Chapter 26 #2
He set me gently on the counter, his hands steady at my waist before sliding away. For a moment, I just stared at him, breath caught, the quiet between us louder than my heart hammering in my chest.
His jaw flexed. “You didn’t know what you were doing. I should’ve never let that happen. You could’ve—”
“Stop,” I whispered, lifting my hand to his face. “I’m fine. It’s just a scrape. Nothing happened.”
For a moment, he just looked at me—his jaw tight, his eyes shadowed, like he didn’t quite believe me. Then, without a word, he turned away, reaching into the cabinet for the first-aid kit.
The snap of the latch sounded too loud in the small space. He pulled out an antiseptic wipe, his movements steady but clipped, like he was holding himself together by a thread. The cool sting hit my skin a moment later, painful enough to make me hiss, and I pulled back instinctively.
“Easy,” he murmured, his hand firm on my ankle, grounding me in place. His gaze flicked to mine, softer now but no less intense. “Just let me take care of you.”
Something in the way he said the words made me unravel. The fight drained out of me, leaving only an ache in my chest. I swallowed hard, my voice almost breaking.
“I’m not sure I know how to do that.”
The truth of it hollowed out my chest, because how could I?
I’d been taking care of myself my entire life—patching my own wounds, fixing my own messes, stitching myself back together in the dark where no one could see.
Relying on someone else… letting someone else hold even a corner of the weight I carried…
I didn’t have a blueprint for that.
His eyes searched mine, and for a heartbeat, the air between us seemed to still—like the world outside had gone quiet just so I could hear the sound of my own pulse. His hand gentled against my shin, fingertips brushing feather-light as if he wanted me to believe him through touch alone.
“You don’t have to know,” he said finally, voice rough but steady. “Just… try.”
The air shifted, humming with something I couldn’t name. We weren’t just talking about my cut anymore, and we both knew it.
His fingers softened, and his touch became careful––like I was something he was afraid he could break. His brow furrowed in concentration, but beneath it, I caught something else—a flicker of vulnerability that made my chest ache.
Then he leaned closer, so close I could feel the warmth of him seeping into me. His breath brushed my skin an instant before he blew gently across the scrape—a quiet, instinctive kind of tenderness that sent shivers spiraling up my spine, scattering my thoughts into nothing.
I held my breath, torn between the sting in my knee and the ache spreading low in my belly. And for one suspended heartbeat, all I could do was feel.
“You’re awfully good at this,” I whispered, my voice unsteady—barely audible even to myself.
That crooked half-smile appeared on his lips, tugging softly at the corners. “I’ve had more injuries than I care to count,” he said, the warmth in his tone threading through me. “Rugby teaches you to patch yourself up quickly.”
But he didn’t move away after saying it. If anything, he shifted a little closer—his focus narrowing, his touch becoming slower, more careful, like he was tending to something far more breakable than a scrape on my leg.
Then his fingers drifted higher, knuckles grazing the inside of my knee.
The world tightened to a single point—the steady rhythm of his hands, the warmth of his breath, the impossible closeness—and everything else fell away.
When he pressed the bandage over my scrape, the thumb on his other hand swept over my thigh, lingering just long enough to make my pulse trip. Then his gaze lifted, locking on mine with a force that rooted me in place.
“You scared me out there,” he whispered, voice raw, like the words had torn their way out without his permission.
My throat closed. I grabbed his hand, pressing it flat to my chest where my heart hammered wildly. “You scare me in here,” I breathed, the truth rushing out before I could hold it back.
His jaw clenched. For one aching second, he froze—then suddenly he was closer, stepping between my knees, and I could no longer think.
Before I knew what was happening, his other hand was at the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.
“You have no idea how close I am to losing myself over you,” he said. His forehead pressed into mine.
The sound of it, the heat of him, undid me. My fingers twisted into his shirt, tugging him closer. “Good,” I whispered, but before the word had fully left my lips, his mouth was there.
Hungry and unrestrained. It was fire against fire. A want so sharp it made me dizzy. His lips claimed mine, and I kissed him back with a wild urgency I didn't know I contained. We were caught in a frenzy, as though the words we’d just spoken had ripped something open between us.
I gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his lips moving with a hunger that made me tilt my head backward.
Heat tore through me, wild and immediate, my fingers curling into his shirt like I needed something to hold onto in order not to fall.
He pulled me closer, his hand sliding from my neck and down my spine, anchoring me to him, leaving no space between us.
“Dean—”
My voice broke on his name, a small, startled sound against his mouth.
He pulled back a fraction—barely—just enough to search my face.
His forehead rested against mine, his breath unsteady, the air between us vibrating with everything he wasn’t saying.
His hands didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t pull. They simply held, steady and patient, as if he was giving me that heartbeat to decide.
As if one word—one breath—would be all it took for him to let go.
“Em,” he whispered, so soft it felt like a question, like a promise he’d keep no matter how badly he wanted otherwise.
I swallowed, my fingers curling in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer than the space he’d so carefully made.
“Don’t stop,” I breathed.
Whatever control he’d been fighting for, shattered. He kissed me again—deeper, surer—like my words had undone every restraint he’d been holding onto.
The heat between us surged, but even as his breath turned rough and his body pressed flush against mine, his hands stayed impossibly gentle.
Every touch, every glide of his fingers at my waist was careful—as though he was aware of the fire burning between us and refused to let it fade.
Then his lips broke from mine, trailing slow, reverent kisses down my jaw until he found the curve of my throat.
“Em…”
My name fell from his mouth like a plea—raw and unguarded.
His thumb brushed over my lower lip, still swollen from his kiss, and the way he looked at me—like I was somehow both his answer and his undoing—completely shattered me.
Before I could catch my breath, Dean bent and swept me off the counter.
My hands flew to his shoulders, gripping for balance, but he didn’t stumble, didn’t waver—if anything, he held me tighter, steadier, his gaze never breaking from mine as he carried me out of the bathroom.
The rest of the cabin was dim, shadows flickering soft against the wooden walls, and the only sound was his steady breath and the pounding of my heart.
George trotted over immediately, tail wagging, his rope dangling from his mouth, but Dean looked at him without breaking stride. “Bed. Now,” he ordered.
For once in his life, George obeyed without question—padding straight to his oversized cushion in the living room, circling once, before plopping down with his head facing the corner.
Dean huffed a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting. “He listens when it counts,” he murmured, though the joke lasted for only a second, and soon his breath was in my ear again.
He carried me to the bed, and lowered me onto the mattress—slow, controlled, as though he needed every second of the descent just to keep himself together.
But there was nothing gentle in the way he followed me down.
His body hovered above mine, heat rolling off him in waves, his breath brushing my cheek. My pulse thundered, wild and uneven, each inhale catching as the solid weight of him settled over me—hungry, and impossibly close.
His hand slid along my side until he caught the edge of my shirt and sports bra. He slowly lifted them over my head, and the moment the fabric cleared my face, he went still.
His eyes swept over me—my stomach, my breasts, then up to my face. Like the sight of me had punched the air out of him. Heat flared in his eyes, but there was something else there too. Something quiet and raw that made my pulse stutter.
Because for some reason I didn’t want to hide from him.
I wanted him to see me.
All of me.
His throat worked as he swallowed hard, his gaze darkening in a way that made my stomach flip.
“You’re beautiful…” he murmured.
The clothes fell from his hand to the floor, and then his fingers were at my hip. Steady, sure. No hesitation in what he was going to do. His touch traced the line of my waist, warm and deliberate, sending a shiver straight through my core.
My hands found him in return, skimming over the solid heat of his shoulders, down the hard ridges of his arms and the muscle at his back. I tugged at his shirt, lifting and pulling, until he helped me peel it away, dropping it to the growing heap at the side of the bed.
He lowered himself over me, skin to skin, and the breath punched out of me. Heat spread everywhere he touched, slow and consuming, and my arms wrapped around him instinctively.
He let out a quiet groan, the sound vibrating against my chest, and I felt it all the way down to my toes.
His hand slid lower still, tracing the line of my thigh, until his fingers reached the tender, desperate place where my body was already begging for him.
He paused there—barely touching—just long enough for me to arch into his hand, a small, breathless sound slipping out of me before I could swallow it.
Dean’s reaction was immediate.