Her sweet, musky scent, almost like honey, but better—way better—folded around him like a celestial pair of wings. The scent of her entered his nose and flowed into his lungs, then out to his extremities, spreading a cooling wave of solace that he wanted to savor but couldn’t. Not with her perched behind him, waiting for him to drive down the road.
He placed her hand against his stomach, pressed it tightly to him. His abdominal muscles twitched under her touch.
“Hold on.” He let go of her hand, and she slid her other arm around his waist. She pressed her front to his back, holding as tightly to his body as she’d held his hand. She was a clingy little thing. Not that he minded. Her touch felt like—what was the word he wanted to use—kismet. Exactly as he’d always imagined a lover’s touch. Two pieces fitting together perfectly.
He kicked the machine into gear, trying to ease it forward instead of moving with his normal burst of speed. She rested her head on his spine, nestling her cheek across the fabric of his shirt before settling.
His heart grew, straining against his chest wall, threatening to come up his throat in a shout of absolute ecstasy.
*
Lathan eased the Fat Bob next to his back porch steps and cut the engine. The woman’s tenacious grip around his waist had never faltered. He felt another bout of shivers roll over her. Those sinful shorts of hers pushed the boundaries of decency and definitely weren’t seasonal for November in Ohio, especially not for riding on the back of a motorcycle.
He waited for her to loosen her hold. She didn’t. “Honey.” He didn’t know her name, but the endearment belonged to her better than any name he could imagine. “You can get off now.”
Immediately, she released him and climbed off the bike. That was good, but a woolly mammoth–sized problem remained—how to snap her out of her emotional free fall. He set the kickstand and got off the bike. She hovered close like she expected Junior to materialize at any moment.
Anger at Junior—at what he’d done to her, at what he had wanted to do to her again—heated Lathan’s blood, singeing his veins and arteries. He clenched his fists tight, popped each of his knuckles, and wished his hands were wrapped around Junior’s throat. “You don’t have to worry about Junior. You’re safe with me.”
She latched onto his hand again, squirming her fingers between his gloved ones.
He squeezed her hand to reinforce his words.
She squeezed back, and some of the anxiety in her eyes eased.
Damn. He liked her touching him.
“So…” Jesus, what was he supposed to say? His mind tornadoed around in his skull, looking for words. He walked up the steps and turned to see her. The back-porch light cast a warm glow across her skin, giving her a heartier color than she naturally possessed. The mass of her hair, so perfect before the ride, now sagged precariously close to her ear. Wispy tendrils had escaped, shooting out at awkward angles around her head. She didn’t look one millimeter less beautiful. “I built the place myself. It’s not fancy, but it’s mine.”
She didn’t say anything, but her gaze darted around, taking in the wide porch spanning the entire length of his house and the small yard that ended abruptly in a thick screen of trees and underbrush.
He led her into his home. With no hesitation, she followed him across the threshold. She had to be way the fuck out of it to have no anxiety about this situation. Not only was he a stranger to her, but he was a big man. His size alone intimated most people. Add on his face tattoo, and most everyone avoided him. He guided her through the wide-open kitchen to the living room.
“I don’t normally have company.” He sniffed the air, making certain Little Man hadn’t found a dead animal in the woods and dragged it through the dog door. Again. “You sit and rest. I’ll get a bandage for your elbow, and then we’ll figure things out.”
She let go of him and sat on his sofa. Stared at her lap.
He immediately missed her touch. Her mouth moved, but the angle was wrong for him to see her lips. He picked up the erratic sounds of speech.
She looked up. Desperation lit her eyes. “…I sleep.”
What could she have possibly said that ended in I sleep? Her emotional scents were all over the universe—no help at all. Without the context of the entire sentence, he couldn’t even be sure he’d read I sleep correctly. He knelt at eye level with her and covered her hands with his.
“Honey.”
She stared into his eyes—his eyes, not the image on his cheek. Heat flared up his neck and onto his face. She looked at him—saw him, the real him. How did she do it?
“I’ve got a favor to ask. When you talk to me, look me in the face.” He should explain, but he wasn’t going to. “Please.”
“I’ll be better after I sleep. I always am.”
The sounds and sight of her speech matched perfectly, but he still wasn’t certain what she meant. “You want to take a nap?”
“I have to.”
The seriousness of her gaze worried him. “You have to?”
“I’ll be better after… I promise.”
Huh? Maybe she knocked her head when she fell. No, she had landed on her ass and elbows. “Ohh-kaay…” He drew the word out, showing his confusion.
She shifted her legs up onto the couch, laid her head on the arm, and heaved a deep breath. Her eyelids fluttered shut. He waited for them to open again, but they didn’t. The tangled scent of her emotions faded, and her honeyed scent signature intensified, enveloping him in a vaporous caress. Only one thing magnified a person’s scent signature. Sleep. She’d been trying to tell him she felt the adrenaline crash coming on. Damn. It had hit her hard.
He should go into the kitchen, make himself a peanut butter sandwich, a steaming pot of coffee, a large helping of rational behavior. Instead, he ass-planted on the opposite end of the couch, submitting to the urge to watch over her, to make sure nothing bad happened to her.
She frowned in her sleep. Shifted. Straightened out her legs until her feet ran into his thigh. She inhaled a slow breath, her expression settling, as if touching him soothed her. It sure as hell felt good to him.