“You always made me feel safe.” My fingers found his jaw, traced the familiar line of it.
Blake pulled me to his chest, wrapped his arms around me, like I’d longed for him to do that night. His chest was just as warm as I’d imagined it would have been. A sanctuary where nothing existed except his skin, the beat of his heart beneath my ear.
“I wish you would have trusted me with it back then.” He kissed the top of my head. “I wish I’d held you because I would never have let go.”
Never let go? What exactly did he mean by that? It felt significant.
As significant as these raised scars, which also ran along his back. Here was someone who understood both strength and vulnerability, who’d seen my worst moments and still looked at me like I was something precious.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”
The moment stretched between us, heavy with years of almosts and not-quites. Steam curled around us, and I became acutely aware of everything: the cling of fabric to my wet skin, the warmth radiating from his, the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
Pulling back, Blake dropped his eyes to my mouth, lingering there with an intensity that reminded me why he was the one I wanted to run to that night. Ghosting his thumb along my lower lip, he stared at my mouth with unmistakable longing, and instantly, I could feel the heat of him everywhere. But there wassomething else in his eyes. Doubt? Fear that kissing someone with my history might be triggering?
I wanted to tell him I was fine. At least in the sex department, I was, thanks to the aforementioned therapy. But I didn’t have the chance.
He gave me a weak, reassuring smile before stepping back, being way too much of a gentleman for the thoughts currently charging through me.
Thanks, hormones.
After a moment, he swiped his thumb across his lip.
Not helping with the throbbing between my thighs.
“I’m glad you’re here, Tess.” He motioned to the shower with his chin. “If you need anything …” The words hung there, weighted with possibility.
And then he left, looking at me over his shoulder one last time before vanishing into the penthouse’s hallway.
It took a serious second to shake off the I-almost-kissed-Blake-Morrison moment. My lips still tingled with the ghost of possibility, sending my mind spinning through endless what-ifs.
But on the upside, it seriously improved my mood.
My steps felt lighter as I showered, dressed, and adjusted the heart pad device—the one Blake always reminded me to keep on. Where was he now? Probably at the hospital, reviewing patient charts, maybe thinking about our moment. Or maybe not thinking about it at all.
I distracted myself with unpacking, sorting through the mail I’d brought. Bills mostly. Healthcare, to be specific. Then one envelope stopped my heart cold.
I tossed it onto the dresser like it was an infectious spider.
Seconds later, my phone buzzed, making me jump. A smile tugged at my lips when I saw his name, my shoulders instantly relaxing. Even through text, Blake had a way of making me feel safer.
Blake: You okay?
Me: Why wouldn’t I be? And where are you?
Blake: In my car. Your heart rate spiked.
Me: You’re watching my heart rate?
Blake: You knew about the monitor.
Me: For my CARDIOLOGIST. Also, isn’t that considered texting while driving? #Dangerous. Don’t you work in an ER where crash victims are taken?
Blake: Answer the question.
Me: Saw a spider. No big deal.
Blake: I’ll call an exterminator. The humane kind that won’t make you sicker with chemicals.
