“I could just go, you know.”
“But you won’t. You need to rest. Take it easy.”
“No,” he pressed. “Ineedto get my strength back.”
I couldn’t argue with that point, but I had no idea what his doctor and physical therapist had cleared him for and, knowing the extent of his injury, I doubted running was on the table quiet yet.
“I don’t want or need an escort.”
“Fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll make you a deal then. A compromise.”
I raised a brow. “I’m listening.”
“You can use the gym in the basement. Then you still get your exercise, and I can keep an eye on you.”
“Why would you need to keep an eye on me?”
His mouth opened and closed a few times, as though he was searching for a proper response.
“I…” he started, but trailed off, clearly unable to come up with anything good to say.
I narrowed my eyes. Something was going on here—something he hadn’t told me about.
“Lane,” I said firmly before repeating my question. “Whywould you need to keep an eye on me? Is it Ryan? Is he actually not dead?”
He sighed, scrubbing his hand down his face, his neck, over his chest where it came to rest over his heart—covering the skin that had regenerated over his bullet wound.
For the first time, I noticed he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Shit.
My brain short-circuited, mouth going dry like I’d never evenheardthe word water, because, respectfully,what the fuck?
At twenty, Lane had been muscular in a way that boys that age were, especially ones who’d been athletic in high school and mostly kept up with their fitness after graduation. Back then, I knew a lot of his motivation had been to stay in good shape for his future career in law enforcement.
Over the years since we broke up, I’d recognized in the most detached, abstract way possible, that he’d gotten bigger. Wider, bulkier, his shirts barely able to contain his biceps, the legs and seat of his pants straining against the thick muscles of his thighs and ass.
Seeing it all on display now, coupled with the seemingly thousand more tattoos he had compared to back then?
I was in serious trouble.
I couldn’t drag my eyes away, couldn’t avert my gaze from the ink that covered damn near every inch of available skin from neck to the waistband—thevery lowwaistband—of his grey sweats. My eyes drank him in hungrily, dragging over the swirls, shapes, words, and other tiny details I’d never fully understand unless I asked.
And I found myselfwantingto. What were the meanings behind all of them? Did they have meanings at all? How many did he have? Had they hurt?
Would they be raised against my touch? Could I read his ink with my fingertips like a blind person read braille?
Lane cleared his throat, and my eyes snapped to his, finding them twinkling with delight, a smirk playing at his gorgeous, full mouth.
“You keep looking at me like that, sunny, and we’re going to have problems.”
“What kind?” I asked dazedly in a breathy whisper.
“Big ones.”
My eyes dropped to his crotch, then my feet, and my cheeks instantly heated. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“No apologies necessary,” he said, tone sounding like he was deeply enjoying this. “It’s yours if you want it.”
