She was asleep before she could answer.
11
The first indication Sam had that Hannah had drifted off was the subtle lolling of her head to one side. The second was the way her hands floated up to the surface of the water. But the true-blue clincher was her snoring.
Hannah snores.
It wasn’t obnoxious or grating. It was soft and low, reminding him of the sound a contented cat made.
He snuggled her tighter, noting how small she felt in his arms. And yet, despite her smallness, she was solid. Not delicate and frail, but sturdy and compact.
When Shakespeare coined the phrase, “though she but little, she is fierce!” he was talking about a woman like Hannah.
Hannah who’d had enough courage to bust out of FBI custody. Hannah who hadn’t uttered a word of complaint even though he knew how badly she’d been hurting. Hannah who’s first thought after she’d beaten back the cold wasn’t herself but her best friend.
Before he could stop himself, he dropped a kiss on top of her head, breathing in that unique scent that would always remind him of her. It was citrusy and sweet, like orange blossoms mixed with warm vanilla.
When she’d been a girl, that smell had been overpowered by the scents of drugstore lip gloss and Noxzema cleansing cream. As a woman, it took center stage.
Using his foot beneath her heel, he carefully raised her injured toe out of the water and eyed the cut along the top of the tiny digit. Warm droplets ran from the wound, tinged faintly pink by her blood. But he was reassured the gash wasn’t deep enough to require stitches.
Settling against the slanted back of the tub once again, he let his head rest on the tile wall. Reality would force them to deal with the mess that was their current situation soon enough. For the moment, he was content to hold her while she slept.
Her short shirt had worked its way up her body, exposing her entire midriff. And he noticed two things. One, her belly button was a perfect oval. And two, tendrils of a tattoo snuck around her flanks.
What sort of ink did Hannah choose?he wondered.
She was girlie enough for flowers but countercultured enough for skulls and crossbones.
When she stirred, he thought she was waking up. But instead, she simply turned onto her side, her little hand coming up to pillow her cheek against his chest, her left leg settling over his right thigh.
He curved his hand around her hip to keep her from sliding down in the water. Since her wet pajama bottoms rode low on her frame, his thumb rested against the flesh of her side.
Before he knew it, he was rubbing his thumb in a circular motion, reveling in the velvety softness of her skin.
The water made it difficult to see, but when he tilted his head to the side, he could just make out the design of her tattoo. It was a garden scene, filled with colorful flowers, flitting butterflies, and the occasional honeybee.
It wasn’t made up of soft, fluffy blooms like roses or carnations, however. It was a garden of harsh, spiky flowers, like thistle and delphinium. The butterflies weren’t delicate and fluttery. They were highly stylized, partially mechanical, and totally badass.
It suited her, he decided. Captured her femininity as well as her rebellious side. And the flowing lines followed the contours of her body, emphasizing the dip of her waist and the flare of her hips.
She stirred again. This time snaking an arm around his neck and turning until they were breast to chest. When she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, her breath was warm and wet against his skin.
Unlike the last time she adjusted herself, this time he didn’t snuggle her close. Because unlike last time, this time he couldn’t deny the girl in his arms wasn’t a girl at all, but a full-grown woman with curves in all the right places.
His body responded by kicking up his heart rate and filling his cock with blood.
No.He closed his eyes and tried to forget what she looked like now. Picturing, instead, what she’d looked like at thirteen.
Butthatwas a mistake. Hecould notthink of a pubescent girl while sporting a hard-on.
She went and made everything worse—orbetter?—by snuggling closer and whispering his name in her sleep. “Sam.”
Against his will, his mind dredged up scenes from the dreams he’d been having. Dreams that saw her stretched out on a bed, beckoning him closer with the crook of a finger, or kneeling between his legs and staring up at him with a seductive expression hooding her big, dark eyes.
He always shook himself awake before the dreams could go further. Because how could he lust after the girl who’d scrunched up her nose while telling him boys were covered in cooties? The girl who’d come home from school after getting her first period to regale him with stories of the diaper-sized pads the school nurse kept on hand? The girl who was the baby sister of the woman who’d claimed his virginity?
Except…
