Page 38 of Love What's Left
“I’ll try not to hurt you. If I tug too hard, tell me,” he murmurs, then presses my hand to his thigh, “or give me a swat if it’s hard to talk.”
Liquid heat rises inside me at the feel of those hard muscles surrounding me. My insides clench. An image pops into my mind. A sweaty, naked vision. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a fantasy, but this isn’t the time for my libido to wake up.
It requires more effort than it should to drag my attention back to our actual task and not run my hand over him in possessive exploration.
Don’t be a damn pervert, Sydney.He’s brushing your hair, not seducing you.
“He’s your husband. He probably wants you to touch him,”the devil on my shoulder argues in response.
My mind may be lost and confused, but my vagina, apparently, doesn’t care about pesky things like remembering his first name or the details of our marriage. Which is absolutely bonkers when I may need to run from him, sooner, rather than later.
A different kind of heat, one far less pleasant, flushes through me when I think of the way I lost control earlier. It was more terrifying than anything that’s happened since I first woke to this beautiful stranger bathing me.
I gave him, and myself, at least one bruise, and I barely remember doing it.
McRae sprays a section of my hair, then brushes it, working his way from the bottom up. I want to ask him how he knows to do that, but my raw throat and frustration with my uncooperative mouth keep me silent.
”I used to do this for you before bed sometimes,” he says conversationally. “You didn’t need it, but you liked it, and I loved it.”
The words alter my perception, my unease at being perceived as a burden easing slightly.
Closing my eyes, I sink into the feel of his care. As a child, I had short hair because I had to be able to wash and brush it myself. As a teenager, I let it grow in and watched online videos to learn how to care for and style it. Aside from a once or twice yearly trip to a salon as a teenager, no one ever did it for me.
In my first placement after Dad died, I missed him so much that I tried to snuggle against my foster father to watch TV. The man pushed me away so hard I landed on the floor. He told his wife he wasn’t comfortable with someone with “those kinda issues” in the house. Then he gave me a stern lecture about getting too close to men and not to let anyone in a foster home touch me.
So I went to a new place and I remembered.
All of my memories from the age of eight onward include a type of emotional and tactile starvation I’d never have been able to name.
McRae makes me feel the way I did when I finally allowed myself those first mouthfuls of applesauce. I want to devour his easy affection with dog-hungry gulps, but my heart cramps at the deluge. It’s too much and not enough all at the same time. And, beneath it, lurks my fear that his affection isn’t what it seems. Or, worse, that he needs protection fromme.
His gentle strokes lull me into drowsiness. This day was exhausting, despite me taking a long nap. My tangled hair takes a long time, but he doesn’t yank or grow impatient.
When I slump, he eases me against his chest. I turn my head to the side and let my eyelids drift shut as he continues.
I doze against him until he shifts behind me, moving subtly away. It’s too late; I already felt the hard length of his erection against me.
McRae leaves the bed and returns the brush and spray to the bathroom. I climb under the covers and watch him through the open doorway. When he returns and nears the bed, I slam my eyes closed and stop breathing.
Habit.
Instinct.
His fingers brush carefully across the crest of my cheekbone. The clean, masculine scent of him speaks to a part of me I don’t recognize.
He’s mine. The thought isn’t gentle or nice. It’s that of a guard dog ready to maul anyone who would hurt him or threaten to take him from me.
“Sweet dreams,” he murmurs.
I inhale and open my eyes. “Good night. Thank you.”
“Always.”
“No sex. Stay on your side,” I say, unsure if I’m warning him or myself.
He nods gravely. “I will.”
When he slides under the covers, the expanse of the king-sized bed between us, and snaps off the nightstand lamp, beautiful, blessed darkness descends. He tosses a few times to get comfortable.
