Wringing
excess water from my hair, I ease the shower door open and realize too late
that I left my towel on the other side of the room. Mouthing the word fuck, I step out onto the bathmat and
pad across the dark tile.
Halfway to
the sink, my wet foot skids, and I drop.
My ass
smacks against the floor, followed by my elbow. A blast of pain explodes at the
base of my spine and in my right arm. I yelp, the sound coming out loud enough
to shock me, and I’m the one who made it.
Footsteps
thunder down the hall. There’s no time, and I’m in far too much pain, to cover
myself before the door crashes open.
“Teagan,”
Jonah says, and I realize then and there that I’m in love with the sound of my
name on his tongue. He kneels beside me, his gaze wild with concern. “Did you
slip?”
“I forgot
my towel.” I wince as he lifts my arm to check my range of motion. My elbow
throbs, but my skin where he’s touching me feels...normal.
No, better
than normal. No shocks, no jolts. Just warm tingles.
“Can you
bend it?” he asks.
It hurts
like hell, but I can manage.
Jonah scans
me for further bruises, his gaze hitching on my mouth as my tongue slips out to
wet my lips. My pulse races. He looks down at my body and it’s like he’s just
now realizing that I’m naked.
I should be
nervous, but I’m not—not in the way most people would be if a stranger barged
in on them in the bathroom. I’m nervous because I like the way he’s looking at
me. Because I love the feel of his hands on my skin.
Jonah
brushes the wet hair from my cheek and leans forward as if he’s going to kiss
me. I hold my breath in anticipation, wondering if I’ll like it. Instead of
kissing my mouth, he kisses my forehead.
“Grab onto
me,” he says. I hook my good arm around his neck, as he wraps his strong arms
around me, lifting me like I weigh as much as a kitten.
It’s not
until we pass the door to the guestroom that I realize he’s bringing me to his
bedroom, full of his things. Where everything smells like him: men’s bar
soap and the subtle spice of his cologne. The bed he sets me down on is
enormous, fitted with dark-blue linens and a soft gray comforter that makes me
want to roll around like a cat in the sun.
“Don’t go
anywhere,” he says with a wink.
He
disappears into the attached bath and returns a few seconds later with a big
blue towel, which he wraps around my shoulders. I sit still and quiet as he
rubs me up and down. My clit tingles. Every swipe of the towel is a reminder of
all the ways I imagined Jonah touching me in the shower.
He kneels
on the floor in front of me, and he’s so damn tall that we’re still practically
eye level. The concern in his gaze makes me feel fragile and transparent like
glass. But there’s something behind the worry that makes my heart beat faster.
He begins drying my front body, starting with my face and working his way down.
I gasp as
his hands cup my breasts over the terrycloth.
His
expression doesn’t change. I can’t tell if he’s just trying to take care of me,
or if he’s as turned on by the situation as I am. Why can’t it be both?
Again, I’m struck by the image of myself in a frilly pink dress with Jonah’s
hand up my skirt.
My nipples
harden against his wide, calloused palms. It feels so good to be touched, so
good that I almost start crying. I’ve never wanted anyone to touch me like
this, and I can’t find the words to tell him not to stop. I inhale deeply,
puffing out my chest, hoping he’ll get the message. His thumbs circle my nipples
through the terrycloth.
“Does that
feel nice?” he asks.
I nod. The
tenderness in his gaze is quickly eclipsed by an intensity that makes my pussy
throb.
“And this?”
He squeezes gently. “How does this feel?”
“Good.” My
breasts aren’t huge, and they feel even smaller in his hands, but he doesn’t
seem to mind. If anything, his touch is too careful, like he’s afraid he’s
going to break me.
Slowly, he
works the towel down my chest and stomach. I hold my breath as he reaches my
belly button, waiting for him to slide lower, between my legs. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he dries my feet, one at a time, before working his way back up my
calves.
I’m
practically vibrating by the time he reaches my inner thighs.
“You’re an
angel, Teagan,” he says. “My angel. That means, from now on, you never have to
worry about feeling sad, or scared, or hungry.”
His words
sink in. I can’t stop the tears from welling at the corners of my eyes. Earlier
tonight, Jonah told me I was home, and as crazy as it sounds, I feel like he
meant it. I’m so used to running. So used to being bumped from place to place
that I don’t know how to stand still. Everything about Jonah feels solid and
permanent.
Have I
finally found something to hold onto?
