“I am breathing.”
“Slower.”
I tried.
Locke tightened his hold on me. “Deeper.”
Like that helped, but I made an attempt to obey him, because Ilikedit when he told me to do shit. The freaky authority he seemed to have over me.
The earthy timbre of his voice.
His unrelenting touch.
Also, he was right. I wasn’t fucking breathing—not really. Not until I was, and the fog in my head began to clear.
Locke rubbed my back. “There it is.”
There it was. My head had found its way to his shoulder. I left it there for long minutes.
Then I missed his face.
Those eyes.
I made myself look at him and ignore the tiny split in his eyebrow. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
Confusion flickered in Locke’s gaze. “For what?”
“Everything. All of it. The shit never stops coming, does it?”
“That’s the life.” Locke went back to skating his warm palm over my taut muscles, soothing the tension with every stroke. “And none of it is your fuckin’ fault.”
“Last night was my fault.”
“You’re blaming yourself for sleepwalking?”
“Who else would I blame?”
“The cunts that fucked with your family.”
“All right. I’m sorry I kept you up. How’s that?”
“Unnecessary. I’m glad I was there.”
“Why?”
“Cos I care about you, and thinking about you going through that alone makes me want to break stuff.”
Locke wasn’t a violent man. He fought like an ancient warrior, all brawn and big fists, and he was fucking good at it. But he was better atthis—the softer stuff that turned my limbs to mush.
“I’m sorry about this morning too.”
Locke’s touch faltered, slowing, then slipping away, leaving me grieving the loss.
“I don’t mean for rubbing my dick all over you.”
He nodded slowly. “I know.”
“Unless I fucked that up too.”
