Page 53 of Saddles

An errant hair tickles my nose making me shift.

I guess I’m not really as tired anymore. All I can focus on ishim.

These lines and swirls of his tattoos turn to braille as I trace them, erupting goosebumps in my trail.

Did the blanket over his hips just twitch? Maybe I should check and see…

His hot hand covers mine, and one gray eye cracks open to look down over his whiskers at me.

“Morning. Feeling better?” He holds my fingers in a death grip as he swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, then he pins my palm to the comforter.

“I am, thanks. I feel like an idiot though.” For so many reasons.

The biggest seems to be the fact he doesn’t want to be touched. Slipping my hand from beneath his, I stretch it out under the pillow.

“Why?” He shakes his head and drags the towel from the edge to slide around his waist.

He was still naked?

The pale round muscles of his ass flash before he snugs it in place.

Well.

That was entirely pleasant. I hope his wrap slips off.

“For making you feel guilty for something that you had no control over. It isn’t your fault what happened to me…or Sarah,” I add quietly.

He freezes with his boxers half raised. “Except, she was my fault.”

Hardly.

My hand snakes out to prop my head up. “Do you think that she’d want you to be miserable forever? I mean, I get having moments, like I did. But everyday for the rest of your life?”

His towel bunches as he shimmies himself into his boxers. Facing away from me, he steps into a fresh pair of jeans.

Only once the zipper is up does he turn back.

“It’s different,” he growls. After filling the kettle, he grabs a thermal shirt and shrugs it on.

“How? A bunch of assholes did that, and you’re paying for it forever. Another group hurt me. Should I swear off men for the rest of my life because of them?” This has me sitting up and pulling my knees under me.

“Wouldn’t they be winning if it kept us beat down?” The fire in my belly is shifting to pain that has tears welling in my eyes.

Damn it, no. I’m not crying again.

He stops, pursing his lips and scratching his jaw. After opening the door for Roscoe to jet outside into the snow, he turns to meet my stare. “I have an obligation to find justice for her.”

My pulse pounds in my ears as a profound rage courses through me. “So you only live for revenge?” I can’t help my voice climbing three octaves. “Is that all I should do, too?”

His dark brows furrow and he steps closer. “No, that isn’t it.” He squeezes his eyes shut and runs his palm over his face before he tilts his chin to the ceiling. “Maybe that is it.”

From the slump of his shoulders, and the melancholy in his words, I know he feels defeated.

“Kiss me, Ford,” I whisper. “Let’s give them all a big giant ‘fuck you’ and live a little.”

The pale gray of his eyes are cavernous glaciers as they fix on my mouth. “I shouldn’t.”

It’s almost as if he’s speaking to himself, and not me.

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