Page 104 of Opening Strain

About five minutes later, my cell pings. I pick it up and wince. It’s from 007:

No fucking way. Luke just told us you’re bringing Jenna on tour. I refuse to let that woman near me. What are you thinking?

I consider my response. While I want to tell him she’s mine now, I’m sure his allegiance to Darren won’t let him believe my truth. Instead, I type:

She’s my physical therapist and I’m still not healed. I need her.

Find another therapist!

We’ve been working together for two weeks. She’s really good. Remember how fast she got Darren back to touring?

And dead

I’m not taking any meds

Three dots bounce then stop. Twice. Finally, I get another text:

I don’t want her on the tour

She’s great at her job. Don’t you want me to have the best possible care?

Dude

Sensing I’m getting through to him without explaining my feelings toward Jenna, I make my closing argument:

She’s not how you remember her. She’s quieter. I’m sure she’ll keep to herself. Besides, she’s not responsible for Darren’s death.You know this.

Or I’ll keep her locked with me. 007 doesn’t need to know this until we’re touring.

I still don’t like it

I take this as a win and don’t bother to respond. All I need now is to convince her that this tour is the best thing for her. And us.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Iwalk into the primary suite and it’s quiet. If only she would’ve showered in here. I’d wash her back—and more.

Shucking my clothes, I open the bathroom door and stop short. Jenna, covered in bubbles, blinks. She leans forward, “I thought I’d be done before you got here. Your bathtub was so inviting and there’s only a shower in my room.”

If I didn’t have any sexual restrictions, I would climb into the bathtub and make her scream my name in passion. Several times. I consider this option for a split second before shaking my head. No way am I healed enough to maneuver the high-lipped tub, let alone do anything more pleasurable.

Her eyes home in on my cock, which bounces in greeting. Her mouth drops open.

I strut to the tub. Dropping my voice to a low tenor, I rumble, “If my therapy was further along, I’d join you. You’d always remember my bathtub afterward.”

Her cheeks flush.

I sit on the ledge. “Another reason you have to come with UC ontour. Who knows how many bathtubs we could christen.” My hand plunges under the water to land on her leg. Her breathing hitches. “I could make you feel so good right now, though. Can I do that for you?” I trail my fingers toward her knee.

“You need to shower.”

“Later. After I’m done with you, so long as you join me.” I have no illusion this will happen, but—hey—nothing ventured, nothing gained, as they say.

Her legs swing shut, trapping my palm between them. She wails, “What are you doing to me?” Her head rests against the towel on the back of the tub.

I can take a hint. I reposition myself so I’m not in any danger of reinjuring myself. Using my free hand, I close the distance between our mouths in a kiss that’s as wild as it is unrestrained. My other hand inches upward until my finger slips between her folds. Even though she’s covered in bubbles, I’m sure she’s wet because of me.

My fingers mimic how our tongues dance. I slide into her opening while my thumb circles her clit. Around her, the water moves as if it’s a living thing, causing bubbles to flow into my chest and onto the marble floor. I don’t care. The only thing that matters is making her feel good.

---