Shane (Damage Control 4)

“I lost my job today. Not a big surprise after yesterday, but…” He shrugs, and somehow packs all his frustration in that small movement. The towel has fallen down to his waist, and the strong set of his shoulders is tense. “I don’t know.”

“God, I’m so sorry.” I’m at a loss for words. “Why did they fire you?”

“The flashbacks. I was told I’m a danger to my co-workers, and what if it’s true? What if I hurt someone in one of my flashbacks? What if I’m operating the forklift, and I crash into someone?”

Crap. I lean into him, and he slides an arm around me. A sigh of relief escapes me as I burrow into his side, putting both my arms around him. His skin is still cold, but it’s warming up.

“That rattled you,” I whisper into the warm skin of his bare shoulder. “And then you fell, hurt yourself, which made it worse, and when you came back here you had a flashback.”

“In the fucking shower.” He grunts when I rub circles on his back. “Showers can trigger my flashbacks, too.”

Christ. Never realized how complicated his life could be. “So what do you do when you take a shower?”

“Try to keep it short?”

Laughter bubbles up my throat, and I bite down on it. Not funny. “You are an amazing guy,” I tell him, because it’s the truth.

He huffs on top of my head. “Very funny.”

“I wasn’t being funny.” I pull back to look into his face. “You’re amazing. You’re brave. Told you. I really like you, Shane.”

“Then you’ve got rotten luck,” he whispers, “’cuz I’m a fucking mess.” But one of those faint smiles tugs at his beautiful mouth and I can’t help it.

I kiss him.

When I try to pull back, he won’t let me. He cups my face in both hands and gives me a long and deep kiss, tongue and teeth and all. By the time he lets me go, we’re both breathless.

“I’ll beat this,” he says, his gaze determined. He squares his shoulders and nods at me, as if taking a formal oath. “This pendant you gave me, this rubber band. It’s helping. I can’t let the flashbacks win. I won’t.”

Jesus. I stare at him, shocked and moved and happy and hopeful. I’m helping him. I’m doing it, where I failed others. Where I failed Angel.

And it should be enough. More than enough. But if I wasn’t in love with him before, honestly, how could I keep from falling in love with him after today?

***

He shrugs on the shirt I picked for him from his meager selection. Boy needs more clothes. I should take him shopping someday.

But the shirt looks good on him anyway. Scratch that: it looks hot. He looks hot, despite the bruising on his face and the cut on his lips.

Like that’s a surprise. The soft white fabric clings to his muscular chest and shoulders, makes his skin look like old gold, and his hair falling over it like black silk. His dark brows knit as he buttons down the shirt, and with that soft mouth pursed, that square jaw clenched, he looks a little forbidding.

And a lot forbidden. Exotic. Handsome. Full of sharp edges and hidden fire.

Not really mine, even if I’m allowed to touch the surface, talk him back to the present, hold him through the pain.

He rolls up his sleeves, then sits down on his bed to tie the laces of his shoes, and I’m still staring at him helplessly. His every movement is so graceful and powerful and—I have to stop acting like a love-struck schoolgirl just because we fucked.

Or rather he fucked me, which I let him do, begged for it, in his bed, in his lap, on his table. Like I’ve only just discovered sex. Like a virgin.

This is where I should be rolling on the floor, howling with laughter, but I’m not. It is different with him, in every way. It doesn’t just feel good—it feels like he’s making love to me, like I can feel him everywhere inside me. He’s inside my head, burrowing into places in my mind nobody has ever been.

I turn around to avoid seeing him stand, stretching that long, sinewy body, and grab my coat and purse. “Let’s go. We’re late.”

“That’d be a fucking blessing,” he mutters, following me out.

“Not excited about the wedding?”

“Seen one, seen them all.”