Page 98 of The Path to Loving Him
And here I thought I was never having sex again.
“Uh, excuse me,” I say as I try to squirm away. “You’re kind of invading my privacy.”
His eyes meet mine again, giving me aget reallook. “Gabby, I’ve been between your legs in a much more intimate way. I just want to see what we’re dealing with.”
“Wearen’t dealing with anything. I am. So please just leave my inner thighs alone.” I attempt to squirm away from him, but he holds me in place.
“Stop, you’re going to make it worse.”
“Ryland, I can’t just stay seated.”
“I know, but let me at least look at your legs.”
“Why? They’re red, nothing else.”
He grows angrier. “Stop being difficult.” Then he pushes my legs apart again and lowers himself down. Dear God, if anyone saw us, they would think Ryland is getting geared up to . . . well, go down.
“Your legs do not look good. Let me text Abel.”
“You don’t need to text Abel,” I say. “And why would you even text him in the first place?” Thankfully, he lets go of my legs.
“He’s a doctor.”
Not caring that he’s getting paint on his phone, he texts away while I glance around, taking in the chaos. Ryland took the brunt of the paint, but there’s some splattered on the grass, some on the fence, and quite a bit on the ladder. What a disaster.
When he’s done, I say, “I’m sorry about the mess.”
“No need to be sorry,” he says, then stands and starts picking everything up.
“I can do that,” I say as I go to stand, but he whips around and looks at me with daggers in his eyes.
“Don’t even fucking think about it,” he says in such a deathly tone that it keeps me seated.
I watch him carry the ladder, paint pan, brush, and paint can over to the dugout, where he sets them down. He must get a text back because he checks his phone. He quickly types something else, then brings his phone to his ear. Turning away, I can hear him talking to someone, but I can’t make out what he says. When he hangs up, he sticks his phone back in his pocket and walks toward me with determination in every step.
His pecs bounce with his stride.
His eyes are set on me.
His arms flex as he gets closer, and when he squats down in front of me, only to slip his arms around my shoulders and under my legs, I can’t even ask him what he’s doing before he picks me up and stands . . . with ease.
He picked me up from the ground and stood as if I weighed nothing.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Carrying you to my truck to take you back to your apartment.”
“Oh my God, Ryland. It’s not that serious. I can drive home.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t want your legs rubbing together. Abel is bringing over some arnica gel and said he would look at the burns.”
“This is getting out of hand. Seriously, it’s not that severe.” I attempt to wiggle, but when my legs touch, I nearly scream.
Okay, maybe he has a small point.
“Did that hurt?” he asks, clearly to try to prove a point.
“Actually, it felt great.”
