“Where are they? They’re supposed to be home by now.”
“Sent them to their friends’ house for the afternoon.”
I whirl around, clenching the towel in my hands. “You did?”
“Yep.”
“Why’d you do that?” I glance at the kitchen door and calculate how quickly I can make an exit, but I know it’s useless. Even recovering from an injury his speed is superhuman.
“So I could get you alone,” he says. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
I’d deny it, but I can’t even force the lie through my lips, so I bite them instead and keep washing the same spot on the counter until he pushes off the opposite side and comes to stand beside me.
“I’ve given you time. I thought maybe you were upset at me for not keeping you safe that day, but I don’t think that’s it.”
I can’t help it, I look up, my eyebrows drawn. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head, leaning an elbow and a hip against the counter. “No, I don’t.”
Ignoring the turn of the conversation, I skirt around him to go ahead and get started on a dinner I’ll likely burn, but he grabs ahold of my belt loop and spins me around until I’m facing him.
“Let me go, Jack,” I say in what I think of as a perfectly calm and reasonable tone. It’s the same one I’ve used on him every day since he got out of the hospital. The same one that convinced him to do his physical therapy and attend his doctor visits.
It was either stay calm and reasonable…or admit how close I was to almost losing him again.
“No,” he says, his voice mimicking mine.
I start to tug at my arm, but he is incredibly stronger than I am and he reels me into his chest despite my struggles. “I need to start dinner,” I say, growing a little more frantic now.
“I don’t think so,” he says.
“The boys will be home soon.” I nearly wince at the growing desperation that turns my voice reedy and thin.
“No, they won’t. They’re staying the night. Friend’s mom is going to bring them by tomorrow morning.”
I swallow against the growing lump in my throat. “Why would you do that?”
“Because you have nothing to be afraid of now.”
“I’m not afraid,” I say immediately.
He pulls me closer and I let him because I’m so damn tired I don’t have the strength to fight anymore. “You need to stop.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re blaming yourself,” he says. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that.”
“I don’t think you do. I think you’re working yourself to death here for me and the boys because you think you have to for some reason. To make up for being gone or to apologize for that sonuvabitch playing slice and dice with my leg, but neither of those things deserve your blame or your penance because neither of them were your fault.”
“I’m not—”
“Stop,” he says. “Just stop, baby. I can’t watch you punish yourself like this anymore. So do whatever you have to, blame me, hurt me, use me, whatever. Just take it out on me so we can move on.” He presses his cheek to mine. “I want my best friend back.”
The crack in his voice causes one to form in the wall I’d built to be strong for him and Rafe and Donnie after Damian attacked me again. I try to patch it up, try to calm my breathing and still the flow of tears, but they spill over and the wall comes crumbling down.
As I sob into his chest, he lifts me like a child and carries me to our room, laying me down on the bed and cocooning me with his body. The headboard rattles against the wall with the effort of grief I expend into his shirt. By the time the tears come to an end, my whole body feels numb.
He strokes feeling back into my back and arms with a heavy, soothing palm, resurrecting pleasure and passion like an artist creating a masterpiece. I press my forehead into his damp shirt and release a shuddering breath against his chest, the catch more from the growing yearning for him than any lingering emotion.
Going on instinct now, my hand that was balled against his chest moves lower to the hem of his T-shirt. I yank it up, needing to feel his skin, whole and well, with my fingers. A reassurance that goes deeper than reason. A light dusting of hair tickles my palm, sparking nerve endings to life. The heat I find trapped by the material of his shirt stokes the flame to a low burn.
His hand finds my own and he starts to push it down. “That’s not why I did this.”
I flip him on his back, catching him by surprise. The look on his face is worth the six weeks of intensive training I took in self defense. “I know you didn’t.”
“Not that I’m complaining,” he says.
My shirt lands somewhere behind me, followed by the lacey bra he likes so much. When all he can do is stare, I slide my hands up his abs, and his shirt joins mine. I lean down to kiss him, letting our bare chests touch, entice and incite. His hips arch up as he takes my lips in a kiss so ardent it borders on violence. I match him stroke for stroke, my hands above his head, my hips circling his lap.