So I pull off him and sit back on my heels, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Tanner reaches out, gently caressing the side of my face as we stare at each other for a minute. A broad grin crosses my face, and when he sees it, he chuckles.
“Someone’s feeling pretty proud of himself,” he teases.
I shrug my one good shoulder. “Maybe,” I say nonchalantly, but I can’t hold back my grin.
He chuckles again. “Come up here. I need to kiss you,” he says, and I do as he asks. When our mouths meet, he sweeps his tongue into my mouth and lets out a groan.
“Fuuuck. I can taste myself on you. That’s so goddamn hot,” he says, pulling me down again, and I smile, because it really is.
We sit side by side on the couch for a few minutes before he turns his head to look at me, without lifting it from where it’s resting on the back of the couch.
“That was amazing. Thank you.” His eyes are heavy, and that sense of pride fills my chest again. He feels good because of me. I made him feel that way. I love it.
“I loved it too,” I reply truthfully.
He reaches for my hand and laces our fingers together as he slides his head over so it’s resting on my good shoulder.
Chapter 17
Louis
The storm exhausted itself overnight, or maybe it needed a time-out, I don’t know. But when I blink my eyes open, the only sounds are the heavy, rhythmicwhooshof the ocean below us and the softer sound of Tanner’s breathing beside me.
We came to bed shortly after I blew him in front of the fire, like we’re two characters in a romance novel or some shit. But if I’m being honest, it was pretty fucking amazing, even if it was corny as hell.
Getting ready for bed together was surprisingly not weird at all. Tanner, being the perfectionist he is, insisted on returning the favor when we got into bed, and it was utterly amazing, the same way it was the first two times he did it to me. I have no idea why things feel so different with him, but for some reason, theydo. I have no idea what I’m going to do about it, but I’m very deliberately not thinking about that right now.
He’s tucked into my side, his arm draped over my waist, carefully avoiding my bad shoulder even while he’s sleeping. It seems like it should feel strange to me, simply because we’re close to the same size, and I’m so used to women being so much smaller. But I like it. I like how he matches me, his hard muscles and long, slightly furry limbs. In fact, the only thing I don’t love about being cuddled up to him is his body temperature. The man is a furnace. For a guy who always appears so emotionally cool, his body heat is off the charts.
I lie there for a minute, staring at the cedar-paneled ceiling and enjoying the sensation of being here. My shoulder is a dull, manageable ache, like an annoying noise at low volume. I can ignore it, for the most part. But for the first time in months, the crushing weight ofwhat comes nextisn’t pressing down on my lungs.
Tanner shifts, letting out a sleepy groan.
“Morning,” I rasp, my voice thick with sleep.
“Mmmph,” he replies eloquently, tightening his arm around me for a second before he’s fully conscious. But then his “Tanner Sinclair, Serious Professional” programming boots up, and he pulls away to stretch. Strangely, I miss his body heat pressed up against me.
I roll over to face him carefully, wincing as the movement pulls at my injury. His hair is sticking up in three different directions, and his face is creased with pillow marks. He looks younger. Softer.
“Coffee?” I ask.
He quirks his mouth into a cute smile. “Is that a question or a promise?”
“It’s a necessity.”
His smile grows into a sleepy grin. He’s not fully awake yet, so he seems less guarded than normal. My heart does a little flip in my chest. “Okay. I’m cooking breakfast though. I’ve seen you try to crack eggs one-handed. It’s a tragedy.”
We roll out of bed, and an hour later, after a delicious breakfast of bacon and eggs and perfectly brewed coffee, all prepared with healthy team effort, we’re outside for a walk. We head along the edge of the cliff toward the weathered wood staircase leading down to the beach. The path is narrow, worn into the tough beach grass by hotel guests, and the air is cold and full of the sharp scent of sea salt and wet pine trees. The sky is a heavy slate gray, but every so often, there’s a rip in the cloud cover, letting a shaft of sunlight stab down onto the ocean, turning it from dark gray into hammered silver.
It’s breathtaking.
“How do you think the healing is going?” Tanner asks. He’s walking on my right side, subconsciously positioning himself between me and the drop-off, even though the path is plenty wide enough to be safe.
“Good,” I say, and I mean it. “I can feel it getting better and better every week.”
He nods, his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, while he looks out to sea. His eyes are constantly scanning the horizon like he’s analyzing what he sees: tracking the swell of the waves or the flight path of a seagull, but the tension in his jaw is gone.
“So,” I say, kicking a small pinecone off the path. “This is better than watching tape in the video room, right?”
