Luke’s breath blew out of him in a huge rush, his chest expanding, the muscles in his belly rippling. She stared into his misty gray eyes and rocked against him, watched as the misty gray deepened to smoke. “This, Luke. I don’t want you patting my back, soothing me, feeding me . . . I want you touching me. I want your hands on me.” Bending down, she pressed her lips to his, keeping the contact quick and light. “I want to forget about anything and everything but us.”
His hands, strong, hard, yet so gentle, slid down her sides, cupped her hips. His voice was hoarse as he asked, “You sure?”
Giving him a wide grin, she settled back on her heels and grabbed the hem of the T-shirt she’d slept in. Pulling it over her head, she tossed it to the side. “Very sure.” She reached for his hands and brought them up, pressing them to her breasts. “I told you before, Luke . . . I’m not fragile. I won’t break.”
A grim look crossed his face and he trailed his fingers up over her collarbone, brushing the tips against the fading, yellowed bruises at her neck. “Maybe you won’t break. But I’m terrified I’ll scare you, hurt you.”
She caught his hand, brought it to her lips. Pressing her mouth to his palm, she kissed him and then, letting go of his hand, she slowly stood. His eyes burned as his gaze slid down her body. For a minute, she had to wonder what it was he saw that made him want her so much. She was even thinner now than she’d been before, and what few curves she had were slight at best.
But when he stared at her, it made her feel beautiful.
Even more so as she dropped her hands to the waistband of her panties and started to push them down in a slow, teasing move. Luke watched her with wide, unblinking eyes, and his chest rose and fell in a fast, erratic rhythm. A light film of sweat gleamed on his skin, and twin flags of color rode high on his cheeks.
It was a heady, almost drugged sensation, and if she didn’t ache to feel his hands on her, fast, she might have drawn the moment out. She shifted her stance, bracing one foot on either side of his hips, and when his gaze lowered, focused on her core, a spasm of need tightened her belly. As he continued to stare at her, she knelt back down. Luke still wore the boxer-style briefs he’d slept in, and through the thin barrier, she could feel him.
“Touch me,” she whispered, skimming her mouth down his jaw-line. “Please, Luke. I need this . . .”
She was killing him, Luke thought, dazed. She moved her hips in slow, sinuous circles against his, and he could feel the soft, wet heat. The dark, snug briefs he wore were suddenly sheer hell, too tight, too rough, too confining.
“I need this . . . ”
Her whispered plea echoed through his mind. Fuck it, he decided. They both needed this. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he rolled to the side, putting her body under his. Levering up onto his elbows, he stared down at her, watched for some sign that he needed to stop and either back off or let her run the show. But all she did was smile at him, a sleepy little cat’s smile with her eyes half-closed and her hands stroking down his shoulders.
Without waiting another heartbeat, Luke shoved his underwear out of the way. Her knees came up, her legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer . . . closer . . .
When he brushed against that silken wet heat, they both moaned. As he pushed inside her, they stared at each other, eyes rapt on the other’s face. Luke held back, for fear of scaring her, hurting her, marking her in some way.
But the only thing that showed on her face was that faint feline smile that soon faded away, replaced with husky whimpers, moans, and pleas. Hunkering low over her, he kissed her. Her nails bit into his flesh, her mouth greedy and demanding under his.
That desperate hunger did a wicked number on his self-control, and when she started to move under him, she smashed that iron self-control like it was made of paper. Growling, he buried his face against her neck, kissing each and every last visible bruise. Her hands dipped into his hair, fisting there and clutching him close.
Stroking a free hand up her thigh, he palmed her butt and canted her hips upward. The slight change of position took him deeper, and he felt her reaction all the way to the soles of his feet as she clenched around him and started to wail out his name.
Greedy need filled him, and he shoved up, bracing his hands on the mattress beside her head and holding his upper body up.
He wanted to slow down.
Wanted to pull out, pull away, get his breath, and then start over again. Slower. Sweeter.
But leaving her would be as easy as walking on water . . . unnatural, impossible, unthinkable. There was no stopping this storm, and the only thing he could do was make sure she came with him. He slid his fingers through the curls at her sex, seeking out the sensitive bud there.
As he stroked her, Devon gasped. Within thirty seconds, she was whimpering, rocking against him, and keening out his name with every breath. She started to come, and as she shattered under him, he sank down onto her soft, sleek body, his eyes closing as he lost himself inside her. With rhythmic milking caresses, she emptied his body.
And as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and whispered his name, the huge, gaping hole in his heart shrank down . . . just a little.
IN the silence, Devon lay curled against his chest and listened to his heart as it slowed down.
“I think I need to get back to work.”
Luke grunted.
Lifting her head, she watched his face. One lid popped open, and he peered at her through the veil of his lashes. “You don’t need to go back yet.”
Making a face, Devon muttered, “Wish I could agree with you.”
Now Luke opened his other eye and studied her face. “You’ve got the time coming, Devon. You need a break; you deserve this.”
She shook her head. “I don’t need it. Actually, I think staying inside as much as I have, practically from the first, has done me more harm than good.” Turning her head, she rubbed her cheek against his shoulder. “The real world is still going on outside, Luke. Hiding away from it won’t change what happened. And . . . and I think it’s making it harder on me.”
“Maybe you’re not giving yourself enough time.”
Devon wished she could believe that. But she knew from experience that time didn’t heal all wounds. At least not completely. In her case, the longer she waited, the more time it took, the harder it was going to be for her to go back out there. “I think maybe I took more time than I should have.” She wiggled and shifted until she could sit up on the bed and meet his gaze levelly instead of looking up at him.
“Sooner or later, I have to deal with the fact that I’ve got to go back outside, climb into my car, and go back to my job. I’ve got to deal with the fact that I still have cases and kids that need me . . . including Tim.”
Tension arced through him, and Devon met his gaze, saw the turmoil there. Softly, she said, “You know this has nothing to do with him. It’s not his fault, what happened.”
A grimace twisted his lips. He sat up and shoved a hand through his hair as he said, “Yeah. Yeah, I know that. But what do you think it’s going to do to you to look at him? Hell, I remember seeing him in the hospital that night you took him to the ER. He looks like his dad. No, he can’t help that. But what’s that going to do to you?”
Shaking her head, Devon said, “I don’t know. But I can’t just not go back to work over that.” With a shrug, she added, “Besides, chances are he’ll already have been reassigned. And I’ll be good with that. It’s better for both of us. But . . .” she blew out a breath, closed her eyes. “I do need to see how he’s doing, maybe just talk to him once more. It isn’t his fault; he deserves to know that I don’t blame him.”
Silent, Luke reached over and slid his arms around her waist, tugging her into his lap. “Definitely not fragile, Devon,” he whispered, brushing his lips against her bare shoulder.
Leaning back against him, she laid her hands atop his and squeezed. “I keep telling you that.” Then she sighed, tucking a lock of hair back behind
her ear. With a glance over her shoulder, she smiled at him and only hoped it looked a little better than it felt. “Hiding from it doesn’t make it go away.”
He looked like he wanted to say something else . . . argue with her. Squirming around, she straddled his lap and gazed at him. She pressed her fingers to his lips and whispered, “Don’t. Don’t give me a reason to just keep staying home, to keep hiding away. If I want my life back, then I have to take it.”
Luke had already learned that look on her face meant she’d made up her mind, and nothing he did, nothing he said, would change it. But even as a huge part of him heaved out a sigh of relief, another part of him was icy with tension.
“Are you really sure you’re ready to do this?”
Her head fell forward and rested on his shoulder as he looped his arms around her waist. “No,” she replied honestly. “I’m not. But I’m going to do it anyway.” Her voice trailed off as a loud, demanding grumble emerged from her belly. Lifting her head, she grinned at him. “Did you say something about breakfast?”
AS it turned out, Luke was easier to convince than her boss. She’d expected the reticence from her boyfriend, but not the guy who authorized her paycheck. When she walked into the chaotic office, the insane cacophony of voices, ringing phones, the copy machine, and a crying infant had her smiling.
Until one by one, her coworkers caught sight of her, and the noise, bit by bit, faded. The fax machine continued to spit out what looked to be one long-ass report, the annoying squeak of the ancient copier droned on, and the phones still rang, but even the baby sniffled once or twice and then curled up against a welcoming shoulder and drifted off into sleep.
Eyes drifted her way, then skittered off as though looking at her made them uncomfortable. Pity, sympathy, and curiosity appeared on a few of the faces, only to disappear when she met their gazes. Abruptly, there was a squeal, and out of Dawson’s office came a little towheaded boy, holding a cell phone in his small hands and laughing as a woman came out after him.
It was one of the foster mothers, a favorite in their office, and she smiled at Devon as she passed by in hot pursuit of the phone thief. As though that had been some sort of signal, the chaos resumed. Although people continued to send her weird glances, some subtle, some not, the rhythm of the office fell back into place.
When Dawson appeared in the doorway, he gave her a familiar, world-weary smile and beckoned to her. But if she thought he was going to welcome her back with open arms, it took less than two minutes in his office to get disabused of that notion.
“Absolutely not. You’re not ready.” Dawson folded his arms across his beefy chest and shook his head.
Devon didn’t bother trying to cajole him or charm him; under the right circumstances, both could work. But this wasn’t the right circumstance. He stared at her with bulldog obstinance. Logic probably wasn’t going to work, either, but maybe a bit of logic, a bit of compromise . . .
“Dawson, look, I understand that you want to be cautious, but I’m fine.”
“The hell you’re fine,” he muttered, retreating back behind the scarred, beat-up wooden desk that was overrun with charts, reports, and what looked like a thousand sticky notes. “Do I have to remind you that somebody tried to kill you two weeks ago?”
Grimacing, Devon touched her fingers to her bruised neck. It didn’t hurt to swallow anymore, but she wouldn’t ever forget how it felt to have hard, cruel hands closing around her neck and choking the life out of her. “I don’t need a reminder, Dawson. It’s not something I’m going to forget, and believe me, I’d love to do just that. I need to get back to work.”
He nodded, ran a hand over the grizzly gray stubble on his chin. “Yeah, I get that. But this can’t be your therapy, Devon.” Awareness lit his eyes, and he sighed, leaned forward, braced his elbows on the surface of his desk. “A lot of us go into this as some screwed-up kind of therapy. You did. I did. I know that. But this is a little too close, Devon. A little too recent. You have to take more time.”
A slick, icy ball of fear formed in her belly. “How much more time?” she demanded.
Dawson’s face softened. “Just a few more days.” He grabbed a piece of paper and jotted a number down. “You need to talk to somebody before you come back.”
“Somebody,” Devon muttered. She recognized the name on the slip of paper he held out toward her, and she scowled. Lydia Marsh was one of the therapists they often referred adults to, particularly battered women. Yeah, Devon figured that what had happened certainly filled the battered requirements, but she wasn’t so sure she wanted to stretch out on a couch and prattle on about it.
She wadded the phone number up in her hand. “Dawson, I’ve had my share of talking to shrinks and therapists and counselors. I’ve done that before; I don’t want to do it again.”
He smirked at her and started to dig through his desk. Finding a half-empty bag of red hots, he leaned back in his chair and popped a couple into his mouth. “Yeah. I guessed as much. But you can’t come back until you talk to somebody.”
Planting her hands on her hips, she glared at him. “What are you going to do, make me bring in a doctor’s note?”
“Damn straight.” He shook a few more pieces of candy into his mouth, and she caught a whiff of cinnamon. “Look at it from where I’m at, Devon. You had a shitty ordeal, and if you didn’t ever want to come back to this, nobody would blame you. A lot of women wouldn’t want to.”
Lowering her eyes, Devon thought of Danielle. Danielle had left her home for that very reason. A home was generally harder to replace than a job, but Danielle had done it without thinking twice. “I’m not a lot of women, Dawson. I’m just me.”
“Yeah. And you’re a hell of a lot stronger than most people would ever guess.” He poured more red hots into his hand and dropped the bag onto his desk. Instead of eating them, he made a funnel out of his hand and let the candy fall into his open palm.
He repeated that over and over, and Devon was about ready to go over there, grab the candy, and throw it away before he finally spoke. “Social workers have a high burnout rate, Devon. Most of us, we just quit and go on to something else. We go back to school, go into counseling. Or we become alcoholics.” He grinned a little, as though he’d told a joke that only he understood. Then his face sobered, and his gaze came back up to meet hers. “But then, some of us don’t have the sense to get out while we can. People break under pressure. Under pressure, they can do some really awful things they’d never do otherwise. If you’re not under a lot of pressure right now, I’ll eat my hat.”
“You’re not wearing a hat,” Devon muttered, wishing she could be furious at what he was implying. But she couldn’t. “Dawson . . .”
He gave her a gentle smile. “Devon, I know you. I trust you. You tell me that you’re steady enough to come back, that’s good enough for me. But it can’t be good enough for this office. It can’t be good enough for those we’re supposed to help.” Nodding toward the phone number she still held crumpled in her fist, he added, “Seeing Lydia will be. And getting that note.”
“IS your brother coming over?”
She stood in front of the mirror, her hair twisted up off her neck so she could admire the earrings Luke had bought to match the pearl necklace. She stroked her fingers over the necklace and decided that most of the bruising was gone.
The few bruises that remained, although they still looked pretty damn noticeable to her, were so faint, most people probably wouldn’t even see them. Sighing, she reached for a clip to secure her hair.
Luke appeared in the reflection as she started to pin her hair into place, and after she fastened the clip, he reached up and took it down. As her hair came tumbling down her shoulders, she glared at him. Luke tossed the clip over his shoulder and then slid his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. “Leave it down; I love it down,” he said softly. Then he sighed, and she could feel the warm whisper of it caressing her skin. “I never got around to asking him.”<
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“You didn’t get around to asking him? But . . .”
The question never formed, but it didn’t have to. His gaze dropped to her neck, and when he stroked his fingers over her skin, Devon swallowed. He pulled his hand back almost right away, but Devon caught his wrist and lifted it, kissing him. “You ever going to stop beating yourself up over this?”
Luke snorted. “Yeah. Sooner or later. I’m thinking the day after Armageddon.”
That weird, alert tension had crept back into his body, his eyes taking on a glitter that reminded her of some big predator on the prowl. A shiver raced down her spine. But as quick as it came on him, it was gone, draining away as if it had never even been there. When he met her gaze in the mirror, he smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I’d meant to call him before it happened. After . . . well, just didn’t seem right.”
She took a minute, finger-combing her damp curls back from her face, adjusting her necklace, fiddling with the neckline of her sweater. Part of her appreciated his consideration, but another part of her hated to think that Luke had a brother out there spending Christmas alone. “I can’t help but think that him being alone instead of with family isn’t right, either.”
Luke shook his head. “He isn’t spending it alone. I talked to him a few days ago. He was heading up to Vermont with a friend of ours. Staying at a cabin somewhere.” He grimaced and added, “I wasn’t real hot on the idea of him spending it alone, either. Not an issue, though. Quinn’s not much on the family get-together thing, anyway.”
“He doesn’t live around here, does he?”
Luke shook his head. “Quinn moves around a lot. Doesn’t care for staying in the same place.”
Lifting a brow, she asked, “Exactly what does he do that lets him move around?”
“Do?” Luke repeated. He grinned and shook his head. “Quinn does pretty much whatever he wants to. He takes odd jobs here and there, and when he’s ready to move on, he does just that.”
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