“Freckles,” he growled, the warning clear.
“I had an accident in the parking lot at Target.”
“What kind of accident?”
I decided just to get it over with. “Attempted hit and run.”
“There isn’t a scratch on my truck,” he said, not really understanding what I meant.
“I wasn’t the one doing the hitting. I was the one doing the running.”
“Are you telling me someone tried to run you over with their car?”
“I’m fine,” I insisted.
“Why didn’t you call me!” he demanded.
“Because you were at work.”
“So?”
“So… I’m not going to come running to you every time something happens.”
“I take it you didn’t call the police either?” he said, his voice tight.
“No. I just wanted to come home.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s not very nice language.”
He barked a laugh and shook his head. “You are a walking magnet for trouble.”
“I didn’t ask you to deal with my trouble,” I snapped and then raced into the bathroom and shut myself in.
Tears burned the backs of my eyes and it made me angry. I would not cry. I was done crying.
I turned on the shower and then cracked the bathroom door, making sure he wasn’t standing outside, just waiting to yell at me again. He wasn’t, so I gathered all my things out of the bedroom and slipped back inside.
I kept the water at a lukewarm temperature; I found that hot water made me feel anxious these days—probably because of all the heat I endured in the fires. The memory of the last time I was in this shower seemed to be all I could think about.
The way his hands felt sliding over my damp skin. The way his fingers worked the shampoo through my hair and massaged the tension out of my scalp. My body began to ache for him in ways I’d never ached before. It wasn’t a bad ache, though; it was the kind of ache I didn’t want to go away—a deep unfurling desire that curled around beneath my skin.
I took my time washing and shaving. Thankfully, I didn’t need to wash my hair and I just let the bandages on my wrists get wet. They needed changed anyway.
Once I was done, I dried and peeled away the saturated bindings, taking care to dry the wounds thoroughly. Then I opened up the bottle of peaches-and-cream body lotion and applied it to my thirsty skin, minus my wrists.
I managed to wrangle my hair into a smooth side braid that fell over my shoulder, with wispy little waves falling around my face. The only makeup I bothered with was mascara for my light lashes and some peachy-pink lip-gloss. I dressed in my sole pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt that draped across my chest.
All my bandages for my wrists were in the kitchen, and as I left the bathroom, I hoped Holt had lost some of his anger.
He was standing in the living room, but he wasn’t alone. The police were here. They might as well just move in.
“Officers,” I said, stepping into the room. “Is this about the man in the BMW?”
“Yes, ma’am. We were just leaving. Mr. Arkain can fill you in.”
“You don’t want to question me?” Surprise filtered through me.
“No need at this time,” one of them replied as Holt showed them out.
He barely had the door closed when I started asking questions. “What did they say? Did they arrest that man?”
Holt strode across the room and swept me up against his chest. “I’m sorry.”
The words seemed to rumble right out of his chest.
“It’s okay.” My voice was terribly muffled against him, so I wasn’t sure if he even heard.
“It’s not your fault all this is happening. I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
I pulled away to get the bandages I needed. “I probably should have called you.”
He took them from me and motioned for me to sit down. At this point he was used to changing these bandages and he did it on autopilot, working quickly and smoothly. “You’re going to be an expert by the time these things are healed enough to be uncovered.”
“It’s not something I want to be an expert at,” he said sadly.
A heavy silence draped around us, kind of like a thick fog in the early morning hours. “You know what I think?”
“That I’m totally awesome?”
I snorted. “Besides that.”
“So you agree?”
I slapped his arm playfully. “No more talk about murder, car chases, or fire tonight.”
“Don’t you want to know what the cops said?”
“Not really.” I was beyond tired of thinking about it all.
“So what do you suggest?”
“Dinner. Normal conversation. Ice cream.”
“What about kissing?” he asked, tugging on the end of my braid.
Anticipation shot through me. “I like kissing.”
“Do you like touching?” he slid his hand up the inside of my jean-clad thigh.
“Do you?” I countered boldly, doing the same to his leg.
“Careful, sweetheart. If you want to make it out of this house, watch what you do with those fingers.”
Suddenly dinner didn’t seem that important. “I changed my mind.”
His fingers stilled where they rested on my leg. “About what?”
“I don’t really need dinner.” My fingers climbed a little higher. “Or conversation.”
He groaned and grabbed me by the waistband of my jeans and pulled me closer so I was caught between his legs.
“All I thought about today was last night,” he murmured, pulling my mouth down against his.
His tongue didn’t waste any time delving into my all-too-willing mouth and stroking against mine. Lazily, our tongues spun in a circle in a seductive little dance that shot little jots of thrill down into the nerves beneath my jeans.
The muscles in my vagina began to flex like they were preparing for something… or possibly inviting something.
“Holt,” I said breathless, a little bit of hesitation finding its way into the cloud of my desire.
“We’re not going to do anything you don’t want to do, Freckles.” His hands slid up to cup my face tenderly and his kiss became achingly gentle. It was his gentleness that made me feel bold.
I climbed into his lap, straddling his waist and pressing my chest to his. It was delicious, the way his body felt beneath mine, the way every part of me became sensitized and every touch rocked me to my core.