His eyes turned dark and both corners of his mouth twitched. “Or I could just stay down here and have you for dinner.”
Sweet Lord have mercy. It was tempting.
I sat up far enough to catch his face, press a kiss to his forehead, and then I suggested in my most convincing tone a better solution. “Or maybe you feed me and then have me for dessert.”
“You drive a hard bargain,” he relented as he rose, naked and outrageously gorgeous.
I offered him not a lick of privacy as he bent to grab his pants from the ground. My gaze ate him up one inch at a time.
His abs rippled as he stepped into each leg and tugged them up over his gloriously hard ass. Focusing on the button of his jeans, he said, “You keep looking at me like that and, instead of feeding you, we’re going to be testing the payload of the bolts I used to hang that damn swing again.”
“What? It’s not my fault. I feel certain the other nerds do not know you are working with that.” I circled my finger in the air, pointing to the bulge tenting the front of his pants. Clearly, I was the only one not quite ready for round two.
A devilish smile played at his lips. “I’ll go lock the dogs up. Give me two minutes and you can come in and get cleaned up.” He found the remote beside me and tossed it onto my lap. “Put the game on.”
Neither of us wasted any time. In a matter of about twenty minutes, we were eating the most flavorful brats and loaded baked potatoes while slugging back beers as Boston showed our bullpen who was boss.
I didn’t even care.
The game was a lost cause by the time he took my plate and empty bottle inside with his and returned looking hungrier than before we’d eaten. He kissed up and down my neck while I typed out a quick message to Aaron, letting him know I wouldn’t be home, using some lame excuse about having a girls’ night out with Amber and some of her college friends. He’d see right through it, but at least he wouldn’t worry until I could fill him in on all things Bowen Michaels.
“You ready to go inside? I’ll give you the grand tour of the bedroom,” Bowen asked, nipping at my ear.
“Mmm,” I hummed, threading my fingers into the top of his hair. “Maybe.”
“Maybe? What else could you possibly need right now?” He grinned. “Water?” After clicking the TV off, he sat up, shoved an arm under my legs, and scooped me up in one fluid movement. “An after-dinner mint?” Barefooted, he cocked an eyebrow and carried me inside the house. “Does my clumsy girl need to stretch first?”
I laughed and rested my head against his chest, his thin, dark hair tickling my cheek. “I’m good.”
He smiled wolfishly. “I think I can make you better.”
And dear God, better was exactly what he gave me. For hours, he worked my body, alternating between worshipping me and driving me to the point of insanity. By the time it was all said and done, there wasn’t a part of my body he hadn’t touched—or that I wouldn’t spend the entirety of the night hoping he’d touch again. I was going to be exhausted at work the next day, but that was a small price to pay when he curled behind me, cocooning me in the safety of his arms.
Falling asleep, sore, sated, and breathless, I felt something new in my heart. Something peaceful and complete.
Bowen Michaels might have thought he’d failed at love before, but he was healing me with it now.
Remi
“Nice job,” my physical therapist, John, praised as I collapsed flat onto the mat.
Cradling my shoulder, I mumbled, “Didn’t feel nice.”
He laughed and nudged me with the toe of his sneaker. “Maybe not now, but you’ll thank me one day. You’re only stuck with me for a few more weeks, right?”
“Yep. I’m counting down the days. Not that I don’t enjoy your company. It’s just…” I gingerly sat up and curled my tired arms to my chest. They felt like noodles that had been cooked too long. “Nope. I lied. That’s exactly what it is.”
He barked a laugh and walked toward his next client, calling out, “Ah, quit your complaining. I’ll see you next week.”
I groaned at the thought. Before the crash, I had been no stranger to the gym. Though I had always been more of a cardio girl with the occasional weights thrown in. I still ran when I had the chance, but after I’d spent eight weeks with both arms in casts, physical therapy was a different kind of beast altogether.
“You looked good today,” Ms. Linda said, standing over me, extending a water bottle in my direction. In her mid-sixties, she was something of the grandmother at Atlanta PT. Though she didn’t look like any grandmother I knew. Tall and lean, with thick, rich auburn hair and gorgeous green eyes, she was easily one of my favorite people at the physical therapy center—though John didn’t exactly give her much competition.
