“Are you okay?” I ask softly.
He shakes his head, his jaw ticking with restraint. “No. I’m not.”
“I’m fine. I promise. Look.” I wiggle my toes and flex my fingers around his hip. “Everything still works.”
“You don’t understand.” His voice is quiet, but the weight of it presses down on me. “It could’ve been so much worse. You don’t even realize how much worse it could’ve been, Rosie. But I do. I’ve seen it. People falling into frozen lakes, their bodies pulled out hours later, frozen solid. Dead. I shouldn’t have brought you out there to skate. I shouldn’t have been so reckless with your safety.”
The ache and pain in his voice makes my chest hurt.
“You’re right. Itcould’vebeen worse. But it wasn’t. And I wasn’t scared. Not for a second.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “You should’ve been.”
I reach up, resting my palm against his jaw, my thumb brushing along the rough line of stubble there. It isn’t lost on me that in the span of just a few months, I’ve moved past feeling awkward and shy, to feeling comfortable lying in bed and bathing with him.
Boone makes me feel that way. He makes me feelsafe.
“Maybe I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t because I knew you’d get me out. I trust you.”
“You put too much trust in me,” he growls, his voice breaking at the edges.
“Maybe,” I admit again, though my voice trails off.
Maybe I am putting too much trust in what's between us because it was never supposed to be more. My heart aches because I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to turn this weekend around. I don’t know how to show Boone that I’m fine.
Tomorrow morning, he’ll leave. He’ll spend the whole day with Cain working on the case, and these final hours of the night—this fragile moment that we’re sharing together—are all I have left.
Hours spent hiding under the veil we’ve woven. The lies we’ve told ourselves about what this is, and all this can be.
My hands trail down over the dark hair on his chest, slow, reverent, feeling the strength beneath my palms. Gone are the insecurities that used to creep in, the ones that whispered about him being a professional athlete, about me somehow coming up short in comparison.
When I’m with Boone, those thoughts don’t stand a chance.
I feel precious. Not fragile but chosen. I feel desired. I feel appreciated. I feel like a woman in his hands, in the way his body responds to mine, in the way his attention never wavers.
Maybe nothing more will come of this. Maybe this is all it’s allowed to be. But tonight, I want him to feel it—to understand how much I appreciate what he’s unlocked inside me. What he’s shown me I’m capable of feeling.
I let my fingers drift lower. When I reach his belly button, his hand darts out, capturing my wrist in a firm grip to stop me.
“What are you doing, Rosie?” His voice is rough, a warning and a plea all at once.
I look up at him, mustering every ounce of boldness I can, trying to channel the confidence he’s always made me feel when he looks at me like I’m something extraordinary and special to him.
“I want you, Boone.”
His eyes narrow, scrutinizing me, but he doesn’t let go of my wrist. I tug gently, trying to guide my hand lower, desperate to touch what I already feel pressing hard and hot against my stomach.
"Why?" his voice deepens. “Whydo you want me?”
“Because…” I pause, steadying myself, my heart racing with the truth I’m about to admit. “You make me feel desirable.”
“You were always desirable,” he says, his tone softening just slightly.
I nod, knowing he’s probably right, I just hadn't been able to see it for myself until now. “And you showed me that. You gave me the confidence to see it. And I like myself better...”With you.
His grip slackens just a little and it’s enough for my hand to slip lower. When my fingers wrap around his bare shaft he draws in a sharp breath.
“Rosie.”
