Page 74 of All of You

She was all fire, her lips slightly parted, her eyes almost glassy with heat, the color in her cheeks darker now. She moved back and opened the door wider, and I stepped inside, renewing the vow I’d made to myself, promising myself that I wasn’t the kind of man who’d take what he wanted in that moment, demanding my fingers not reach out and pull the towel away and watch those little drops of water continue their journey down a body I wanted to the point of pain.

I walked past her, hands clenched and shoved into my pockets to keep them from acting on their own, and made my way to the couch, where I stood and looked out the window. Then I realized her drapes were open and she was standing there in a towel, so I jerked them closed.

Mercifully, when I turned around, she was gone.

Whit

Had a man ever looked at me like that?

Ever?

Yes, of course I’d been wanted. I’d been looked at and told I was desirable—sometimes with flattering language, sometimes with words so debasing, I needed a shower and a therapy session after.

But that moment with Ben…

I took a shuddering breath and blew it out, counting. I slowed my heart, calmed my mind, pulled up my jeans, fastened my bra, pulled on a T-shirt. I towel-dried my hair and combed it, ran the towel over it again.

I shouldn’t have answered the door. Honestly, I’d thought it was Nikki with a reminder. I’d finished my training session with Kendra and jumped in the shower so I’d be ready for Ben. I was fast enough to run a few minutes early. Somehow, I’d forgotten that he almost always ran early, and I hadn’t been expecting him to come right to my door. But Nikki had been distracted, had probably just sent him up, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t knocked.

The worst part was, I didn’t want him to clench his fists and walk away. I wanted him to let himself have what he so clearly wanted—what we both did. Maybe that was the difference in how it felt to be looked at, and how it felt to be looked at by him.

I shook away the thought, knowing that wasn’t going anywhere helpful. We hadn’t talked about it directly, and though I wanted to, we had other things to deal with today, and admittedly, no time to take that other path, as much as I also wanted to.

“Hey.” I moved across the room to where he was staring at the closed curtains.

“You need to close your curtains. Some creeper with a long-range lens could have seen you,” he said, his shoulders hunched and arms crossed.

“Okay.”

No point in arguing with him—no point in reminding him that the hedges, the trees, the fence around the property, that all those things would keep people out, and if they didn’t, the blinds would, and if they didn’t, the fact the window was a good thirty feet from where I was standing and the angle wouldn’t work would prevent someone. None of those things would matter, and it wasn’t worth arguing.

He must have been surprised by my lack of comment, so he turned, his gaze sliding over my jeans, shirt, face, hair again, not all the heat gone from his look. He held out his hand, like he needed me to agree to his touching me. If only he knew how much I agreed.

He took my hand in his warm one and stepped to me. He set the back of my left hand into the palm of his left one, then ran his right finger over the callouses.

“I love your hands.” He sounded gruff.

My voice, usually my power tool of choice, lost itself somewhere as his eyes and fingers studied my hand. I’d always loved my hands, too. I’d known from a young age they were the key to making music—first piano, then guitar and violin and fiddle.

“They’ve been insured since I was eight.”

His head lifted, and he raised a brow. He knew enough about my parents that he wasn’t all that surprised. His finger tip traveled from the pad of my index finger to the base of my thumb, traced up to the end of my middle finger, then the dip in my palm. His gentle exploration of my hand was sending every sense and thought flying around my head.

“So many expectations piled on you,” he said, almost like he was talking to himself.

I swallowed, nodded, watched.

“And now?” he asked, his voice still that low, toe-curling rumble I’d rarely heard from him.

This version of Ben Holder was the stealth one, no doubt. Less casual, less controlled, and one hundred percent irresistible to me.

“Still are.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the insurance, or the expectations. I wasn’t sure if I was, either. Both were true.

Slowly, he brought my hand to his chest and pressed it over his heart, where I could feel the muffled thump of his heartbeat. He held my hand there with both his hands and just looked at me, almost too long, until he said, “I hope you know, whatever happens this week, I’m really proud of you.”

Tears immediately pricked my eyes, making me press my lips together hard to fight off the answering sob yearning to be released. He was so sweet, so unconditional, and it was beautiful and destructive to me.

I pushed against his chest and let my hand drop when he released it, then summoned a smile and cleared my throat. “I need to tell you a bit about next weekend so you know what to expect.”

---