And apparently, there was no amount of traumatic injury that could damage his sex drive where Rose was concerned. He went from feeling sorry for himself to basic bro in a split second.
“The bath is ready,” she said.
She looked shy, and for some reason, he found that even sexier.
That he knew she was strong, that he knew she was confident in about a thousand kind of ways, but that she was a little hesitant in this.
Hesitant, but still here. Hesitant, but still naked.
“Are you offering me pity sex?”
She lifted a bare shoulder. “I didn’t say you were getting sex.”
“That’s cold,” he said.
“I’d say it’s up to you to make it a certainty, wouldn’t you?”
“Are you asking me to seduce you?”
“Couldn’t hurt.”
“Well. Given my current physical state, it might. But I’m willing to take the risk.”
He set the food down and stood, making his way over to her. He started to wrap his arm around her waist, but she put her hand up, stopping him midmotion. She put her hand on his chest, letting her fingers drift down to the first closed button on his shirt.
She undid it slowly. Maddeningly slowly.
His whole body felt like it was on fire. He was pretty sure everything was still keyed up from that fall. Adrenaline mixed with pain. And the brush of her fingertips against his skin. Just a bit. Just enough...
It about set him off.
She undid the next button. Then the next, her eyes never leaving his.
And all he could do was watch. Because it was Rosie. His Rosie. The object of his fantasies. Everything had been so harsh and sharp and real that night they’d been together. It had been a fantasy. It had been the most incredible experience of his life. And he had been damn certain he had experienced it.
Still. This felt like something more. Something different.
Maybe it was because that first time she had come to him, and no matter how much she had told him otherwise, he had known that she didn’t know what she was getting herself into. And her reaction following it had only confirmed what he had been afraid of.
That she would find herself overwhelmed by it. By the connection between them. By everything. But she was back now. Even knowing how it was. And that was a hell of a thing.
She unbuttoned his shirt the rest of the way, then grabbed hold of either side of it, tugging him into the bathroom. She closed the door behind them. Locked it.
“We’re the only people here,” he said.
“My whole family lives on this ranch,” she whispered. “If anybody comes walking in for any reason...”
Point taken. While he was willing to defend what was happening between them if he had to, he didn’t exactly relish the idea of anyone catching them in the act.
He pushed that thought away, because it was enough to dampen a little bit of the arousal he was feeling. And he didn’t want anything to dampen it. Because it was just too damned good.
“Now,” he said, his voice getting rough, “you can drop that towel.”
“Can I?” she asked.
She pushed his shirt from his shoulders, and he let it drop to the floor. Then her face contorted. “Logan...”
“What?”
“You look like you got...well, you look like a tractor fell on you.”
“Funny story.”
Her fingertips traced over his pectoral muscle, down his stomach where he winced, and so did she, as she ran her fingertips over a visible, dark bruise that came up over the waistband of his jeans.
With her eyes on his, she started to undo his belt. This was an old dance for him. A woman taking his jeans off. But it felt new. With her. Felt like something else entirely. Something he’d never experienced before. He didn’t quite know what to do with that. Not even a little.
Because they weren’t just a woman’s hands. They were Rose’s hands. Because he was looking into Rose’s eyes. She was familiar, but this wasn’t. She mattered. This mattered. His Rosie.
She licked her lips as she undid the button on his jeans, as she lowered the zipper. His whole body tensed, and he grimaced. Then she pushed his jeans down his hips, and there was no hiding just how deeply she affected him. He was hard as iron, and it was obvious.
She leaned in, kissed his mouth. Her body wasn’t pressed against his, she held herself separate. And her kiss was soft, sweet. He would be tempted to call it innocent if she weren’t in a towel and he weren’t desperate to be inside of her.
Then she kissed his neck, and he shuddered. His chest. And she kept on going. Those soft lips pressing to every inch of his skin on down. Until she was on her knees in front of him, and he had to grip her hair to keep himself from falling over. She looked at him, her fingertips playing over that deep, purple bruise on his hip. “It could’ve been so much worse,” she whispered. She kissed him there. On that bruise. So close to where he ached for her, an ache that now surpassed any of the physical pain that he felt from his accident, and he nearly doubled over.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done,” she said, the words choked.
“What you always do,” he said, the words strangled. “Survived. Gotten on just fine.”
“You might get on after stuff like that happens,” she whispered. She looked up, from that position on the floor, and it was like a punch to the gut. “But you’re not the same. Not ever.”
“I don’t suppose.”
“And the hole is never filled.”
He swallowed hard. The idea that the loss of him might leave a hole in Rose’s life that could never be filled was one he both liked and disliked in near equal measure.
She kissed him again, close, but not close enough.
“Quit teasing,” he ground out.
“I haven’t kept you waiting long,” she responded.
“You kept me waiting
