“I know,” he replies. “But I should point out that might be the only part of me that didn’t get the shit kicked out of it last night.”
“I’m glad you know how to protect what’s important,” I deadpan, and am rewarded with a twitch of his lips. “Now sit.”
He does, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. I pull his slacks and briefs the rest of the way off, and then his socks. When he’s naked, I silently indicate that he should lay down.
He doesn’t, though. He stays upright, looking right at me. “You didn’t tell me,” he says. “The press. Calling you about me. You should have told me.”
I lick my lips, then lift a shoulder in a small shrug. “Just a couple of calls when I went in to work yesterday morning. The resort is their angle, so of course they’d want a comment from the project manager, especially since Damien was away.”
“You didn’t give them one.” His mouth curves up, almost into a smile.
“Not one damn word.” Now it’s my turn to grin. “You heard Damien. The official response is ‘no comment.’”
“And if there was no official response?”
I step forward to take his hand. “I’d never say a word to them about you. About anything.”
He leans forward, resting his forehead against my chest as he breathes. Just breathes. His skin is hot to the touch, and I have to resist the urge to tilt his head back and check for fever. I already know what is wrong with him. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically. He needs to sleep. But I can also see that he needs to get out whatever is on his mind.
So I stand there, perfectly still. And I wait.
“I don’t like my demons pushing up against you.” He sits up straight so that he can look at me. “I don’t like you having to carry my shit.”
“I don’t mind.”
A muscle twitches in his cheek. “I do.”
“Yeah? Well then you’re an idiot, Jackson Steele.”
He lifts a brow in surprise. Frankly, I’m a little surprised myself. But I forge on. “Everything you said to me—about helping me. About being there for me to work through all the baggage that comes with what Reed did to me. All of that is important. And just knowing that you’ve got my back makes me feel good. No, it’s more than that. It makes me stronger.”
I kneel on the floor in front of him. I’m still holding his hand, but I put my other one on his knee. “Don’t you get it? I want to be there for you, too. I want to be the one who helps make you stronger. Who helps you carry it all.”
As I speak, I realize I’m not even talking about the damn calls from the press anymore. Those were nuisances, nothing more. No, I’m talking about the bruises. The fighting.
I’m talking about the fact that he ran from me instead of to me.
And, yes, I know that I was the one who fired him. Intellectually, I get that. Emotionally, I want this man in my arms.
Very gently, I reach up and brush his cheek, just beneath where the wound has split open again. “When I told you what Bob did to me—when you learned about the nightmares and why I pushed you away in Atlanta and the stories behind all of my tattoos—you asked me if I’d ever seen a therapist.”
“You said no.”
“And you said that if I wouldn’t talk to someone professional, that you’d be my therapy.” I take the pad of my thumb and brush it gently over his lower lip, enjoying this soft intimacy. “I want to be your therapy, too.”
He makes a scoffing sound. “Baby, I needed to bust something. You can look at me and see the shit I had to get out of my system. Do you really think I’m going to go there with you?”
I let my gaze drift over him, taking in his perfect body that has been so abused. Lingering on each mark, each scrape, each bruise. I can claim them all, because it was my words that had him lashing out. My words that triggered the explosion.
“Yes,” I say. And then I lift my eyes to his. “Yes,” I repeat.
His expression hardens, and he shakes his head. He starts to speak, but I cut him off.
“I will give you whatever you need, Jackson, that’s a promise.” My chest feels full, and I’m having to push the words out. I want him to comprehend this. To truly get it. “Do you think I don’t understand going wild? Pushing hard? Have you forgotten about Louis? About all the initials I have inked on my thigh?”
Slowly—gently—I brush my fingertip over the bruises on his chest. I watch the way his skin shifts and tightens in response to my touch. “These should be mine, Jackson,” I whisper. “Whatever relief you get from pounding away on another man, I should have been the one giving it to you.”