“Then how can you say you’ve got me, if you’re as scared of this thing between us as I am?” I lift up and look at him.
“So you admit thereissomething between us.” His eyes, so brown they’re almost black, hold mine.
I nod. “Yes, Chance. I can’t deny it at this point. Doesn’t mean I like it, doesn’t mean I want it, doesn’t mean I have the first fucking clue what to do with it. I’m scared absolutely shitless of it. But it’s there, and I can’t deny that much. Not after today.”
He gives me the thumb brush over my lips again. “You know what courage is, mama?”
I shrug. “Not being afraid.”
He shakes his head. “Flat wrong. Courage isn’t not being afraid. It’s being afraid and doing what’s right, what you know you gotta do even though you’re pissin’ your pants.” He wraps a tendril of my hair around his finger. “I was scared shitless every time I went into combat, Annika. Every damn time. Scared I’d catch a bullet with my name on it. Scared I’d step on an IED and end up legless. Scared Rev would catch one and I’d watch him die. I was always scared, Annika. I just learned how to do the damn thing anyway.” He smiles at me. “No different with you. Yeah, I’m scared I’m falling for you, and you won’t feel the same. Or you won’t want me back. I’m scared I’ll go all in for you, like I always do—one hundred and fifty fuckin’ percent, all the way in, nothin’ held back, and you’ll just be like, ‘nah, not worth it. Too scared. Can’t do it. Sorry, big man.’”
“Chance…shit. I—”
“I’m scared as hell.” He continues over me. “You decide you can’t or won’t do this thing with me, it’ll…” He lets out a breath, eyes closing briefly before fixing on mine—open, full of emotion, deep and dark and wild. “It’d break something in me, babe. Not gonna bullshit you. But I’ll survive that too. And lookin’ at you, holdin’ you, kissing you…it’s obvious to me the possibility of you—thepotentialof you is worth the risk of heartbreak.”
The potential of me is worth the risk of heartbreak.
That’s too much to process.
So, I don’t. I lay my head on his warm, soft chest and I feel his heartbeat, hear it faintly, and I push everything else away.
Eventually, with his large strong gentle hands scratching and soothing over my back, I fall asleep.
Dreamless and deep.
* * *
I wake up gradually,drowsy and warm and comfortable. The first thing I’m aware of is that I’m still lying on top of Chance. I don’t have to open my eyes to know that he’s asleep—I feel it, sense it, hear it. His breathing is slow and even, drawing in long slow breaths and letting them out even longer and slower.
I feel more rested than I have in years—in fact, every time I sleep in Chance’s embrace, I sleep better. Not sure that bears thinking about, just yet.
The next thing I’m aware of—and I become aware of it immediately and acutely—is the placement of his hands.
On my ass.
Cupping possessively, resting, fingers naturally curled. I’m wearing a thong, a skimpy piece of fabric over my yoo-hoo, and a string around my hips, and not much else. Meaning, my ass cheeks are totally bare. I was too tired and overwhelmed and emotional to care about this last night. But now, with his hands on me, I’m very, very aware of it.
I swallow hard. Mainly because…I like it. His hands feel good. Right. Natural. Each of my cheeks fill one of his big hands, and let’s just say I’ve got a lot of butt—more so now, since getting off drugs and getting back into regular, and probably more than regular, meals—which means his hands arebig.
I’ve always felt…too large. Too tall. Too much. When I was an athlete, especially, I was in peak physical condition. I lifted weights, I ran, I did conditioning drills, I practiced, I competed. I had washboard abs, I had thick, powerful thighs and a tight, toned ass and lean, strong arms. I could deadlift a hundred and fifty percent of my own body weight.
I was a powerhouse athlete. I was quick on my feet, with killer reflexes. I had a serve my opponents feared, it was so hard, so fast, and so accurate. I could dig, set, and hit like fucking no one.
But all this, on top of being six-foot-freaking-three, meant I intimidated men. I mean, I also had a mirror, so I knew I wasn’t exactly hard on the eyes in the face, either. Professional athlete, taller than most men, in way better shape than most men, good-looking, successful…it felt good, but it was lonely.
I could score a hookup easily enough. But getting a guy to like me for me, a guy that wasn’t intimidated by me? By my size, my conditioning, my success, my looks? Shit, forget it. And let me just tell you, men who are intimidated by you arenotnice. Most are downright assholes of the worst variety.
And then there’s Chance.
No other man has ever been able to pick me up, like at all, let alone make me feel…almost dainty. I mean, sure, I’ve even gone out with big monster bodybuilder, powerlifter types, back in my athlete days. But those guys? The ones I dated, at least? They were as dedicated to their thing as I was mine, and that generally meant we weren’t compatible—we just didn’t have the time for each other. Not to mention, I never was able to find one that had the size and strength to handle me like I wanted to be handledplushaving the intelligence, wit, and emotional maturity to make a real relationship worthwhile. Not saying that man doesn’t exist, I just never found him.
Until Chance.
He’s so insanely strong he can pick me up like I’m a doll, and he’s tall and broad enough that I feel downright small around him—whichno onehas ever made me feel. Plus, he’s smart. He’s kind. He’s wise. He’s a protector.
And…he understands who I am. He understands the demon of addiction that lives inside me, and the darkness that comes with it. The things I’ve done. He doesn’t look at me differently because of it.
Anyone else would.Of coursethey would—how could they not? And I certainly wouldn’t blame them. But Chancegetsit.
