Every heartbeat that meant she was still here with him. Like his every prayer was finally answered.
Because this wasn’t a good day for her.
And she hadn’t wanted him to help.
But he helped, anyway.
And she didn’t say no.
Chapter 38
Frida, the physiotherapist, raised an arched brow on one of her home sessions.
“You know,” she said dryly, watching Thane linger by the door, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say yourboyfriendwants to get rid of me.”
Faolan, mid-stretch, snorted. “Ignore him. He’s just…intense.”
“He’s glowering at my hands like I’m fondling his woman.”
“Maybe you are. Do you want to leave your husband for me, Frida?” Faolan asked with a teasing smile.
Frida rolled her eyes, laughing. “Well, damn. He’s like a pit bull, that one.”
But Faolan didn’t feel suffocated, not even a tiny little bit.
She had found that shelikedit.
Liked how his eyes tracked her like she was the most precious thing in his world. How he always stood between her and any male, how his jaw locked tight if someone dared look at her too long.
She should’ve felt trapped, but it felt like being treasured.
She wasn’t right in the head, but she didn’t care.
There was an invisible thread pulled taut between them. She passed him as he typed something on his laptop and didn’t have to look to know he was watching her.
Always watching her, as if he was waiting for a sigh…for what?
There was something in the way his gaze moved over her. It was a sensual sweep, deliberate and unashamed, like his eyes were hands. She could feel it, the burn of attention that traced her collarbone, her waist, the vulnerable space beneath her ribs.
That fire in his mismatched eyes—hazel and blue, gold and storm—banked low and steady. Hunger, slow and coiled, ebbed and flowed.
Even when his fingers moved over the keys, even when his body was still, she was the focus.
And the worst part?
Her body knew it.
It betrayed her with every slick throb, every involuntary shiver that rippled through her when he held her gaze a beat too long. When his eyes swept her body with possessiveness, like she was already his. Or how, when she tried to go back to her flat, he’d avoid the conversation, making excuses of the risks.
She didn’t have privacy.
He insisted on helping her to the bathroom, ”Just in case,” but it was never just anything. Then he proceeded to watch her through the frosted glass.
And sometimes, when the ache in her built to unbearable levels, when she tried to take a moment to relieve the pressure, she couldn’t because he seemed to sense it. He would reach, press her against the nearest counter, breath ragged as he murmured against her ear, “Just give me a few seconds, please. I just—”
His hands would flatten on either side of her. His hips pressing forward, the firm, hot shape of his arousal carved against her abdomen like a brand.
God, she knew the shape of him now. Not just with memory, but through her skin. Through the imprint left on her body, night after night.
