There should be a waiting period.
A recovery window.
A sensible gap between terror and wanting.
My body did not get the memo.
I make myself reach for the soap.
For a few minutes, I do what I came in here to do. I wash the blood from my wrists, the dirt from my knees, the streak near my elbow. I scrub gently at the places that feel bruised, careful with skin that already feels too sensitive. Shampoo smells like cedar and something clean, masculine, Ace, and that is its own kind of problem.
I should feel better.
I do.
A little.
Then I close my eyes, and there he is.
Broad shoulders under black leather. Green eyes finding mine in the dark. His body moving in front of mine like the decision had already been made before either of us existed.
“You shot at her.”
His voice in that clearing had been low.
Certain.
Possessive in a way I should probably examine with a clear head and a therapist.
I do not have either.
I have steam, trembling knees, and the memory of his mouth on mine.
My fingers touch my lips.
Bad idea.
The kiss comes back all at once. His palm at my cheek. The warmth of his mouth. The restraint in him, like he wanted to take and chose to ask instead.
That is what undoes me most.
The choice.
Mine.
His.
The way he stopped even though I could feel how much he wanted me.
The shower water trails down my chest, my stomach, over skin that suddenly feels too sensitive. I am clean now. The blood is gone. The dirt is gone.
The need is still there.
My hand drifts lower.
I freeze.
“Oh my God,” I whisper to absolutely no one.
