I sink down and bury myself back under the covers. The pain is still excruciating but knowing Hunter will be here soon weirdly relieves some of the tension. My mind drifts again, this time recalling his magical touch and the hardness of his body against mine. He kissed like I expected him too. Hard, demanding with a slight edge but I never anticipated melting like one of those heroines on the front of old romance novels.
A touch to my shoulder jars me back to reality. I must have dozed off. I drag open my eyes and Hunter’s face floats in front of me. “You came.”
His brow is furrowed and there’s extra scruff on his chin. If I was well enough, I’d reach out and touch it. “What’s going on, princess? Are you sick? Do you need to go to hospital?” He puts a palm to my head and I flinch before sinking against the comforting warmth of its coarseness. “You don’t look so good, Jess.”
“I have a migraine.” Do I sound as pathetic as I feel? “I haven’t got any pills. I’m sorry, you didn’t need to—”
“It’s okay, sweets.”
Tears singe my eyelids. His soft tone works inside, loosening my composure and a tear escapes. He sweeps it up with a finger and bundles me into his arms. My head pounds with the movement but once I’m burrowed against that strong chest, I can almost forget about it. I grip his T-shirt and the scent of his leather jacket adds to my comfort. I can’t recall the last time someone held me.
Hunter’s heart beats steadily against my ear. He feels so vital and warm. I spread my palm over his top and luxuriate in the taut muscle beneath it. God, even with a migraine I’m turned on by him. Already, flickers of heat are kindling low in my stomach.
He mutters to me. Shushing me and telling me everything will be okay. It won’t. How can it be when I’m always going to be hiding from my past? But for now I’m too weak to even consider that. All I want to do is enjoy the comfort even if it’s just for a day. I almost smile when I reflect on who is comforting me. You wouldn’t think this man had such a soft side—not when you see his scruffy chin, bad boy clothing and the hard glint in his eyes.
“Will you be okay if I leave you for a moment to get some painkillers?” he asks softly, one hand stroking my hair.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He separates us and eases me back down. When he tucks me in, I feel like a child again. I remember my mother putting me to bed, though the memories are hazy, as my parents were killed in a car crash when I was eight. My aunt was kind enough but once I got older and she got married, everything changed. Even my ex-boyfriend had no sympathy for my migraines. I should have known he was a jerk when he told me to get over it and stop being a drama queen.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I long for him to brush a kiss across my hair, which is insane. I barely know the guy. One kiss hardly constitutes a relationship. But I want his touch nonetheless.
However, I feel him stand and no kiss comes. I keep my eyes closed and scarcely dare to breathe. I think he watches me for a moment before leaving. The door shuts but I can’t bring myself to open my eyes. The pain bangs behind my eyelids. I don’t even manage to fall asleep again while he’s gone and anticipation stirs in my veins.
I’m making a mistake here, surely, but I’m hungry for his touch. This migraine has lowered my defences and I’m more vulnerable than ever. It’s probably been brought on by stress—as usual—and I can’t help feel on the edge of something. Like my life is about to twist and buckle under the pressure once again and everything will fly out into the open. I’ll have to pack up and start all over again. Which is precisely why I can’t let Hunter into my life.
I grip my pillow and bury my head further into it. I’m an idiot. I obviously haven’t learned anything from those couple of years ago. I’ll just take the pills, thank him so much for his help and send him on his way. After all, what’s the point in going to such lengths to separate myself from the past if I’m going to get involved with someone who I will eventually have to reveal the truth to?
***
Hunter
Painkillers in hand—the strongest ones I could buy—I press open the door to Jess’s apartment and grimace. The place is tidy but it’s a dump. The tiny living area houses a threadbare couch which is probably older than the one at my house with a ghastly brown and white seventies’ print on it. The walls are a pale green and flaking. A small kitchenette sits to one side with a petite fridge tucked under one of the cabinets. They look like they belong in the seventies too.
I shake my head. I’m willing to be she’s renting it furnished. Is it a show? I can’t imagine the woman her stepfather described living like this. Greedy, manipulative people don’t change and they don’t let themselves suffer. I’ve seen my fair share of criminals and con artists. Jess goes against every stereotype.