With a grunt, I fell back, a boneless heap of well-used man. Emma kissed my mouth lightly, then eased off the bed and got a cool washcloth. I closed my eyes and lay compliant as she carefully cleaned me. The tenderness of her touch threatened to shatter what was left of me, and I swallowed convulsively, unable to open my eyes.

Cassandra had fussed over me, sure, but she’d never really seen the true me in all my imperfect, humble glory. Deep down, I knew that. I liked that. It felt safe. Easy. Nothing about Emma felt safe or easy. She knew me in a way no one else did. And still she was here, caring for me.

The covers stirred as she got back into bed, resting her head close to mine. “Better?”

Was I better? My migraine had dissolved with the rest of me. But was I better? No. I was in true danger of losing my heart and soul entirely. As I drifted off to sleep, one thought held firm: the prospect of giving this woman the fractured pieces of me was terrifying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lucian

I woke weak but pain-free. Emma had effectively handled that. Part of me wondered if I had dreamed it. But as I was naked, my balls and abs tender with a satisfied ache, I knew it was real. She’d done that for me. Touched me with a greediness that had me coming far too soon. Touched me with a gentleness that wrapped itself around my heart and squeezed tight.

So tight it hurt. It was uncomfortable, this feeling—this exposure—like a scab picked too soon. Sprawled on my bed, I stared up at the ceiling, willing my body and brain to come back online and get a move on.

Emma wasn’t next to me. I couldn’t recall her getting up, but I’d been out of it, falling into the best sleep I’d had in ages. Sounds came from beyond the drawn curtains that separated my bedroom from the rest of the house. A little frisson of alarm went through me; she was in the kitchen. The woman was a right menace in the kitchen.

Grunting, I hauled myself upright and out of bed. It took a second for the room to settle, and then, with the gait of an old man, I walked to the bathroom. I might have retired because of concussion syndrome, but the truth was my body, like many of my teammates’, had taken a beating over the years. Physical aches and pains liked to make themselves known when I woke up.

Right now, I felt the old twinges in my left knee, the zings of protest along my back and right shoulder. But these pains were good; they reminded me that I was alive. Stinking and sore, I took a hot shower, scrubbing away the remnants of the migraine. The sun was already low in the sky, a whole day lost to pain and sleep. Not the way I’d wanted to spend it.

While Emma’s mouth had been a benediction, fucking glorious—a fever dream—I wanted to please her. Taste her. Take her. Not lie there helpless and needy. I’d make it up to her.

After toweling off, I slipped on a pair of shorts and padded out to the main room. My gait faltered at the sight of her standing in front of my stove. She hadn’t yet seen me but hummed under her breath as she stirred a pot of what smelled like leftover tomato soup. Dressed in one of my T-shirts that ended midthigh, leaving the rest of her curvy legs bare, she took my breath, made my heartbeat wild and erratic.

I rubbed my chest, half convinced I was having an attack. But it was her. Just her. Heating up soup. This woman had the potential to turn my life on its head. Hell, she already was.

As if hearing my internal panic, she turned my way. A brilliant, happy smile speared me, dead center of my drum-tight chest. “Hey. You’re up! I’m heating some soup.” She chuckled, the sound tickling my skin. “And stating the obvious.”

All that tightness melted like buttercream over warm cake. I struggled not to sigh like a besotted fool. But I probably failed, because her happy smile returned, wider now, like she was excited to see me. My body felt lanky—awkward, even—as I went to greet her, sliding my hand to the back of her slim neck before ducking down to kiss that pretty pink mouth.

She tasted like lemonade and Emma, a flavor I couldn’t break down but that was fast becoming my favorite. She hummed with pleasure as I drew away with a last lingering nuzzle.

“I’m starved,” I told her hoarsely. I was starved for her. And she knew it. Her face was far too expressive. On myself, I’d consider that a liability, but with Emma, I craved watching her, figuring out what she was thinking just by the way the delicate curves of her face moved.

Tags: Kristen Callihan Romance
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