I huffed a laugh, but it caught in my throat when he kissed me, slow and sure, then tugged my lower lip gently between his teeth.
Heat pooled between my legs.
“And your mouth.” He kissed the corner of it, then a line to my jaw. “Your hair.” His fingers threaded through the strands. “Your neck.” He pressed a kiss to my pulse point, and my breath hitched.
“And this.” His mouth drifted lower, and I squirmed as his hand slid between my legs. I let out a helpless sound.
“That,” he murmured in satisfaction. “I love that sound. I love how you react to me.” His fingers kept working, steady and relentless, until I was right on the edge again. He leaned into my ear. “Come for me, Harper.”
I obeyed, buckling against his hand as the orgasm rolled through me.
When it passed, I lay beneath him panting, and he kissed me again, softer this time. “You’re beautiful, Harper Adams. Don’t you ever doubt that’s what I see.”
I blinked up at him, caught off guard at the intensity of his gaze. “You really believe that.”
“I won’t lie to you,” he said. “Not about something that matters this much.”
I released a short, bitter laugh. “About my beauty?”
“No.” His eyes held mine. “How I feel about you.”
My face heated. He was more open than I’d expected, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I pushed on his chest. “Now your steak is even colder, and steak’s never good heated in a microwave.”
He lifted a brow. “Who said there’s a microwave in this dump?”
I burst out laughing, and he grinned back.
I wanted to bottle this moment up and tuck it away for later. I wasn’t sure what was in our future, but I suspected once we started digging into this case, we wouldn’t find many quiet moments.
“Fine,” I said. “Then I’ll heat your steak up in a skillet, assuming we’ve got one, and a stove that won’t burst into flames.”
I pushed at his chest and started to get up, but he caught my wrist. “It isn’t your job to wait on me.”
I snorted. “I should hope not. But if I’m heating up mine, then I can heat yours too.”
I slipped free and headed to the bathroom, hoping he didn’t follow. I needed a minute—or twenty—to get myself together.
Whatever this was with James … it was getting real, and I didn’t know how to handle that. I’d gotten good at running whenever things started to get real. But I didn’t want to run from him, and that was what scared me most.
When I came out, he was in the kitchen, standing in front of the stove. He’d found a skillet and was heating up the steaks and the green bean sides.
“James, I was going to do that.”
“I’m not an invalid.”
“I know.”
“I need to start doing more. I’m tired of sitting around.”
I braced a hand on the back of a kitchen chair. “If you do too much, you’ll slow your recovery, not help it.”
He glanced over his shoulder, his mouth set in a hard line. “We’ve sat around too long. We need to take the offensive.”
Relief flickered through me, but I suspected our versions of offensive didn’t match.
“I’m glad you agree. I made a few phone calls while I was out.”
He turned fully, eyes going sharp. “Who did you call?”
