His eyes hold mine, and for one suspended, trembling second, I swear the world tilts.
“I’ll get something for your leg,” he adds, almost like he’s forcing the words out through gritted teeth, like touching me longer would break whatever control he’s got left.
Then he’s gone—the moment he vanishes, the air feels colder. Emptier.
He disappears into the kitchen with that same purposeful stride, leaving me perched on the couch, my leg throbbing and my heartbeat still tangled up in how he looked at me just moments ago. That gaze? It wasn't casual. It wasn’t polite. It was a storm barely leashed.
I hear drawers open. Cabinets shut. The freezer door groan. Then the crinkle of a plastic bag and the sharp clink of ice.
He returns like some kind of Cowboy Nightingale—hair damp, shirt still clinging to every muscle, jaw tight with focus. A dish towel in one hand, an ice pack in the other.
“Prop your leg up,” he murmurs, kneeling in front of me like it's his goddamn calling. His voice is low, rough, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me just by being here. Close. Focused. Gentle.
I do as I’m told, letting him slide a cushion beneath my calf, feeling his calloused hands grace by calf and ancle positioning my leg in just the right spot.
Then comes the ice.
The second the cold presses against my skin, I hiss, jolting. “Shit, that’s freezing.”
“Good,” he says, lips twitching into a smirk. “Means it’s working.”
But his eyes? They’re not laughing. They’re locked on my leg, his fingers spread wide on my skin, holding the towel in place, rubbing slow, careful circles over the edge of the muscle like he could soothe it with just touch. And maybe he can. Because all of me—the ache, the tension, the breathlessness—it’s wrapped around his movements now.
“You gonna breathe again?” he asks without looking up.
“Working on it,” I say, voice thinner than I mean it to be.
His eyes flick up. Catch mine.
And it’s a look that pins me in place. Devours. Worships. Burns.
“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” I whisper, “and it’s not just my calf that’s gonna need icing.”
That grin of his turns downright sinful. “Princess,” he drawls, “I haven’t even started yet.”
I roll my eyes, but it’s a weak attempt at self-preservation.
He shifts, adjusting the towel, and the brush of his thumb against my bare thigh makes me inhale like I’ve been punched.
“You’re flushed again,” he murmurs.
“You’re kneeling between my legs, Grant,” I shoot back, trying not to sound like I’m two seconds away from combusting.“Kinda hard to stay cool.”
His eyes flicker—like I just lit a match in a room full of gasoline.
“I could say the same, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice a lazy drawl laced with something darker. “You think I don’t notice the way you’re trembling every time I touch you?”
He shifts closer, impossibly closer, and the heat coming off his body is a whole new kind of torment. His palm still cradles my calf, but his other hand slides higher—slow, deliberate—until it rests on my thigh. Not obscene. Not quite. But enough to send every nerve ending into a frenzy.
“Grant…” My voice breaks, just a breath and a warning wrapped in one.
He leans in, lips inches from mine, his eyes locked on my mouth like he’s debating claiming it right here, right now.
“Say the word,” he whispers.
“Tell me to back off. Tell me you don’t feel it.” He breathes out.
I open my mouth—to do what, I don’t know—but nothing comes out except a breathless little sound that betrays me completely.
