Page 34

SOUNDTRACK: I’ll Carry You by Tommee Profitt andStephen Stanley

~ brIDGET ~

When Sam collapsed over me and we both went still, I lay there in his arms, both of us sweating and trembling, our breathing still heavy. The moment was strangely perfect, and utterly surreal. My body still hummed, thrilled by him. But my mind started the slow, dark crawl back to reality…

I shifted, wallowing in the sensation of Sam’s weight on my body. He groaned and kissed my neck, his breathing still a harsh roar in my ear. I liked it.

It was incredible that he’d gotten here so fast, and I was so relieved. But that chittering, dark unease wouldn’t leave me. It scraped at the door of my mind.

I clung to him harder.

“Babe?” he rasped.

So many words fought for space on my tongue.

I love you.

I need you.

I’m terrified.

Will you stay?

You can’t stay.

This world sucks .

But when I opened my mouth, all I could manage was “Sam.”

And even that one syllable, just his name, shattered my ribs.

He pushed up the moment a sob broke in my throat, whispering my name, looking down on me, his sweaty face glistening in the moonlight from the windows.

“Babe, what—”

He cursed when I tucked my head into his chest and clung. I almost cried out when he left my body, but he only got himself—still panting, still trembling—onto his knees and gathered me up.

“I’m s-sorry,” I croaked. “I’ll be f-fine—”

“Bridget that is such bullshit.” But his voice was surprisingly gentle as he picked me up and turned me around and a few seconds later he was sitting with his back to the headboard and me in his lap and I was curled up like a fucking child.

I hated it.

And I loved it.

I swallowed against the tears because I was so happy he was there and even though it didn’t look like it. But a shudder rolled down my spine when I tried to keep it in and Sam gave a low growl and hugged me tighter, kissing my hair.

“Let it out, babe,” he whispered in my ear. “Just let it go. Say what you need to say—whatever’s true. I’m here. I’ll listen. No judgment.”

That was the last straw. I was done. I wailed.

It was so dumb. The whole time I babbled at him about my father, and Christmas, and the court case, and being apart from him, and wanting him, but being scared of needing him, and how what usually worked wasn’t working and I’d been scared of that which was why I’d gone looking for him in the first place and…

And…

And…

And through it all, he just held me. Stroked my hair. Grunted a few times when I talked about a fear, or a pain. And when I stopped talking, he just murmured my name and told me he loved me and we’d get through it.

But every time he said that my head screamed, what if we don’t ?

And it’s my fault!

And no one believes me!

I’d never regretted my past before. Not really. There were choices I’d make differently. People I wouldn’t touch—like the knife guy. But I’d never really regretted my choices, or the reckless ways I’d lived because they got me through.

But now?

No one trusted my judgment.

Everyone thought I was delusional and unhinged.

No one would listen.

I told him that too. And he nodded. “I know.”

“Thank you, Sam,” I wept, burying my face under his jaw. “Thank you for listening.”

“Oh, babe…” his voice was ragged, like he might cry too and that just made me cry more.

I don’t know how long we sat there. But he never stopped stroking me. And he never tired. At some point my sobs turned to hiccups, then to deep breaths that hitched. Then… then I was just laying there with him. Wide awake. Eyes aching. Body exhausted. Mind still spinning but… it was like my thoughts had lost momentum.

The fear was still there, but more distant. A threat to come, rather than an intruder in my home.

I sighed and Sam squeezed me. His lips were moving. He’d been sitting there talking? Silently?

Praying .

I hoped it helped him. He needed help. He deserved help. I wished I could help him more.

I must have said something because he gave a little huff and shook his head, kissing my hair. “Babe, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“That’s impossible.”

“No, it’s not.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, except. “You’re better.”

At some point when I hadn’t been crying for a while, Sam curled me up and lifted me to turn his body and get off the bed. I clung to him, suddenly terrified like a kid in the dark. But he just walked me to the bathroom and, with me still in his arms, rolled back the shower door and turned it on.

“It takes some time to heat up,” I mumbled into his neck .

“Good. I need to get my bag.”

I shouldn’t have tightened my grip—what was I, five? But it seemed like he didn’t want to let go either, because he just stood there for a minute until my grip eased.

“Go get it,” I said, lifting my head and wiping my eyes. “I’ll get in and…”

Without a word, Sam put me slowly down on my feet, but he didn’t let me go, just stood there staring down at me, worry lines creasing his forehead.

“I’m fine,” I half-laughed. He shook his head.

“No, you aren’t,” he said firmly. “But that’s okay. We’re going to get through it. I’ll be right back.”

When he stepped away my hands twitched. I almost pulled him back. But he was just going to get his bag! So I made myself stand there and watch him trot out of the room. When the shower started to steam, I stepped inside and right into the spray.

I stayed on my feet though, which felt like a win. I let the water drench my hair and wash down my body and I kept my eyes closed and remembered he was there and—and a moment later the air chilled on my wet body as the door rolled back again, then a tall, steel warmth came to stand right in front of me, his body pressed against mine.

I opened my eyes to see him watching me. I didn’t know what to say. So I just put a hand to his handsome, stubbled cheek and sighed.

He nodded, then looked past me to the little alcove in the wall that held soap and my travel shower stuff.

To my surprise he used a finger to push bottles aside like he was looking through them. Then he turned back to me, eyes intense, and lifted his hands to my face.

Except, not to my face.

I’d expected a kiss. But his fingers clawed from my temples, back into my hair, shaking it out under the water, his finger tips pressing slow circles into my scalp that felt divine. Then, when my hair was saturated, he took my shampoo from the little alcove and poured a good dollop into his hand.

Rubbing his hands together, his expression stayed concerned as he started massaging it into my hair. His only words were soft instructions to tilt my head, or step forward or back out of the water .

Pretty soon he’d shampooed and conditioned my hair, massaged the nape of my neck several times in the process, and had me standing between his feet while he combed his fingers through my hair and out under the water to rinse it.

I was blushing. There was nothing sexual in what he did—no erotic touches, or wicked flashes in his eyes. Just… care.

He took the shower gel and soaped my neck and shoulders, then down my arms. When he reached my breasts I thought he might offer me heated look, but though he was gentle, there was nothing heated about his touch.

He soaped or rinsed every inch of my body, even kneeling in front of me to wash my feet, urging me to steady myself on his shoulders as he did first one foot, then the other.

He directed me to stay under the water while he quickly soaped himself down, then turned us both to rinse it off, holding me to keep me warm when I was out of the water’s flow.

Then he turned the shower off and led me out to the bathmat.

I wanted to say something. Wanted to reassert that I could think. But when he took one of the towels to dry me—carefully, meticulously—patting, rubbing every inch of my body until at the last he had me tip my head forward so my wet hair didn’t drip on my skin.

Then he twisted a towel around it and flipped it over for me, saying my name softly to urge me to lift my head.

His eyes locked on mine and he stroked my face, letting the tail of the towel drape down my back.

“Just one second, okay?” he murmured.

I nodded, then he stepped back, grabbed another towel and dried himself hurriedly, with not even half the attention he’d given me.

And before I could even feel cold, he was back, sliding his hands around my waist, pressing himself against me, walking me backwards.

He wasn’t hard. He wasn’t grinning. He was just… keeping himself close.

He lifted and turned me, sitting me down on the counter next to the sink, and I had a flashback to that first time he’d taken me home, after Ronald, when he’d cleaned my cuts and …

I swallowed hard and put a hand on his bicep, feeling the strength of his arms, stroking the planes of his chest just to remember the steel of him.

He glanced at me several times, but his bag was open on the other side of the sink. Except this time he didn’t have the first aid kit out.

He pulled out a tub of moisturizer I didn’t recognize, but it smelled divine, and taking a small amount, he massaged it into the skin on my face.

I was stunned.

More moisturizer—from a much larger bottle—and soon he was rubbing it all over my body. Neck. Chest. Arms… he stepped back a little and cupped the back of my knee to lift first one leg, then the other, rubbing that cool moisture into my skin all the way down my feet.

Then he was kneeling again, and he had something else that he massaged into my feet, between my toes, even the soles…

I was almost crying again, but only because it was all so damn sweet.

When he straightened and reached for the towel on my hair, I couldn’t stop staring. He looked around, frowning. Then he opened the drawer next to me and found my comb.

He started combing my hair, starting from the bottom, moving up.

I gaped at him like he was mythical.

He was mythical. He had to be.

This was a hallucination. I’d cracked. I was tied up somewhere in a mental institution and none of this was happening.

Except he leaned in, standing right between my knees, his body brushing mine, his breath fluttering against my skin as he carefully, gently combed through my hair.

“Sam… how do you even know how to do this stuff?” I whispered.

He shrugged. “I learned.”

My chest went tight again and he froze, looking down at me. “Bridget, what—”

“All those other women.” I swallowed hard. He didn’t move, but his frown lines appeared.

“What? No. Babe, no. ”

I waved a hand, but the little chuckle in my throat was too high to be natural and he knew it. “It’s fine. I know—”

But I’d looked away and Sam caught my chin and turned my head back, leaning in until we were almost nose to nose, and he filled my vision. “Bridget, they taught me skills. But I’ve never touched anyone the way I touch you. Ever.”

His intensity soothed me. I almost told him then, about the burning jealousy I’d felt when he described those other hunts, those other relationships, and their trust in him.

I got it. I got it really well. They were right to have trusted him.

Was this what he did? Did he fall in love and make them heal… then he left?

Sam stared down at me, shaking his head. “Don’t do that,” he murmured. “I’m here, Bridge. I’m here with you.”

I nodded, but then my breath caught because he slipped his arms around me and lifted me up again, carrying me back into the bedroom.

My core fluttered and I curled an arm around his neck, kissing the side of his neck as he carried me back into the bedroom.

I thought he’d take me back to bed, and we’d make love again, and maybe this time I could do it without crying. But to my surprise, when Sam faced the bed, it was only to look over his shoulder and back himself into the plush chair in the corner. Then he settled into it, leaning my back against the arm, carefully lifting each of my legs and hooking them over the opposite arm, then pulling me against his chest.

He flattened a hand on my head and pressed me against his shoulder.

A moment later, he sighed, and tipped his head against mine. Then I sighed and let him take all my weight.

For a long time we sat like that. I stared at his hand cupped under my thigh, his fingers just tight enough to press into the soft skin, but not to hurt. But I couldn’t stop staring at the tendons on his hand, and those lines in his forearm and…

Strong.

He was strong.

And he held me like I was as breakable as fine china.

So tender. So sweet. So impossibly good .

Why couldn’t anyone else see it? Why couldn’t any of the other men in my life who claimed to care, see him?

With another sigh, I tipped my head up and kissed his neck—softly this time.

His hand at my back, and the other on my leg both tightened a little. “I love you, Bridget,” he rumbled softly.

“I know. I love you too.”

“I’m so glad you called. Always call, babe. Always. Don’t ever leave me like that again.”

And even though I couldn’t quite say it, I meant it.

I won’t. I can’t.

We were both so fucking screwed. But at least we were screwed together.