I wrap my arms around him and whisper, “I’m sorry about last night.”
“I’m not.” He ruffles my hair, his fingertips finding my scalp. “I like the idea of you taking care of yourself because of a kiss.”
I blush at the accurate assumption about what I did when I came back from the barn.
He told me to, after all.
So I did.
And it was wonderful.
But…
“It’s just not fair for me to take and not give.”
He lifts my chin so I’m forced to look at him. “You give me so much. I love your hungry gaze. Your eyes are always on me. But your hands are, too. I get your touch, Hope. You never miss a chance to move me out of your way, or touch my back as you slip past. And your hugs are so fucking sweet. Your kisses are…incredible.” He lowers his voice to the most private register. “Don’t think you’re depriving me of your touch just because it’s not on my cock yet.”
Yet.
Because we’re a foregone conclusion.
My head swims as I brush my lips against his jaw. “Will your mother notice if I slip downstairs tonight?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all.”
It feels important that we take advantage of what time we have left.
Before shit gets real.
Before we need to go full outlaw, maybe. Just in case.
All day, I’m on edge. Cash doesn’t send an alert. Zane would tell me if he did, and by dinner, Zane is still shaking his head when I look at him.
Putting Bellamy to bed, I feel removed from my body, like I’m watching myself go through the motions.
But I return to myself, sinking into every twitching, nervous cell of my body as I tiptoe downstairs once the house is quiet.
My pulse picks up, an excited smile curling my mouth as I turn at the bannister on the main level and keep descending. Baby monitor in hand. Doors locked, child asleep.
I haven’t come down here yet. I think I knew, deep down, that if I did, something significant would happen.
I wasn’t ready before. But I’m ready tonight.
In the lower level, a bright light glows from the open bathroom door. Right across from Zane's bedroom, where no light is on, but from the spilling illumination, I can make out that his bed is empty.
I turn toward the bathroom. The door is open.That’s a clear invitation to watch Zane, who’s standing at the sink.
Shirtless.
Hello, cowboy.
His face is covered in shaving cream, and he’s leaning forward, about to start shaving his cheek. Razor in hand, his brow is furrowed in concentration, and his eyes focus on the mirror.
My feet stop moving and my brain goes offline. Just—fully shuts down. No thoughts. No fear. There's nothing in my head but healthy appreciation for the broad, muscled expanse of his back and side. I’m close enough to see the shift of individual muscles when he moves, the faint constellation of freckles across his shoulders, the way his jeans hang low on his hips.
And then Zane's gaze flicks to me in the mirror. He smiles. “Come on in.”
Busted.
