Page 108 of Eight Count Heat
"Sorry about that," I murmur, though I'm not sorry at all.
"I'm not complaining." His hand slides up from my stomach to brush against the underside of my breast, the touch gentle but intentional. "How are you feeling? Heat still bad?"
I take inventory. The fever has broken. My scent has mellowed from desperate to merely interested. My thoughts are clearer than they've been since this whole mess started.
"Better. Not good, but better."
"The Alpha pheromones helped stabilize you." He can probably smell the change, the way my biology has settled into temporary equilibrium.
"They did." I turn in his arms, studying his face in the morning light. "Thank you. For all of it."
Something shifts in his expression. "Don't thank me like I did you some kind of favor."
"Didn't you?"
"Reese." His voice drops, taking on that commanding edge that made me melt last night. "What happened between us wasn't charity."
"I know that." But do I? The heat makes everything complicated, blurs the lines between want and need, choice and compulsion.
"Do you?" He shifts closer, close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips. "Because right now, your heat is under control. Your suppressants kicked in enough to give you clarity. And I still want you just as much as I did last night."
The declaration hangs between us, loaded with implications I'm not sure I'm ready to handle. "Bo..."
"Tell me something," he says, fingers tracing the line of my jaw. "Before rowing. Before your family decided what you should become. What did you want?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people ask about goals, achievements, the future. Bo wants to know about dreams I gave up.
"That's random."
"Humor me."
I study his face, looking for the angle, the manipulation. But there's nothing except genuine curiosity and something that might be affection.
"Marine biology." The admission feels strange on my tongue. "I wanted to study sea turtles."
His face lights up like I've told him I wanted to cure cancer. "Sea turtles?"
"Migration patterns. Breeding habits. Conservation efforts." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "I had this whole plan to move to Costa Rica, live on the beach, save the world one turtle at a time."
"What happened?"
"Reality. My father explained that marine biology wasn't a 'practical career' for someone with my advantages. That Ineeded to think bigger. Business. Finance. Something that would leverage the family name."
Bo's thumb traces my lower lip. "How old were you?"
"Eight. But old enough to understand disappointment when I saw it in his eyes."
"His loss." The simple statement carries absolute conviction. "You would have been brilliant at it."
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Because you see patterns everywhere. Because you think three moves ahead. Because you care about things deeply, even when you pretend not to." His hand cups my face. "Same qualities that make you an incredible cox."
The assessment is too perceptive, too close to the bone. I deflect. "Your turn. What's your deepest, darkest secret?"
He considers this, and for a moment I think he'll deflect too. Then his expression grows serious.
"I almost lost my sister when she was six. She fell off the dock at our lake house while I was supposed to be watching her. Got distracted by some girl in a bikini instead of doing my job."
