Chapter 16 #3
“Is it poisoned? Is this the part where you kill me and bury me in the backyard with the other victims?” I asked.
He didn’t entertain that comment, eyes remaining on his reading.
“Since when do we have wine, anyway?” I continued.
A wolfish grin graced his side profile this time. “I’ve been saving it for emergencies,” he said in a cool tone.
I sighed, dropping the clothes in the middle of the floor with little ceremony and grabbing the glass in both hands.
“This seemed like an emergency,” he added.
I tilted the glass, and the cool, tart wine washed over my tastebuds.
Swallowing, I sighed with exaggerated pleasure.
The tart grapefruit taste unlocked every tense muscle, and I felt my spine lengthen and relax on cue.
I surrendered to the delicious, cold Sauvignon Blanc as it coated my throat like a caress. Oh, how I’d missed you.
Refusing to relinquish my grasp on the glass, I kicked off my boots, letting them land with a thud on the floor beside the clothes, flinging dirt and mud around the entry floor.
Not my problem. Not today.
I tiptoed over the mess, across the room, and took the chair opposite Gray, humming as I sat. I kept my sandy feet on the floor instead of tucking them up under me like I normally do. Once they were dry, I’d brush off the remaining dirt and then I could curl up.
My hair, still wet and cold, felt tangled when I raked my fingers through it a few times. I kept working at it between sips, leaning back once I’d done my best to avoid a future bird’s nest. My body felt mostly clean again, sore but acceptable.
One more big gulp, and I drained the glass, setting it on the side table with a satisfied clunk as though to say, “Bartender, pour me another.”
Gray got up soon after, moved around the kitchen, then returned and sat. I heard the clink of a wine bottle touching glass, along with the gurgle of liquid filling my cup. Cracking an eye open, I saw him set the bottle down beside my fresh serving.
In his other hand, he casually held a jar and a wet towel. I tilted my head up to take in the contents of the jar. Something white and speckled filled it.
“Lotion,” he said, tilting the jar so I could see a handwritten label stating that fact on the lid.
He knelt before me.
Drawing a sharp breath, I pushed back into the chair, trying to create distance. I watched, like a scared puppy, as he reached for my leg, fingers circling my ankle and lifting my foot off the ground. I let him, but not without an attempt at refusal.
“What are you doing?” I snapped.
He tilted his head up, a smug certainty in his eyes as his rough hand brushed up my smooth calf, making goosebumps erupt across my thigh and eliciting a tingle between my legs. “Calm down, tiger,” he said. “You don’t have to bite my head off. I’m just getting the sand off your feet.”
While I wanted to keep rejecting him, and knew I should, I was too exhausted.
He balled the towel and brushed the sand from my feet, wiping away any residual smudges of dirt.
Satisfied, he flung the towel over his shoulder and reached for the jar.
With a practiced twist, he spun off the lid, and the scent of lavender blossomed in the air.
He scooped out a dollop, warming it in his hands before returning to my leg, starting at the back of my knee and working his way down my calf, massaging it into my skin.
His thumbs pressed into muscles I didn’t realize were tight, working out the knots and sending me into a state of both bliss and turmoil.
This was supposed to be the part where I said no; my mind screamed it, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words.
The lotion’s fragrance mingled with the cabin’s wood smoke and cedar aromas, further silencing that inner voice. As his thumb traced down the muscles in my shin, I groaned, but stifled the sound with another sip of wine.
He cleared his throat, and when I looked down at him, he was staring up at me, cheeks flushed above his beard.
I averted my gaze. Shit, had he heard that?
“Better?” he asked.
God, he was getting to me. I didn’t like it. He couldn’t win, not after all he’d done. I clenched my teeth, determined to keep any further sounds of pleasure to myself. I shut my eyes again and tuned him out.
I heard the lid twist back onto the jar sometime later, and his presence stepped away, leaving me buzzing and alone. I didn’t dare to move. My senses were heightened and out of my control. I feared what they might do and what mistakes they would make.
From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of a beer can snapping open, followed by a pour as it filled a glass. Did he always put his beer in a glass? Or was he trying to be more refined around me?
Personally, I hated beer from a can.
He came back, and a frosty pint of beer appeared on the table next to my glass of wine.
The perfect picture. He knelt before me again, confusing me until I saw him unfold a fresh pair of long socks.
He carefully pulled one onto each of my feet, knuckles trailing my skin as they unfolded up my leg and over my knee before stopping.
They were a luscious pair of knee-high wool socks, and they immediately made my feet and bare legs feel warm and snug.
He rose, his giant form looming over me briefly before he stepped back. His face sat in shadow, and I couldn’t make out his expression as he let a gentle sigh escape. It sounded full of contentment, and he picked up his beer.
He raised the glass to his lips and approached the window, taking a sip and gazing out at the darkening landscape, not saying another word as we settled into the night.