Chapter 15 Abby #2
I attempt a dismissive laugh to alleviate his concern. “I’m just being silly. It really was nothing.” I square my shoulders with considerable effort and summon up a smile. “I thought we were going out on a date?”
He fixes me with a disapproving frown, and my chest hollows out.
“Come on,” he prompts, wrapping his strong arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go into your place.”
“You really don’t have to take care of me.” I try to protest as he steers me out of the laundry room. The humid summer air is oddly cold against my sweat-slicked skin after the heat of the running dryers. “I’m fine.”
“I know I don’t have to, but I’m going to,” he counters.
“And don’t lie to me, Abigail. It’s okay to be disturbed by what happened in there.
That bastard shouldn’t have cornered you.
You were a woman alone in a small space with a much bigger man.
You don’t have to be proud around me and conceal your emotions.
” That shadow at his jaw flutters again. “Did he touch you?”
“No.” I soften on a sigh and lean into Dane, allowing myself the moment of weakness.
I’m so tired of holding myself together, and he’s refusing to allow me to pretend I’m fine. I don’t want to lie to Dane, even if I can’t tell him about the masked man’s attack. I can at least be honest with my emotions. I can be vulnerable with him.
He opens my unlocked front door, and his frown deepens. But he ushers me inside without admonishment.
“Ron didn’t touch me,” I say. “He just tried to help me fold my laundry. I told him I didn’t want his help, but he grabbed my shirt anyway. Thank you for getting it back from him.”
My arms are still locked around the rest of my clean clothes, holding them like a shield.
But I don’t need to shield myself from Dane.
When he steers me to the couch, I unlock my muscles and drop the laundry onto it. Then my knees finally fold, and I sink down onto the cushions beside my clothes.
He squeezes my shoulder, and my stomach flips. My fear responses are still on high alert, and I internally curse the warning flutter at the center of my chest.
I’m alone in my private space with Dane, but he’s not a threat. I’ve conditioned my body to have this thrilling response to his touch because of my fucked-up fantasies about him.
I take a breath and try to calm my racing heart.
“I’ll get you some water,” he says, and again, it’s not a question.
My place isn’t exactly difficult to navigate, so he has no trouble walking three paces to enter the cramped kitchen space. He manages to find my water glasses on the first try—there aren’t many cabinets to choose from—and makes quick work of filling one.
He returns to the couch and presses the cool glass into my colder hand before settling down beside me. The seat is so small that his hip brushes mine. I could move the laundry and scoot away from him, but I don’t want to put any distance between us.
His body heat pulses over me, chasing away the last of the chill that lingers in my flesh. I melt, my tense muscles easing as calm finally settles over me like a soft blanket on my shoulders.
Allowing Dane to take care of me feels almost euphoric after years of stubbornly making my own way.
A sense of lightness makes my bones feel almost hollow, as though I could soar like a bird.
I lean into my fierce protector, tentatively pressing my shoulder against his corded arm.
His hand comes up to cup the side of my head, and he gently urges me to tuck myself close to him.
My breaths slow to match the steady rise and fall of his chest, and his deft fingers trail through my hair in a soothing motion.
A sense of intimacy blossoms between us, and for a few blissful moments, my mind is utterly quiet. I can simply languor in this safe space with Dane, and I don’t have to feel guilty or weak for accepting his support.
He won’t allow me to refuse it, so I’m able to give myself permission to surrender, sinking into his strength.
“Is that the first time he’s harassed you?” he rumbles after I’ve taken a few sips of water.
“Who, Ron?” I ask on a sigh. I’m so comfortable and calm that an echo of my fear doesn’t so much as tingle up my spine. “That’s the first time I’ve met him. He said he’s moving into one of the apartments upstairs.”
He tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, and little sparks ping along my scalp in response to his tender touch.
“But it’s not the first time a man has harassed you.” He says it like a condemnation of all men, his voice dropping to a deep, disapproving register.
“No,” I agree softly. “It’s not the first time. I’m a woman.” That’s explanation enough, and he blows out a sigh so rough that it’s almost a growl.
I’m not ready to open up to him about my past trauma; I’m still trying to get a handle on my own physical responses, and I don’t want to scare him away with my baggage.
“But I can handle myself,” I assure him.
I want to stay in this quiet, safe space with him for a while longer without emotional upheaval.
“You don’t have to handle it alone,” he says with the weight of an oath. “Not when I’m around.”
My heart tugs with longing, but I know it’s foolish to become too attached to him so quickly. I’ve never been good at guarding my emotions.
“You didn’t have to tell Ron that you’re my boyfriend,” I murmur. “But thank you for coming to help me.”
Two fingers curl beneath my chin, and he guides my face to his so that I’m caught in his intense green stare.
“You have a rather bad habit of telling me what I don’t have to do,” he remarks, and his thumb traces the line of my lower lip. He speaks over my soft gasp of arousal at the tender touch. “I make my own choices, Abigail. You don’t need to protect me from them.”
“Sorry,” I breathe. “I don’t want to be controlling.”
I will never be like my mother. She controls everyone around her with cutting comments that she wields with the precision of a scalpel.
Dane releases a low chuckle, and his chest rumbles against my cheek. The sound vibrates into me and warms my flesh like a lover’s caress.
“You can’t control me, Abigail. No one does.” His voice drops deeper on the last, a private declaration that he’s spoken aloud.
An ocean separates us, and I prefer it that way.
I reach for him reflexively, drawn to connect with him on a deeper level as I recall what he said about his estrangement from his family. It’s something we have in common, and I crave to know more about my dashing hero.
Our fingers entwine, and he gives me a gentle squeeze.
“I like the way we fit together,” he remarks. “I particularly like the way you captured it in your painting.”
I realize that my painting of our date scene is still propped on my easel, and an intense sense of vulnerability knots my stomach.
“I didn’t think you’d see that,” I say quietly.
His eyes are green pools, drawing me in deep. “It’s stunning.”
He traces the line of my cheekbone, and my breath catches.
“You said I don’t have to tell people that I’m your boyfriend,” he says. “Do you want me to be?”
“We hardly know each other,” I try to protest, but the longing in my heart roughens the words.
His fingers slide into my hair in a gentle grip. “I don’t want to see anyone else. I only want you, Abigail.”