I don't know how to respond to that, so I don't. Instead, I grab a glass from the cabinet and fill it with water. "Drink this. You're probably dehydrated."
She takes it, and I try not to watch her throat as she swallows. Try not to imagine my mouth there, tasting her pulse.
Failing spectacularly.
"Guest room's through there." I nod toward the hallway. "Bathroom's attached. There's towels in the closet if you want to shower. I'll find you something to sleep in."
"Okay." She sets down the empty glass. "Boone?"
"Yeah?"
"Will you stay close tonight? I don't want to be alone."
Fuck. How am I supposed to survive this?
"I'll be right across the hall," I promise. "You need anything, you just call out. I'm a light sleeper."
She steps forward and wraps her arms around my waist, pressing her face against my chest.
"Thank you," she whispers into my shirt. "Thank you for being my hero tonight."
I'm not a hero. Heroes don't get hard when the woman they're supposed to be protecting hugs them. Heroes don't feel her tits pressed against their stomach and must fight every instinct to grab her ass and pull her closer.
Heroes definitely don't imagine spinning her around, bending her over the kitchen counter, and showing her exactly what kind of man they really are.
But I wrap my arms around her anyway because the alternative is pushing her away, and I'm not that strong. My cock is fully hard now, pressing against my zipper, and I angle my hips back so she won't feel it.
"You're safe here," I tell her, keeping my voice steady through sheer force of will. "I promise."
She stays in my arms for another moment, then pulls back. When she looks up at me, her brown eyes are wet with unshed tears.
"I'm glad I called you," she says. "I'm glad it was you who came for me."
Me too. Even if it's torture. Even if I'll spend the rest of the night lying awake, aching, wanting things I have no right to want.
"Go shower," I say gently. "I'll leave clothes outside the door."
Chapter 3 - Nicole
I close the bathroom door and lean against it, heart racing, thighs pressed together because holy fuck, I am soaked.
My panties are literally glued to my pussy with my own wetness. I can feel it. Slick and hot and embarrassing. Can feel how swollen I am, how desperately I need friction.
Because I felt it. I know I felt it.
His cock. Hard. Pressing against me when I hugged him.
Or did I? Was it real? Am I so desperate and pathetic that I'm imagining things that aren't there?
God, I don't know. My brain is scrambled from fear and adrenaline and the sheer overwhelming reality of Boone Sullivan carrying me away from danger like some kind of romance novel hero. Of him holding my hand. Calling me sweetheart. Looking at me like—
Like what? Like he wanted to protect me? Yes. Like he wanted to fuck me?
That's wishful thinking. That's my stupid crush interpreting basic human decency as sexual interest because I'm so starved for this man's attention that I'll take anything I can get.
But his breathing got heavy in the truck. I noticed. And when he grabbed my waist to help me down, his hands lingered just a second too long. And when I hugged him, I swear to God I felt something hard against my stomach.
Unless it was his belt buckle. Or his phone. Or literally anything else my desperate brain is choosing to interpret as his dick because I want it so badly I can't think straight.
