Page 91 of Colt
He was quiet for a moment. “I killed people,” he said finally. “You know that.”
“I know.”
“I don’t feel bad about it.”
“I know that too.”
He tilted his head to look at me, water beading on his lashes. “Does that scare you? That I’m capable of it?”
I thought about it honestly. The man who had shown up to every school pickup without being asked. Who had taught Knox to tie his shoes with more patience than I’d managed in a year. Who had never once looked at me like I owed him something for the effort.
“No,” I said with a shrug. “You did what you had to do. To protect your family. To get justice for what they took from us.” I cupped water in my palm and rinsed the shampoo from his hair. “I can’t condemn you for that.”
“Some people would.”
“I’m not some people.” I looked at him steadily. “I’m your wife.”
Colt caught my wrist and pulled my hand to his lips. Pressed a kiss to my palm. His eyes didn’t leave mine. “I love you,” he said against my skin.
“I love you too.” I stood and reached for a towel. “Now get out before you fall asleep in there.”
He rose from the water, rivulets tracking down his chest, and I wrapped the towel around his waist. My hands were steadier now. He caught them anyway, holding them still for a moment against his stomach.
“You’ve been waiting here for me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t faster.”
“Don’t be.” I looked up at him. “I love you, Colt. The man who brings me flowers and the man who just—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to.
“Both versions,” he said.
“Both versions.” I stepped into him, pressing my face into the side of his neck, and stayed there. His arms came around me—still damp, warm now, solid. “I didn’t know what I’d do if you didn’t come back. I still don’t.”
“I came back.”
“I know.” I tilted my head up. “Now, take me to bed.”
He kissed me right there in the bathroom doorway, one hand cupping my jaw, and then we were moving—or he was moving me, steering me backward down the hall with his mouth still on mine and one hand at the small of my back.
Someone whistled.
Colt didn’t break the kiss. Didn’t even flinch. He raised one hand in a gesture that was probably rude and kept walking.
There was a laugh from somewhere near the kitchen. “Welcome home, VP.”
He walked me through his door and kicked it shut behind us.
He kissed me slowly at first, and then with the particular urgency of a man who has been keeping himself at a careful distance from everything he loves and finally doesn’t have to anymore. We moved toward the bed without separating, and when we fell together onto the mattress I felt the tension finally leave him.
He was careful with me—slower than I expected, more deliberate. Like he was memorizing something, taking inventory. His mouth at my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder. His hands unhurried despite the heat of them.
“You feel like home,” he said against my skin.
I pushed him onto his back.
He went without resistance, which told me everything—he wanted this, needed it, but the road was still in his bones and his arms had the particular heaviness of a man running on fumes and willpower. His eyes found mine in the low light. Dark. Wanting.
