“But I didn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I stood there with a gun in my hand and realized running never saved me. And now… I don’t want to leave you.”
His hand slides up to my jaw, into my hair, firm and careful.
“Good,” he says.
“I was scared,” I say. “For you.”
He stops, eyes narrowing. “For me?”
I nod. “Not for myself. I’ve had plenty of time over the past year to be scared for me.” My voice drops. “But you…”
I don’t finish because I don’t need to. He understands. I can see it in his eyes. “I told you I’d come back,” he says.
“I know.”
“And I always will,” he adds, voice dropping. “If that’s what you want.”
My chest tightens, something already breaking loose. We can never go back from this. Maybe I never want to. “That’s a dangerous promise.”
“Only if I don’t keep it.” His hand grips the back of my neck, pulling me closer. This time, there’s nothing tentative about it.
My hands flatten against his chest, savoring the heat of him, the strength, the steady beat of his heart.
“You should shower,” I say again. But it’s not a suggestion anymore.
His eyes drop to my mouth. “Come with me.”
My pulse spikes.
“Wife,” he adds with a teasing smile. Then, he turns, sliding his hand down my arm and tangling his fingers with mine.
He pauses for one moment, looking back over his shoulder, eyes fiery and passion-filled. “If this is what you want. If I’m what you want.”
“Yes, Donovan, you’re what I want. So is this.” It comes out like a sob because I finally let myself feel it—hope in something greater than the present moment or mere survival.
A smile crests his lips as he wheels back around, wrapping me in his arms. He tips me back for a deep, penetrating kiss.
And I remember it…“Love Me Tender” blaring. Elvis saying, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
“That’s how you did it last night,” I laugh, fighting for air when we finally part.
His face darkens, pupils blowing wide.
The tattoo on my finger no longer burns and aches. Now it feels right—just like being in Donovan’s arms.
The quiet guy. My guy.
The bathroom fills with steam fast. Hot water pounds against tile, the mirror fogging over. The world narrows down to heat and breath and proximity.
Quiet maybe, but he’s still not shy.
He reaches for his shirt, pauses, then looks at me. “You won’t be able to forget it this time,” the hunky firefighter says gruffly, cheeks warming.
“I could say the same to you,” I remind, devouring his sculpted torso and angular abs. His pants are slung low, a naughty V pointing down to a tease of dark blond hair that disappears beneath the fly of his pants.
