Chapter 30 #2
Grace lets his words sink in deep, lets them overwhelm her senses.
For a moment, she can’t do anything but attempt to process it all—the hell of the past week, the satisfaction and sweet vindication of seeing her uncle hauled away by the FBI, and now, the man she loves sitting at her bedside making sweet promises that she knows, in her heart, he will keep.
He’s looking at her so intensely, his eyes full of reverence and regret and relief, and she suddenly can’t possibly allow even one more second to pass without kissing him, without promising him the exact same thing, but with her lips.
Crew’s hand lowers to her throat, and he holds her steady as he returns the aching affection, and it’s a flurry of tongues and chapped lips and unbound bliss.
Grace smiles, then laughs, and Crew’s arching brow is full of amusement, but he doesn’t stop kissing her, and soon enough, she’s grinning into his mouth, rejoicing at the present, at the fact that she is a woman kissing the man she loves.
Left undisturbed, they probably could’ve kept going until they were both breathless and squirming, but not long into their congress, a faint knock sounds from the doorway.
Crew breaks from her mouth abruptly, and he’s breathing heavily, his eyes screwed tightly shut.
For a brief second, Grace ignores their visitor and simply stares at him, that bright, gleeful grin still stretched across her lips.
“I love you,” she whispers, just for him.
He presses his forehead against hers in response, and when his eyes open, they are shiny and wet.
Another knock, and Crew growls. With a frustrated, impatient sigh, he gives Grace a look. “Should’ve known I wasn’t going to be able to keep you to myself for long.”
“To hell with that,” a voice says from behind him, and the rusty, melodic pitch of it has her eyes widening and her body angling around Crew’s giant form to confirm her suspicion.
Her hope. She finds Forty in the doorway holding a brown paper sack full of wildflowers.
His glasses are on top of his head, pushing his silver hair out of his face and revealing swollen eyes and splotchy red cheeks.
“Hi, kiddo,” he says to Grace, smiling wide.
“You had us worried there for a minute.” He opens his mouth to continue speaking, but then someone is barreling past him, and he cuts himself off with an oof at the collision.
And not just one—throngs of men start to pile into Grace’s room, all in varying states of dress—and cleanliness, it seems, by the mix of odors that follows them in.
But as the ranch hands of Halcyon gather around her bed, hair sticking up in all directions, boots halfway on and clothes wrinkled and untucked, Grace is sure she’s never seen them look more handsome.
“Hey, Grace,” Mikey says, waving excitedly.
“Welcome back. They got you on the good shit, right?” Raymond asks from where he stands next to her IV bag, assessing with pursed lips.
“Grace, did that bastard really make you rock rake by hand?” Caleb asks as he pushes his way to the front of the group. He lands at the foot of Grace’s bed, leaning his hands onto the metal frame. “They oughta let us all have a go at him before they stick him in a cell.”
Grunts of agreement echo around the room.
“Did they have to fuse your finger bones back together?” Harrison asks, staring wide-eyed at her cast.
“Yeah, Grace, is your hand gonna be like, permanently—” Bryan starts, then contorts his hand into a weak imitation of a fist, holding it up for everyone to see.
His head falls forward as Pierce smacks him, then does the same to Harrison. They both grunt and reach back to rub at the spot, indignant and scowling. “Dumbasses. Don’t ask shit like that,” Pierce scolds. “She’s been awake for, like, ten minutes.”
A female voice rises above the noise, and a head of blond hair peeks out from behind the sea of unkempt boys.
“Gentlemen.” Grace perks up, looking around the bodies crowded near her bed to find the person attached to that lovely, familiar voice, and her heart squeezes as June makes her way forward.
Every head in the room turns to look at her, but June keeps her eyes on Grace.
With a sly smile—like a secret shared between just the two of them—she says, “Why don’t we all take a step back and give our girl some room? ”
Dutifully, the sweet ranch hands of Halcyon obey, each looking a shade sheepish as they all take a literal step back from Grace’s bed.
June’s smile brightens then, and she walks over to the unoccupied side of the bed and sets her hands on her hips.
She scans Grace’s form, taking an extra second to stare at her cast, and then back up, where her eyes seem to study every inch of Grace’s face.
After a moment, she sighs loudly and dramatically.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing for certain,” June laments, popping out one of her hips.
“You are in desperate need of a facial. Sun exposure, dust, blood—your skin doesn’t know what to do with itself.
Good thing I spend most of my paychecks on skin care.
And I packed accordingly.” June’s eyes find Grace’s and they soften, along with the hard set of her mouth.
Something like sadness etches itself into her golden features.
“Figured you weren’t keeping up with your routine. ”
“Without you around to hound me about it?” Grace jokes, smiling weakly.
June huffs. “Typical.” She starts to walk away, but not without throwing the last word over her shoulder. “A couple more days of dryness like that and I think your skin might’ve started falling off in chunks. You’re lucky I got here when I did.”
She doesn’t wait around for Grace’s reply, but Grace gives one anyway.
She stares at June’s back as she hurries out of the room, then scans the faces of all these men she’s come to know and love, deep within her soul.
They smile at her, and there’s so much genuine joy in their eyes that it brings tears to Grace’s own.
She laughs, a watery, pitiful sound. “I am very lucky,” she says, to June, to the guys, but mostly—to herself.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
Visiting hours end shortly after the hands visit, and Grace is feeling pampered and loved by the time they walk out of her room, waving their goodbyes and promising their return the next day.
A green, gel-like product—aloe and something else she can’t remember—is spread evenly over her face, and it has a cooling, relaxing effect that seems to increase the longer she keeps it on.
June had given Crew strict instructions on how to remove it once forty-five minutes had passed—a damp, clean washcloth, and slow, light, gentle motions.
“Don’t go reversing all my hard work by scrubbing her face and destroying her skin barrier,” June had demanded, and Crew had agreed, then promised, then promised again at her behest, though he clearly had no idea what she was talking about.
He follows the directions when the timer on his phone goes off ten minutes later, arched over Grace’s bed and balancing himself on one hand while wiping her face clean with the other.
He works slowly, methodically, and the cloth’s touch against her skin is featherlight.
It’s nice, calming and comforting, and Grace lets her eyes close as he works.
He tilts her chin up to wipe her jawline and any remnants from behind her ears, and then she feels something besides the washcloth brush against her lips.
Her eyes open to find Crew close, his lips drawn into a small, only slightly crooked smile.
He looks more relaxed than he has since she woke up, and this warms her inside, sparking a flame of something other than joy for their reunion.
Grace leans forward, closing the tiny gap between their mouths, and presses her lips to his.
The washcloth falls atop the papery white sheets as both of Crew’s hands come up to her cheeks, and Grace can practically hear June’s reprimand about putting dirty hands on clean skin, but she ignores it completely, caring little about the consequences of him touching her wherever he pleases.
They both moan at the contact, and Grace sits up straighter, bringing them closer, and wraps her arms around his neck.
She wants his body to be flush with her own, wants him as close as he can physically be.
When he breaks away from her to trail hot, messy kisses over her jaw and neck, Grace keens.
Practically, she knows it’s not a good idea for them to fool around in her hospital bed.
She knows it’d probably be ill-advised to engage in any physical activity, but she can’t quiet this need.
This desperate desire for him, to feel him buried in her again, deep and pulsing and thick. She wants to be painfully full of him.
Crew sucks at her earlobe and lets his lips linger at the space between her ear and neck—the spot he knows will make her hips start to involuntarily rock and her breath start to quicken.
Deep in the moment, he spends a few long seconds there, drawing those reactions out of her, whimpering slightly when she starts to pant against his temple.
But then he stops abruptly, and his forehead falls to her shoulder.
Grace doesn’t even try to hold back the whine that bubbles up from her chest, and Crew chuckles deeply, picking up his head to look at her.
His eyes are glazed over with arousal, and her hindbrain takes that in itself as an invitation to start back up again.
She leans forward, but he stops her, smiling sweetly but holding her firmly in place. “Baby, we can’t,” he says plaintively.
“But—” Grace sputters, frowning. “I want to.”