Chapter 10
FRANKIE
Frankie woke to a heavy arm draped over her chest. She blinked at the arm, studying the coarse hair and the small nicks of old scars across the back of his hand, trying to piece together how she got there.
Memories of her and Stone in his bed flooded back like a beautiful dream .
. . except she didn’t do beautiful dreams.
Especially lately, when what little sleep she had was filled with nightmares.
Her bare back was flush against his warm chest, and his steady breathing tickled the nape of her neck. Sunlight still filtered in from the crack in the curtains.
Is it the same day?
Or . . . shit, did we both sleep through the night?
She hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, much less in his arms like some romance novel heroine.
She had never done that before. Not once. Sex, sure. But staying afterward? Hell no.
And we’re spooning, for God’s sake.
Must’ve been the exhaustion, she told herself. The anger, and all that stupid sobbing she had done, and the adrenaline crash. The stress of the past weeks had finally caught up to her.
She should extract herself from his embrace, get dressed, and reestablish some boundaries.
That was what the practical voice in her head said, and the words carried her father’s unmistakable tone.
“Don’t get attached. Men like him won’t stick around.
You want a keeper, Frankie-girl. You deserve that. ”
But her body wasn’t cooperating with her brain. Every muscle felt loose, unwound in ways she couldn’t remember experiencing. Like someone had finally located the pressure valve she’d been hanging onto and released months of accumulated tension from between her shoulder blades.
She’d had one-night stands before. No, not even a whole night. She never stayed. Those men provided a service. They satisfied her physical need, and afterward, she always returned home alone. That was the way she liked it.
But none of them had been as incredible as Stone, or as skilled as him.
He connected with her on a level that bypassed her usual defenses. Holy hell, did he know how to make her body sing. She’d really let down her guard, stripped herself bare in ways that went beyond the physical, and she had absolutely no idea what to do with him now.
The tools in her mental workshop didn’t include equipment for handling this kind of situation.
“What are you thinking?”
She jolted, shifting away from him. “Nothing.”
“Frankie, your thoughts are churning so hard I can practically smell them burning.”
She rolled onto her back so she could see him. His face was half-shadowed in the afternoon light, but her breath caught at the way Stone was watching her, with that same razor-sharp intensity that had first drawn her to him. Like she was a blueprint he was memorizing line by line.
“What are you thinking?” she countered, deflecting.
“I can’t think. Not after . . . that.” He wriggled his brows suggestively.
Fighting the smile tugging at her lips, she shifted back an inch and stretched her arms above her head, then blinked up at him. “Yeah, surprised me too.”
He smirked. “Partners, right?”
She gave him a flat look. “You’re gonna quote me on that now?”
“Damn right. You said it first.”
She rolled her eyes, but the hardness was gone. A softness had taken its place. Trust, maybe. Or the beginnings of it. She barely knew this man, yet she was already lowering defenses that had taken a lifetime to build. Her father would have called her careless. She called it terrifying.
With a grunt that wasn’t entirely from pain, she swung her legs off the bed.
“I need a shower.” As she padded away, feeling the weight of his gaze on her bare skin, she called over her shoulder, “I know you’re checking out my ass.”
“Yep. Guilty as charged.” His voice carried no apology whatsoever.
She snorted, shaking her head as she closed the bathroom door behind her. Never before had she liked a man checking her out. With Stone it was different. Somehow, he seemed to truly see her. All of her.
She felt like some lovesick teenager with her first crush, and she wanted to slap herself.
Frankie, you’d better pull yourself together, or you’re going to get yourself into trouble. And you sure as shit don’t need any more of that right now.
She turned the shower handle until steam billowed up, then stepped under the spray, letting it hammer against her shoulders.
Her body still hummed from his touch. Places she hadn’t known could feel pleasure now ached pleasantly.
She ran her hands over her skin, remembering how his fingers had cruised over her body, how he’d sucked her breasts, how she’d completely shattered under his touch.
How he’d watched her face while he was inside her, like he was studying a precious gem.
She’d never allowed that before, being seen that way. Sex had always been with the lights out, quick and efficient, a physical release and nothing more.
She shut off the water before her thoughts could spiral further, toweled herself dry, and realized she’d left her backpack out by the kitchen. She wrapped the towel around herself, tucking the corner securely between her breasts.
Telling herself there was no point in overthinking what had already happened, she strolled from his bathroom.
In the kitchen, Stone was shirtless, standing at the stove.
He looked natural, moving with the casual confidence of a man who knew exactly what his body could do.
Hot damn, he’s incredible.
He spun to her, egg flipper in hand, his gaze sweeping over her body with such intensity that her insides tingled.
Clearing her throat, she tightened her grip on the towel. “That smells delicious.”
“Nothing fancy, steak and eggs, but it’s nearly done. Want another coffee? You take it black, right?”
This after-sex casualness was freaking her out. How could he be so calm when every nerve in her body was lighting up like a blow torch? She gathered her black T-shirt from the back of the dining chair. He must have collected it from the floor for her.
“Black coffee is fine. I’m not fussy.”
“Copy that.” He turned back to the stove, and she admired the planes of his broad back.
An angry red scar crossed his left shoulder blade, the one she’d traced with her fingertips while they were naked. What had caused that? A car crash? A bullet? The scar tissue was messy, too, and she doubted that it had been treated very well.
She knew so little about him. The man who’d just been inside her was mostly a stranger.
Was he military? Mercenary? DEA? He was something, that was for sure.
Or at least, he used to be. The way he took down Weasel without hesitation, the way ‘copy that’ rolled off his tongue .
. . did civilians even use terms like that?
He still hadn’t answered why he was at her oil rig. She needed to pick up that conversation again, and this time, she wouldn’t let him charm his way out of it with those stunning blue eyes or clever hands.
She grabbed her backpack, and in his bedroom she changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Back in the kitchen, she jumped up to sit on the counter. While he cooked, she swung her legs, trying to ignore the pulsing bruise on her ankle that had deepened to an ugly purple-black.
He shut off the gas and turned to her with an intensity in his eyes that stole her breath. Then a cheeky smirk crossed his lips.
“What?” she blurted.
“Now that you’ve finished attacking me, I’ll bandage that ankle of yours.” He pulled a chair in front of her and sat down, so his gaze was at her knee height. He took her injured foot gently in his hands.
“Attacking you?” She chuckled.
“In the nicest of ways, of course.” From the first aid kit still on the counter, he pulled out a new bandage, tore away the plastic wrapper with his teeth, and plucked out a tube of anti-inflammatory gel.
After examining the swelling and bruise again, he applied the gel with calloused fingertips that somehow felt impossibly gentle against her skin.
The care in his movements made her heart skip a beat.
She’d had plenty of injuries in her life: burns from welding sparks, countless cuts and bruises from life on the rig.
She’d even been bitten by an eel, but no one had tended to her wounds like this.
Even her father had always been gruff, treating her injuries like inconvenient interruptions to his day.
Stone wrapped the bandage around her ankle with precision, taking care not to make it too tight. He worked with the same confidence he’d shown when touching other parts of her body.
Jesus, Frankie, focus.
“How’d you learn how to do that?” she asked. “In the military?”
He glanced up at her, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’re fishing.”
“Yeah actually, I am. So, are you military?”
“Nope.”
“Stone. Tell me.” She nudged his shoulder with her good foot, not willing to let him off the hook this time.
“You really should see a doctor,” he said, changing the subject as he secured the wrap with a small metal clip.
“I’m fine.”
“I know you will be.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers. “But sometimes we all need a little help.”
He stood, and as he put away the first aid kit, his comment settled somewhere uncomfortably in her chest. She wasn’t used to accepting help. Wasn’t used to needing it. She had nearly always flown solo, just like her father had taught her.
This partner thing was messing with her brain.
Then again . . .
“Well then, partner, speaking of help, you can help me by telling me what you were doing on the oil rig.”
“Okay.” He plucked two plates from a shelf.
“Okay? Just like that?” She narrowed her eyes, suspicious of his sudden willingness. “I’m listening.”
“First, we eat.” He dished out two meals and picked up the plates. “Need help getting down?”