“Whose hand, Conor? Look at it!”
The shape of it blurs through my rising tears, but I know those knuckles. Those long, thick fingers.
“Your hand.” I pant, shaking from the inside out. “It’s yours. Jake’s.” Not a knot. Not rope.
“Describe how it feels.”
“Warm. Gentle.” My joints start to loosen, and I stop pulling. “Familiar.”
“Am I hurting you?”
I shake my head, eyes fixed on his grip. “But you’re…you’re holding me. Oh God, you’re holding my wrist.” My breaths pick up.
“Keep talking. Don’t take your eyes off our hands.”
For the remainder of the three-hour drive, he keeps his grip on my wrist and makes me endure the nightmares his touch evokes.
I fight and regress into memory, surrender and produce bursts of words, and he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t relent. Not once.
By the time he parks the truck at the ranch, my throat is raw from overuse and exhaustion liquefies my limbs.
The hand on my wrist slackens, and his fingers intertwine with mine. Strong, callused fingers that know their way around rope.
I roll my head and find him watching me.
Dark brown eyes glow with gold flecks in the sunlight. His sculpted features convey concern and alertness. He cares what I’m thinking and feeling, perhaps more than I do, and it moves me.
He could’ve spent the last three hours blaring music and enjoying the drive. Instead, he attacked my trigger, lowered me into the darkness, and joined me there.
Something clicks inside me, like a turning key. I’ve been wandering aimlessly, so lost and far away from myself. But I just found the door that leads me back. He’s the other half of me, and he holds the pieces that will make me whole again.
“You cured me?” Tears threaten, and I swallow the salty taste.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” The Stetson sits low on his brow, and he nudges it up. “This isn’t about a cure. We’re just learning how to control your thoughts and feelings about the trauma and how to work through the memories during a panic attack. You still need to talk about the ravine.”
“What if I can’t? Will I have flashbacks next time someone grabs me?”
“Most likely, yes.” He slides his hand to my wrist and latches on. “Going forward, your arms are no longer off limits. I will touch them, grip them, and bind them. Same goes for your other triggers. I’m going to trespass all over your nightmares and walk through them with you for as long as it takes. It’s not going to be fun, Conor, but you won’t be alone. Never again.”
With his hand around my wrist and his thumb stroking my skin, I lean into the tenderness of his touch.
He took off two weeks of work to do this for me. To accompany me in the darkest corners of my mind.
“Jake, I…” I can’t express my gratitude with words.
Unbuckling the seat belt, I crawl across the bench seat and climb onto his lap. His eyes widen, and his arms go around me.
I remove his hat and run my hands through his sexy brown hair. Touching him is an irresistible impulse, and I indulge in it with greedy fingers, traveling along the chiseled shape of his face and caressing the thick column of his neck.
Leaning in, I inhale the scent of his scalp, his whiskers, his breath. He smells like leather and steel, testosterone and sex. He smells like the man version of the boy I fell in love with.
He watches me heatedly with erratic gasps, his body rigid, cock hard, and muscles vibrating with raw, hungry power. There’s no better feeling in the world than being desired by a man like Jake Holsten.
And that desire bucks restlessly between us. It feels cinched and saddled, like it’s ready to be kicked into a gallop and ridden hard.
I gravitate closer, sinking into the trap. Beneath that molten chocolate gaze prowls ruthlessness and danger. He’s not safe. Not where my heart’s concerned. Of all the men who have hurt me, his cruelty was the most damaging.
“I’m scared.” I cup his face, my eyes fixed on his seductive mouth.
“I know.” He drifts toward me slowly, intently, until his breath licks my lips. “But you never run from fear.”
He swoops in and kisses me, quenching my senses with his overpowering essence. His lips move urgently against mine, his tongue searching and plundering the hidden places in my mouth, as if I harbor the answer to everything he seeks.
I want to give it to him. I ache to surrender anything he demands. Because he makes me feel loved. Because he follows me into the dark. Because he dulls the pain pumping through my veins.
He slants his mouth and deepens the kiss, his tongue wild and demanding, his arms tightening my body against his.
His lips taste like happiness—the smoke and heat of a campfire, the sun over the meadow, and the birth of young love.