Page 24 of The Chief (Those (Damn!) Texas Dantes #3)

SHE TRIED to sit up an hour later, too fast, too proud. Cade was already moving.

“Whoa, hey.”

“I’m fine,” she lied, breath catching as she winced.

“Bullshit.” He crouched beside her, one arm braced to steady her as she tried again, more careful this time. “You got shot, Elise. You don’t bounce back from that overnight.”

“Didn’t realize you had a medical degree,” she said, her voice edged with something that wasn’t quite sarcasm. Something that shimmered and pulsed. Her gaze flicked down his chest, then back up. “Or maybe just a thing for bossing me around while your hands are all over me?”

“I don’t. Just eyes. Okay, and hands.” He let that settle between them, his gaze dropping to her mouth for one heartbeat too long. “Hands that know exactly where to touch. And eyes that can’t stop looking at you.”

His tone remained level, but there was heat under it, restrained, simmering. The kind that told her not to push. So, for once, she didn’t.

Cade helped her out of bed. He moved carefully, treating her like she was something precious but breakable, like that bandage on her side was the only thing holding her together.

She hated how much she liked it. Hated the way her body leaned into his, just enough so his strength wrapped around her.

The scent of him, clean soap and something darker, threaded through her, and her skin prickled where his hand lingered a breath too long.

She shouldn’t be thinking about his hands, or the fire simmering beneath his skin, or how badly she wanted to rest her head against his chest. But it was there.

Sharp. Intrusive. And so damn hard to ignore.

“Sit,” he said, guiding her to the chair by the window, where a towel, a bottle of antiseptic solution, and fresh bandages sat waiting on a small table beside it. He took a moment to wash his hands, then returned to her. “Gown off.”

She raised an eyebrow, her voice edged with something coy. “You offering to play nurse? Or is this just an excuse to get my clothes off?”

“Something like that.”

She peeled the gown up with a grimace, breath catching as the cotton dragged over the bandage, and over bare skin beneath. She wasn’t wearing anything else. No bra. No panties. Nothing but that shift, now clutched in her hands as it slipped free over her head.

Cade didn’t flinch or falter, but his nostrils flared slightly as more of her was revealed. His eyes darkened, heat rippling through him like a wave he barely managed to ride. He didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

His touch was steady, clinical, but with restraint in it, tight and barely leashed.

She could see it in the way his mouth firmed, the way his breath shortened, the way his fingers lingered a heartbeat longer than necessary as he unwrapped the bandage.

Her skin buzzed beneath his hand, her breath hitching when his knuckles skimmed just a little too close to places he didn’t mean to touch.

But God, she wanted him to. Despite that, he held back, and it made something deep and hungry in her twist in response.

He finished unwrapping the gauze carefully, intently, like each layer stripped something away from him as well.

When he reached the wound, his gaze narrowed, not just at the stitched flesh, but at the soft skin around it.

Her hip. Her stomach. The gentle slope of her breast. All of it bared to him, to his hands. To his hunger.

He didn’t move an inch he didn’t have to.

And she could sense every ounce of control wound tight beneath his skin.

He was holding himself in check, his breathing slow and shallow, his touch cautious.

But the heat in his eyes told a different story.

A storm just beneath the surface. The burden of it pressed against her skin, not with force, but with promise.

He was close. Too close. And yet somehow still not close enough.

“It’s looking better,” he said quietly as he dabbed the gauze in antiseptic and swept it carefully along the edges of the wound.

His fingers were firm, but gentle, and Elise fought not to shiver at the contrast. “Still swollen and red,” he continued, brushing the last trace of dried blood away with maddening precision, “but clean and clearly healing.”

He reached for a fresh bandage, and as his fingers pressed it gently into place, his gaze lingered on her skin, her breath, the way she trembled under his hands, and something unspoken sparked between them, hotter than pain, sharper than fear.

“Good. That means I can get back to—”

“No.”

Her eyes flicked up. “No?”

“You’re not doing anything until I say you’re ready.”

“Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

“You don’t. But you have my protection. And that comes with boundaries.”

The way he said it, firm and final, set something off in her chest. Not resistance.

Not quite submission either. Just heat. Vital and slow-burning, coiling deep and steady.

Tangled with frustration, defiance, and a sharp awareness of him, his nearness, his authority, his hands on her body, if only to bandage a wound.

She held his gaze. “You always this bossy?”

He leaned in, his voice a murmur. “Only when I give a damn.”

A beat passed. Her breath caught, but she didn’t look away.

He finished rewrapping the wound and straightened, hands brushing hers before pulling back.

But almost reluctant. His knuckles skimmed her thigh on the way, and it wasn’t accidental.

The contact lingered. Her breath caught.

Heat flashed between them again, and this time, she didn’t hide from it. Didn’t look away.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “Not anymore.”

He stood, stepped toward the wardrobe, and pulled open the doors. It took him only a moment to find what he needed, something soft and loose and airy. A pale sundress. A matching pair of panties. A simple bra. Nothing lacy or seductive. Just easy. Comfortable. Something she could move in.

He carried them to her like they were precious, like they meant something.

She reached for the panties first, but her body still ached, her movements stiff.

He didn’t ask. Just knelt again and helped guide them up her legs, careful not to press too close, though every brush of his fingers over her thighs made her breath tremble.

When the fabric cleared her hips, he let her take over, stepping back just enough to give her privacy.

But not so far he couldn’t reach her, help her.

The bra came next, well above her wound. Her hands fumbled. He stilled them gently, then slid the straps over her shoulders, his knuckles grazing skin that still burned from his earlier touch. He hooked it in back with an efficiency that only made her pulse quicken.

Finally, the dress. He lifted it, and she raised her arms. The fabric slipped down over her gradually, like a hush. Like a promise.

His fingers skimmed her waist as he adjusted the fit, and she swore the air thickened. Her whole body pulled taut.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she. There wasn’t room in her throat for anything but the warmth of him, wrapping around her like a second skin.

He stepped back. Barely.

Then stopped. Looked at her. Not just at her wound or her dress or the way she trembled slightly from pain or effort. He looked at her like he’d already made up his mind. Like he couldn’t not.

He reached for her hand, lifted her gently to her feet.

And then he kissed her.

There was no hesitation in it. No apology.

Just need. Hunger. Just the gravity of every moment they’d lived through, crashing into the moment they finally let go.

His mouth crushed against hers with a quiet desperation, one hand at her jaw, the other sliding around her.

Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer because she had to, because there was nothing else that made sense.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful.

It was everything. No yesterday. No tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

Just her.

Colliding like every second apart had been a leisurely unraveling. And this, finally, was the stitch pulling them back together.

She opened to him like she’d been waiting her whole life to be claimed, her mouth hungry, her body arching into his like it belonged nowhere else. Cade growled deep in his throat, a sound she sensed more than heard, and his hands fanned out over her back, her hips, pulling her flush against him.

His mouth slanted over hers again, deeper now, devouring.

Her breathing stuttered, her knees buckling slightly, and he caught her, one arm banding around her to keep her upright as his other hand fisted the fabric of her dress.

Every nerve in her body pulsed with desire, demanding more, of him, of this, of everything they hadn’t yet taken.

She didn’t realize she was shaking until he pulled back, just enough to see her face. “Elise—shit.” His eyes searched hers, suddenly tight with worry. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, breathless, voice wrecked. “No. Not from that.” Her fingers curled in his shirt again, tugging. “From this. From you. I want you so bad it hurts.”

And it did. It burned. It begged. And for the first time in forever, she wasn’t afraid of her craving for it.

But he was already easing back, his hands gentling as she pulled him closer. His forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged, heart pounding hard against her chest.

“Elise.” Just her name, raw and unsteady. “I want you. God, I want you. But not like this. Not when you’re still hurting.”

Her fingers curled tighter in his shirt, her lips brushing the edge his face. “I’m not afraid of the pain.”

His eyes burned into hers. “I am. You deserve every second of this, without pain muddying the edges. And I won’t take you while any part of you still aches.”

She inhaled sharply, throat thick. It wasn’t rejection. It was restraint. Fierce and tender. And somehow, it made her want him all the more.