Page 44 of They Are Mine

Because he’s good. Thoughtful. The kind of man who doesn’t expect to be taken care of, even when he desperately needs it.

I stop in the doorway, fingers lightly tapping against the frame.

He’s sitting on the bed, hunched forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed like his mind is still back at the wreckage of his apartment.

When he glances up at me, my breath catches.

He looks so vulnerable. So tired.

And I’m going to take full advantage of him.

I soften my expression, let my voice go gentle, warm, inviting. “I thought you might be restless,” I murmur. Not quite innocent, not quite seductive. Somewhere in between.

I might have missed the mark.

But he’s not wearing a shirt.

And, fuck.

Just lounge pants.

And he wears them well.

“This is a pretty shitty way for our second date to go,” he says, voice rough, tinged with something tired and bitter.

No, love.

“Don’t think like that,” I say, stepping inside.

I move slowly, closing the space between us.

Then, at the last second, I circle behind him, climbing onto the bed, settling against the pillows.

Like this is casual. Like I’m not aching to touch him.

I reach forward, fingers ghosting over his bare shoulder, warm and firm beneath my touch.

“Come here,” I murmur. “I’ll rub your back.”

Because I just need to get my damn hands on him.

Noah leans into my touch immediately.

His breath leaves him in a quiet, exhausted sigh, his shoulders sinking, his body giving in.

Oh, baby.

That’s right.

Let me take care of you.

My hands press into his muscles, fingers kneading into the warm, solid tension of him.

He’s so firm under my touch.

So broad. Strong.

I press my thumbs down the curve of his shoulders, rubbing deep, and he groans.

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