“In detail, please.”
“Shithead asshole fucker.”
“I heard that.”
“I meant for you to.”
His fingers trailed along the collar of the T-shirt I wore. “Why are you wearing clothes?”
“Do you not remember my father and his girlfriend are here?”
“Do I care?”
“Why are you so mean to me?”
“Me? Whose fault is it I can’t give you orgasms?”
“Stop talking.”
“I thought you wanted to know about Cricket?”
“You’re doing that on purpose.”
“What?”
“That voice.”
“What about it?”
“It does things to me.”
“Like what?” He toyed with a lock of my hair.
“Why did you say that to me?” Why the hell hadn’t I thought before I spoke? I wasn’t ready for this conversation. Apparently, my mouth didn’t get the memo.
“Say what?”
“You love me,” I blurted. A wave of nausea jolted me. Damn it. If I threw up, it was going to hurt. That might be better than hearing his answer.
“It just came out.”
Yep. Throwing up would be better.
“You didn’t mean it.” The attempt to keep my voice devoid of emotion was an epic fail. Every bit of the disappointment I had no right to feel came through.
The bed dipped. Dim light illuminated the room. Patrick rolled over, his expression solemn.
“I meant it.”
My chest seized. Which was worse? When I thought he didn’t or knowing he did?
“Don’t expect me to.” Was it possible to punch myself in the face?
To his credit, he masked the flash of hurt pretty well. But I felt it.
“I wouldn’t dare.”
The room went dark once more. I reached for him, but lost my courage and dropped my arm.
“Did you get Cricket out of jail?”
“She’s back at the shelter, but honestly, I think she’ll disappear.”
“After all Mrs. Quinn and Trish have done for her?”
He heaved out a long breath. “She didn’t say a word the entire time.”
“Is she guilty?”
“It looks bad.”
“Are you going to defend her?”
“What choice do I have?” He sounded tired.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”
“She’s been there before. I’ve seen people who haven’t. Any time in jail shakes them.”
“You didn’t want to defend another guilty person.”
“I was done after Abraham.”
“You’re sure he’s guilty?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Guess if you doubt, you can make a jury do the same.”
“If he hurt that little girl, I don’t want them to.”
“What if he didn’t?”
“I need to find the person who did.”
I rolled toward him. Sharp pain exploded from my back, but I fought through it, managing to get my arm around his torso and my head on his chest.
“Wicked, you’ll hurt yourself,” he said, even as he slipped an arm around me.
“I haven’t been able to get comfortable all night. Figured I’d try this.”
He kissed the top of my head. I burrowed against him, the pain already marginalized a fraction.
“All I wanted to do was get home.”
I wrinkled my nose in an effort to stop the tears, thankful the lights were off.
“Why?” That wasn’t what I meant to say.
“This. Right here. When it’s just me and you.”
“I—”
“Don’t. Let me have my moment.”
I dug my fingers into his side. “I need this too.”
Exhaustion pulled me under, so I escaped the aftermath of my confession.
“What the hell?”
I paused mid-limp to the bathroom. My back felt like the muscles were being squeezed by an iron fist. But I had places to be.
“Am I not allowed in the bathroom?”
I resumed my trek, each step excruciating.
“No. You are not.” Patrick dropped the tray of food on the bed. “Why are you up?”
“When did you become a nag?”
“Is the pain making you insane?”
“You are.” I shut the door in his face.
He promptly opened it. “Don’t ever close me out.”
“Is that any way to speak to the injured?” I hobbled over to the toilet. What if I just went in the shower? Then I wouldn’t have to sit down and stand up.
“Would it kill you not to be so stubborn for one day?”
“Did anyone say you have to be here?” I dropped my underwear and looked for something to hold on to.
“I thought you did this on purpose so I’d have to wait on you hand and foot.” He planted his hands on my waist and eased me down to the toilet.
“A little privacy please.”
“What are you doing, Wicked?” He perched against the doorframe of the water closet, arms folded over his chest.
“I have things to do. Will you turn on the shower? The hot water might help.”
With reluctance, he did as I asked. “Don’t get up,” he called.
I kicked my panties off of my ankles and waited. He started when he found me still sitting on the toilet.
“I can do as I’m told,” I said saucily.
“Miracles never cease.” He slid his arms under my armpits and easily lifted.
I turned to flush the toilet, and my back screamed in pain.
“I’ll get it.” He steered me out to the shower and peeled my shirt over my head. “You need to bring your own stuff over here. Then you wouldn’t always have to be wearing mine.”
“You like it.”
“So do you.” He held open the glass door for me, and steam hit my face.
I closed my eyes as the water hit my back, loosening some of the muscles.
“Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?” Patrick stood close, eyes heavy lidded as he looked at me. His cock was hard, the head an angry purple. I pressed my thighs together.
“You know I can’t do anything about that?” My voice was breathy, desperate even, as need coiled in my center.
He fingered the elastic holding up my hair. “Want me to wash it?”
“Please.”
When he loosened the tie, my hair fell down my back. He guided me farther under the spray. I moaned when he massaged shampoo in my scalp. His erection poked my stomach. Automatically, I reached for it, wrapping my fingers around the thickness.
His movement halted. “Wicked.” He began to lather my hair once again, his movement jerky when I fisted his length. “You’ll hurt yourself.”
“It hurts worse not to touch you.”
“Why can’t I say no to you?”
“Why don’t you stop talking so I can enjoy
