Page 93 of Bloom

There’s a long pause between Hunter’s last breath and his next. His heavy exhale has the force of a stiff wind, the sharpsound of him kissing his teeth like ringing in my ears. “You broke your ankle.”

I hum. “Jackson’s grandparents deemed it a safety hazard after that. Boarded it up and forbade us from coming back here.”

That guilt ate away at me for a long, long time. Because of my clumsiness, I robbed myself and my friends of a safe place. I spent the last few weeks of that summer trapped in my house, the boot on my foot making it impossible to cycle to the ranch and forcing me to listen to my dad’s drunken ramblings.

Pressure on the back of my head makes me frown, only explained when I feel breath on the nape of my neck and realize that it’s Hunter burying his face in my hair. “Jesus, Caroline.”

“What?”

He pulls away, circling around to stare down at me. “You told me aboutratsbefore you told me about fallin’ through a fuckin’ floor.”

I shift, the sharpness in his gaze making me uneasy. “So?”

“On a scale of important information, you rankratsbefore you seriously injurin’ yourself?”

A flush creeps up my neck. “They were pretty big rats.Mutantrats.”

The razor-like edge to his stare relents, but it’s still so intense I squirm, I have to look away, have to busy myself doing something else, but that something else is… well, stripping. And I can’t. Literally and metaphorically. My damn jeans won’t come off because my freaking hands won’t stop shaking, and the feeling of wet denim scratching my legs is seriously making me want to cry.

That urge, however, evaporates when far steadier hands bat mine away. When my grip on the top button of my jeans is replaced by someone else’s, with fingers far larger than mine yet they guide that miniscule piece of metal free with ease. They move to my zipper next, but pause for a gruff, “Okay?”

I… I nod. I barely hesitate. Because I need to be out of these wet clothes, of course. Not because that hand is making my stomach clench in a very good way. In a way I haven’t felt in so long, I almost forgot what it felt like—I almost can’t place it.

It takes less than a second to unzip me, but it feels longer. Maybe it is longer. Maybe Hunter really does take his time, and I don’t imagine things moving in slow motion. Maybe I don’t imagine the sharp intake of breath when my panties come into view either. Or the tug that drags my jeans down a little, exposes more of the peach-colored cotton beneath.

Hunter huffs. There’s movement in my peripheral, and I think if I looked up, I’d see him dragging a hand down his face. I’m about to confirm, but then he drops.

Into a crouch.

Eye-level with my panties.

But his eyes stay on my face, watching as he eases off my boots before peeling the clinging denim down my legs, deliberately slow in a way I don’t think has anything to do with the tight fit.

An eternity later, they’re a puddle around my ankles. Fingers wrap around a calf, lifting to guide my foot free, and I wobble. My hands go to his shoulder, one of his clamps around my thighs, and I stop breathing.

Hunter stops looking at me. Just for a second, his gaze drops to the scrap of fabric between my thighs, and I wonder why, today of all days, I chose to wear a skimpy thong that leaves nothing to the imagination. Breathing so deeply his nostrils flare, a red tint creeps up his neck, disappearing beneath his beard and flushing high across his cheekbones.

He stands abruptly. When he grunts, “Turn around,” I don’t even think about it. In a haze, I obey, not registering that I’m presenting my bare freaking ass until a hand lands so low on my hip, a calloused thumb grazes my buttcheek.

We both suck in a breath. We both hold it for a long, long time. But while my hands stay tightly fisted at my sides, one of his rises. Rubs the thin string of my thong between a thumb and a forefinger. Teases it higher until it sits above the curve of my hip bone, a pull I feel between my clenched thighs. Then, the touch is gone. Moving. Skating higher, smoothing over my ribs where a second hand joins it.

Fingers curl beneath the band of my bra, and Hunter asks again, “Okay?”

This time, I don’t give in quite as readily. When I hesitate, I feel the chest at my back expand and deflate before it disappears, a rush of muggy air replacing it. I start to turn around, stopping when something lands on my shoulder—a dry, clean t-shirt, I realize when I hold it up. Hunter’s, if the size is anything to go by.

“I’m not lookin’,” he reassures me, the words deep and strained. “Just takin’ it off. Then you can put this on.”

For a brief, silly moment, I contemplate what’s worse; taking what’s probably his only spare change of clothes and spending the next however many hours trapped with a shirtless Hunter, or me being the shirtless one. Thankfully, common sense kicks in.

With a quick nod, I let Hunter yank the sports bra over my head. I shiver as warm fingertips trace the length of my naked spine before disappearing, and I hurriedly pull on my borrowed shirt before the sight of my own damn nipples, hard for reasons far more complex than the temperature, sends me into cardiac arrest.

The full-body tremors making me quiver have nothing to do with the cold either. In fact, I’m not cold at all.

I’m hot. Very hot.

Bothered.

I turn around, shirt hem fisted between my white-knuckled fingers, and it gets worse. Because Hunter’s gaze drops to my chest. And I don’t quite cross my arms quickly enough.

---