Page 56 of Lesson In Forgiveness

“Good girl. Now, unzip the onesie as I asked, and take it off to the waist. I’ll keep the blanket in place.”

The trembles started first. Though he waited patiently, she felt his command like a hand fisting around her stomach. She reached for the zipper hidden at the base of her throat and gently eased it along the tracks, wincing when the noise seemed thunderous. Between her breasts, down her belly, until it jarred to a halt near her pubic mound.

Ever the gentleman, one hand keeping the blanket in front of her as promised, Grit used his other to help peel the material over her shoulders, her arms, until she sat on his lap, bared to the waist, with only a thin shield of fabric between her and the room.

“So obedient. Such a good girl. Lean back against me, little tiger, and take the blanket.”

The screen on the wall lit with a daylight scene.

Elias glanced over at them, curiosity flashing in his eyes before awareness took over. A small smile curved his mouth when he shot her a wink, then he returned his attention to the television.

Grit’s shirt felt soft on her skin, the heat of him searing into her back from her tense shoulders to where the onesie bunched up around her waist. He was so big in a lot of ways—not in size like Evander but the breadth of his shoulders, the width of his chest. The thickness of his thighs beneath her, the sheer power in his arms.

Surrounded by all that strength, all that power, she felt safe.

Maybe she really was insane, she mused, inhaling slowly and fisting the blanket in both hands, bringing them under her chin. Trusting him this way, permitting him to do things she’d never dream of even discussing with a different man.

Hah, any other man, she’d have skinned and scalped by now.

Her breathing sounded ridiculously loud, the hitch in its rhythm too obvious when Grit’s hands slid under the blanket and rested, one above the other, on her belly. The warmth of their touch felt like a brand, burning deep into her muscles.

“Relax and watch the show, Tabby.” His stubbled chin dropped to her shoulder. “I won’t let the monsters get you. Can you feel me breathe, little tiger? Match yours to mine. Slow. Easy. There’s nothing to be afraid of here.”

Eyes blindly fixed on the screen, she obeyed. Despite her rebellion against her father, her stepmother, the world in general, Tabitha knew that the habit to comply was so deeply ingrained in her, it might as well be carved into her bones. She could fight it, and she did, every day of her life, but there were some men who—like her brother and his ilk—possessed an innate talent that could override her carefully crafted guards.

As Grit’s chest rose and pressed fully into her back, she forced herself to suck in a breath. When it fell away again, she exhaled slowly, not quite managing to match the pace. It turned into a kind of game; how many seconds he breathed in for, how many he breathed out. Trying to keep the same rhythm.

Beneath her breast, her heart kicked against her ribs every time one of the weird things on the TV spoke in their odd voices, merging into her father’s without encouragement.

Her belly jerked when Grit’s topmost hand moved, nothing more than his thumb making sweeping strokes over her skin. She’d almost forgotten they were there.

His voice rumbled through her. “Doing good, little tiger. Keep those claws sheathed, okay, and focus on the breathing.”

Both of those heavy, calloused hands skimmed up her body, over her breasts, to cover her upper chest. The slight ridges on his palms and fingers from working undercover on the construction crew sensitized her skin, shooting sparks through her nervous system, all arrowing between her legs.

TV forgotten, breathing abandoned, Tabitha went rigid. Braced for pain, for his demeanor to change, she clenched her jaw tight.

“Not much trust here today,” he said with a disappointed tsk. “Thought we were making better headway than this. Nothing I’m going to do will hurt you, Tabitha.”

Her lips parted, poised to speak, but he began stroking her with only his fingertips, gliding back and forth along her collarbones, tracing the bony ridges under her skin. The balls of her shoulders, the contours of her biceps, the points of her elbows.

When she fully relaxed, he kissed the side of her neck again, right where it made her knees weak. “Heading further south now. You know your safeword.”

How far south? Was he talking Titsville or crossing over the border to the great state of Sexington? Even as she shook her head, her dry mouth trying to form the words to tell him to wait, her breasts—small and nowhere near attractive in her opinion—were engulfed by his hands.

Swallowed up, enveloped, captured… whatever word she thought of, it fit her situation.

She cursed hoarsely under her breath, embarrassed by the tightening of her nipples as they budded into his touch. He held her breasts reverently, supporting their slight weight as he caged them in his grasp.

She swore his fingerprints were burning into her skin, marking her as his.

“Tabby, relax. Am I hurting you?”

He wasn’t, but then he knew that. A man like him was aware of what he was doing at all times, and the reactions he caused. Even if he made a mistake, miscalculated, he just took responsibility, apologized, and recalculated his next move.

Take now, for instance. Somehow he’d mapped her body, stuck pins in it where her known triggers were, and was carefully navigating where to set his hands without sending her into a meltdown. He was learning how much pressure he could funnel through his palms, how hard he could stroke and press and pinch.

He knew all that because he kept pushing her, guiding her, bringing her up onto her toes to face the hell of her past and see through it to a future.

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