He shook his head. “If it happens, there’s nothing any of us can do.”
She closed her eyes, pressing her forehead to his. “I’m scared.”
His arms tightened around her. “He’ll be okay. He’s my son.”
She nodded, wanting to believe him.
“You need to eat,” he said, reaching around her to turn off the shower. “And clothes.”
She followed him from the shower, letting him dry her with a fluffy black towel. He knelt, gently stroking the scar on her back with his fingers. Then her stomach. He kissed the scar, resting his head on her stomach. “I didn’t know.”
“I know.” She ran her fingers through his wet hair. “Would it have changed anything?”
He looked up at her, the hunger in his eyes instantly igniting her need. “Maybe…”
She frowned, staring down at him. “Finn—”
“I can’t hurt you.” The edge to his voice was sharp, insistent…and wonderful. He cared about her, deeply. She felt it. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, his gaze feasting on her bare body.
She smiled. “So are you.”
“I want you.” The rasp in his voice made her quiver. “I need you.” His hand pressed over the thatch of hair between her legs. His nose traced the inside of her thigh, his breath a caress on her skin. Her hands gripped his shoulders, holding herself up as she arched into his touch. But the pain in her side caught her by surprise, white-hot and searing. She froze, her hand clapping over the scar and muffling her whimper.
He was up, swinging her into his arms when she would have crumpled. “Jessa? Shit,” he growled. “Dammit.”
She wanted to tell him she was okay, but it hurt too much to form a coherent sentence. When he lay her on the bed, she grabbed his hand and pressed it against the scar.
“Wait,” she whispered, his touch easing the pain.
He stared at her, concern creasing his forehead. “This helps?” he asked.
She nodded, letting his warmth seep into her. It did. If it were possible, she’d think his touch was healing her from the inside. Beneath his hand, she felt stronger, the pain reduced to a dull ache.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his palm all but glued to her side. The other stroked her wet hair from her face, his fingers tracing her temple and jaw. His eyes burned with something. Not hunger or passion but anger…and maybe, regret. She didn’t like the way he seemed to withdraw from her, even with his hand on her body.
“Finn, stop,” she said.
When he would have lifted his hand, she held it in place.
“Stop thinking whatever you’re thinking,” she said.
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “Now you know what I’m thinking?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly. But I don’t want to see…regret on your face when you look at me.”
He blew out a long breath. “I did this to you.”
“I will heal,” she argued.
He shook his head. “Nothing will ever be the same, Jessa.”
“I know.” She sat up slowly, letting go of his hand. “But I have you. And Oscar. So, everything is better.”
He stared down at her, his expression unreadable. He turned, pulling some long john pants and one of his flannel shirts from a dresser, offering them to her.
She buried her face in them. “They smell like you.”
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “Come on.” The words were hoarse. “You need to eat. And Oscar misses you.”