises fade, but the scars deep down, those don’t get fixed. Ever. Don’t ask me to do what can’t be done. Don’t ask me that, Cora. Don’t.”
Before I can fully process what he’s saying, he releases my wrists and curls up on top of me like a child.
The darkness withdraws. But it’s not gone. Scrap hugs his knees like I’ve done a thousand times, and I know where the darkness has gone.
Keeping his head tucked to my chest, I roll him so he’s secure between me and the back of the couch. I hold him, and we fall asleep like that. My last thought before I drift off is that I’m a royal jerk for assuming I’m the only one in need of healing.
I didn’t push my boundaries tonight, but I learned something valuable. The men here need me as much as I need them.
Chapter 9
Cora
Night 6: Brawn
I can’t stop yawningas I report for breakfast duty the next morning. Shep must be able to tell I didn’t get much sleep, because he only gives me light chores. I’m half-asleep on a stool, holding a wooden spoon over a pitcher of reconstituted orange juice when his chuckle startles me. I jump and start stirring again, watching the frozen chunks swirl around the pitcher.
“You need more sleep, angel.” Shep’s big hand settles over mine on the spoon. He gently removes my grip and takes over stirring. With a one-armed hug and a kiss on my head, he says, “Go on upstairs and take a nap.”
“I’m okay,” I say on another yawn.
His chuckle is warm with affection. “Go.” His pat on my butt brooks no argument, so I go.
The stairway opens to a long dorm above the kitchen. Beds of different sizes, styles, and states of dishevelment march in a line from one end to the other. I feel like Goldilocks as I peruse my options. I start at the end near the window with the broken pane. The rumpled double-sized bed with light gray sheets is Doc’s. I spent my second night here in that bed. For much of that night, Doc had his hand inside my pants. Or I had my hand inside his.
I smile at the memory as I look at the next bed. It’s another double. The frame is made of pine in a simple style, and the sheets are white with an off-white waffle-weave comforter. It looks Scandinavian. This one must be Shep’s. The bed in the middle of the row is aqueen with an antique-looking framemade up neatly with navy blue linens. Jud’s. Next is a twin-sized bed with a padded hope chest at the end, giving it an extra foot of length. The sheets are plaid flannel and look super cozy. I bet Brawn sleeps here, needing that extra length to accommodate his seven-foot height. Last is a bunkbed that looks like it could be original to the camp. The top bunk is made neatly with gingham sheets, and the bottom bunk is curtained off by a flowered sheet. At the end of the bunk bed is a footlocker I know well. When the guys were gone on a scavenge, I rummaged through it for clothes. It belongs to Scrap, who is closest to my size. Rev must sleep on the top bunk, accounting for all the guys, except for Grim, who sleeps in the camper.
I’m too tired to make a decision about which bed to sleep in, so I just curl up in the closest one. Jud’s, which sits right at the top of the stairs. He’s the leader here, and his bed is positioned so he’s the first one in the line of fire if anyone comes up here looking for trouble. It’s also the biggest and the most neatly-made.
When I settle in and tug the blankets up to my chin, I inhale his woodsy scent and immediately begin drifting off. I hope Scrap is feeling more awake than I am. I’m annoyed with myself for trying to seduce him last night, when he’s as broken as I am. As I let sleep claim me, I decide to try harder to get to know each of the men here. They might be big and slightly scary and, like, over-the-top manly, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have needs too.
I’m dreaming about being caught in a net and reeled in by a talking pelican when something startles me awake. It’s a sound. A squeak. Followed by a long, low growl. What the heck? Is there a bear hunting a mouse up here?
I blink my eyes open and it takes me a minute to figure out what I’m looking at. The expanse of sun-kissed skin goes on for miles. If this was outside, it would block out the horizon. It’s Brawn, I realize. Sitting on the next bed over, with his back to me.
His very naked back. And naked butt nestled into his flannel sheets like a baby bird in a nest—a giant baby bird in an enormous, inviting-looking nest. His shoulders are mountains of muscled flesh. Tan lines from the cut-off sleeves he prefers score the mountains like the line on the ground when the sun begins setting and the shadows grow long. A dusting of dark hair grows thicker as shoulders meet neck, and thicker still as it joins with the dripping wet mass of brown waves shedding water droplets over all those acres of muscle.
Thick, tree-trunk arms move as he scrubs himself dry—wait—there’s no towel. But his arm is moving. Rhythmically.
I hear the bear growl again, but it’s no bear. It’s him. His right arm tenses in time with his heavy breaths. His thighs are spread wide, and the muscles in them bunch and un-bunch as if he’s curling his toes against the plank floor.
Oh. My. Goodness. Brawn is masturbating! And he doesn’t know I’m here!
I should let him know he’s not alone. I should duck under the covers and give him privacy. I should—
