He released his hold on her hand and trailed a broad fingertip up her arm. Before she knew it, her hands were moving, too. Covers still shielded him from her touch. Not that it mattered. Her hands still tingled from the heat of want. Nola squeezed, gently at first, watching his face for signs of pain, seeing none, then working with firmer pressure.
She slid her hands under the covers to his legs, finding bare skin. Warm flesh that sent prickles of awareness through her fingertips. Traveling higher, she met ridges of scar tissue that in no way detracted from the moment, only made him more human. More of a man, honed in the fiery trials of life. “I do understand your situation better than you can imagine.”
Now she realized the time had come for her to tell him about her injuries…her scars, external and deeper. For so long she hadn’t told people because it seemed none of their business, but perhaps she’d used that as an excuse to dodge thinking about what she’d been through.
It seemed the most natural thing in the world to say to Rick, “Before we go any further—and I believe we both know this is going further—there’s something you need to know.”
He eased back to look in her eyes. “Sheesh, lady, you sound so serious.”
She tried to offer him a smile. And failed.
“There’s no easy way to say it, so here goes.” She finally told him what she hadn’t told another man in bed. “I’m a breast cancer survivor.”
Chapter 8
Of all the things Rick had been expecting to hear from Nola, “breast cancer survivor” wouldn’t have even appeared on the list.
He had figured from her serious expression she wanted to share something big, but holy crap… Right now, he sure could use some of those psychologically sensitive and appropriate catch phrases. Because it was really important he say the right thing to this woman who’d said more right things to him than anyone in his life.
Rick rested a hand on her arm, keeping the touch simple, not certain if she wanted a full-out hug, deciding it was best to wait on that one rather than risk pushing too hard. “That’s quite a conversational jump, but thank you for trusting me.”
She kept massaging his legs and watching him through narrowed wary eyes. “Is that some kind of counseling talk from your rehab days?”
He offered her his best charming smile and hoped like hell his best was good enough. “I’m trying my ass off for the right reply here, lady.”
“How about quit trying and just say what you’re thinking.” She slid her hands from beneath the covers and folded them in her lap. “I really hate it when people treat me with antiseptic correctness. I’ve had more than a bellyful of that.”
“Now that, I can identify with. So what am I thinking?” He sat upright and took her hands in his. “I’m thinking you’re an even stronger and more amazing lady than I knew.”
She met his eyes dead on with a bravado that seemed a hint forced. “I’m also a lady who doesn’t look the same without her clothes as the last time you saw me.”
Okay, now he saw where this was leading a bit more clearly, and it also explained the mystery about differences in her figure. “You had a mastectomy.”
“Yes, a mastectomy, along with reconstruction, but I’m not the same.”
“Neither of us is.” And that was the God’s honest truth.
She avoided his eyes, her gaze skipping around and finally landing somewhere around the door—away from him. “That weekend we met, it was my last time before…”
Holy crap. No wonder she was eyeing the door. This was a heavy-duty admission that probably had her yearning to run. Or at least considering the possibility. The weight of what she’d shared settled over him heavier than any of these overstuffed comforters she seemed to prefer.
He’d been the last man she’d made love with before her mastectomy.
Along with the weight of that responsibility came an understanding of why she’d left so abruptly with no word five years ago. She could have told him and he would have tried to be understanding, but they hadn’t built any kind of relationship that would have called for him to stand by her side throughout. Yet he would have felt… Obligated? Yeah, definitely drawn at least to see her through the surgery and she would have hated that.
She’d used him…and he couldn’t blame her a bit.
He scavenged deep for something sensitive to say. “I’m honored that you chose me to be with that weekend.”
She stared at him, her body a sexy shadow in the moonlit room. She tugged her hands free and he wondered what her verdict would be on his attempt at sensitivity. Finally, she scooched to sit cross-legged, taking his feet into her lap and resuming her massage.
He exhaled. He must have passed her test. She may or may not be ready for sex, but she wasn’t running for the door.
He let her fingers soothe him, but his mind still hopped with thoughts about how this new information fit into the relationship they’d settled into, a relationship on the verge of changing.
Was he ready to sleep with her? Hell, yeah. But should he be having sexual thoughts when a woman just admitted something so darkly personal?
Still, she looked so right in his bed with her tousled blond curls, her long legs stretching from those shorts, legs he could already imagine wrapped around his waist.