Instant Attraction
Page 50
But found.
Found, right there in the dark, damp aftermath, against the door, gently cradled by the strong, silent Cameron Wilder, the man who, in spite of her promise to the contrary, she’d most definitely begun to fall for.
Cam woke up suddenly in the dark. He and Katie hadn’t managed to get more than a few feet from the front door, where they’d made some wild crazy love that he was still exhausted from, and were sprawled together on the couch. A tight fit, but he realized she was crying, sobbing, as if her heart had broken, which was what had woken him. “Katie?”
“No.” Her voice was raw and filled with wrenching grief, writhing as if held back by something. “No, they’re not dead, they’re not, they’re just trapped.”
He pulled her in tight, stroking her damp hair back from her face. “Katie, you’re dreaming.”
“They’re not dead.” She dug her fingers into his pecs. “Please don’t let them all be dead!”
“Baby, come on. Wake up.”
Her eyes flew open and she went stiff in his arms, breathing like she’d been running a marathon.
“Just a dream,” he repeated softly, and when she jerked out of his arms, he reached past her to turn on the lamp.
Her eyes were glassy, glazed over. Her skin was clammy and pale. She broke his heart. “Katie-”
“Water,” she said, her hand on her throat. “I need some water.”
“Okay.” He got off the couch, went to the kitchen for a glass, and when he came back, she was burrowed under the blanket he’d tossed over them an hour ago.
She didn’t move, but he didn’t believe she was already asleep. He sank back to the couch and slowly pulled her against him. She went willingly, pressing her face to the crook of his neck.
He stroked his hands up and down her body to try to warm her up. “Do you do this every night?”
“It’s getting better.”
In other words, yes. “Katie, do you ever talk about it, because maybe that would help-”
“No.” She shuddered. “It wouldn’t.”
She dreamed about the people who hadn’t lived, was tortured by the fact that she had, even as she’d used the entire experience to try to better her life.
And what had he done with his accident? An accident that had been his own fault, an accident where no one else besides him had been injured? He’d felt sorry for himself.
Talk about humbling. Heart hurting for her, he stroked her hair, her back, waiting until he knew she’d drifted back to sleep for real.
But it was a long time before it came for him.
Chapter 17
The next morning, Annie chopped tomatoes for that night’s spaghetti sauce. Knife in hand, she looked around for something else to chop dead just as Cam came in the back door. One look at him, at the sleepy-lidded eyes and the unmistakable and utter lack of tension in his body, and she knew. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me,” she snapped. “It’s my turn for sex, dammit!”
He went directly to the pot, but she lifted her knife in his direction and he backed off.
“No one eats my food until I get mine.”
He arched a brow. “Should I tell Nick to put more men on the job?”
“You joke when I’m holding a knife on you?”
He lifted his hands in surrender, and she jerked her chin toward the door. “Stone has a group that needs a guide to take them ice picking up Tenneman Falls. You’re it.”
“I know. He just paged me out of bed.”
“Oh, boo-hoo.” She kicked him out of the kitchen, then sagged against the counter. Her life was out of control.
Her love life was out of control.
Her marriage…
Dammit. She’d always known this would happen, that she’d somehow muck everything up, because like the rest of the Wilders, she was always on a hell-bent mission to self-destruct her own happiness. It pissed her off. She slammed the knife into another tomato.
She could blame her mother and father, the alcoholic misfits who’d had no right having children. Or she could blame a system that let kids suffer.
But since she’d so adamantly refused to let Cam be a product of his environment, she knew she couldn’t very well do it either. So she’d raised herself, so what. And so when she’d finished that, she’d raised Cam, too, and then she’d gone out and gotten herself the life she wanted.
The end.
Only she’d still managed to continue the cycle and destroy that life, because apparently some of her parents’ genes lived deep inside her. God, that royally pissed her off. She grabbed a few green peppers and slammed her knife into those as well.
She really missed having a man in her bed to ease some of this tension. She missed having someone hold her close, someone to make her laugh, make her purr.
Warm her feet.
She missed waking up knowing she could have a quickie if she wanted. She missed cooking for someone who was hers, heart and soul.
She missed the skinny lug, dammit, missed everything about him. He really had some nerve taking this divorce thing so seriously.
Okay, that was her fault too. She’d pushed for it. Pushed and pushed, only wanting him to push back, even once.
She shoved the peppers aside and looked for something else, but there was nothing but his coat hanging on the hook by the back door, reminding her that he was here, within touch, and yet untouchable.
They really had stopped seeing each other, and God, that hurt. But dammit, she was turning forty, not dying. She wanted romance. She wanted to be wooed. Was that so wrong? Had she grown unattractive? Somehow lost her sex appeal? She looked down at her new clothes. No. She had it going on, and she needed him to see that, now.
Found, right there in the dark, damp aftermath, against the door, gently cradled by the strong, silent Cameron Wilder, the man who, in spite of her promise to the contrary, she’d most definitely begun to fall for.
Cam woke up suddenly in the dark. He and Katie hadn’t managed to get more than a few feet from the front door, where they’d made some wild crazy love that he was still exhausted from, and were sprawled together on the couch. A tight fit, but he realized she was crying, sobbing, as if her heart had broken, which was what had woken him. “Katie?”
“No.” Her voice was raw and filled with wrenching grief, writhing as if held back by something. “No, they’re not dead, they’re not, they’re just trapped.”
He pulled her in tight, stroking her damp hair back from her face. “Katie, you’re dreaming.”
“They’re not dead.” She dug her fingers into his pecs. “Please don’t let them all be dead!”
“Baby, come on. Wake up.”
Her eyes flew open and she went stiff in his arms, breathing like she’d been running a marathon.
“Just a dream,” he repeated softly, and when she jerked out of his arms, he reached past her to turn on the lamp.
Her eyes were glassy, glazed over. Her skin was clammy and pale. She broke his heart. “Katie-”
“Water,” she said, her hand on her throat. “I need some water.”
“Okay.” He got off the couch, went to the kitchen for a glass, and when he came back, she was burrowed under the blanket he’d tossed over them an hour ago.
She didn’t move, but he didn’t believe she was already asleep. He sank back to the couch and slowly pulled her against him. She went willingly, pressing her face to the crook of his neck.
He stroked his hands up and down her body to try to warm her up. “Do you do this every night?”
“It’s getting better.”
In other words, yes. “Katie, do you ever talk about it, because maybe that would help-”
“No.” She shuddered. “It wouldn’t.”
She dreamed about the people who hadn’t lived, was tortured by the fact that she had, even as she’d used the entire experience to try to better her life.
And what had he done with his accident? An accident that had been his own fault, an accident where no one else besides him had been injured? He’d felt sorry for himself.
Talk about humbling. Heart hurting for her, he stroked her hair, her back, waiting until he knew she’d drifted back to sleep for real.
But it was a long time before it came for him.
Chapter 17
The next morning, Annie chopped tomatoes for that night’s spaghetti sauce. Knife in hand, she looked around for something else to chop dead just as Cam came in the back door. One look at him, at the sleepy-lidded eyes and the unmistakable and utter lack of tension in his body, and she knew. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?”
“Don’t what me,” she snapped. “It’s my turn for sex, dammit!”
He went directly to the pot, but she lifted her knife in his direction and he backed off.
“No one eats my food until I get mine.”
He arched a brow. “Should I tell Nick to put more men on the job?”
“You joke when I’m holding a knife on you?”
He lifted his hands in surrender, and she jerked her chin toward the door. “Stone has a group that needs a guide to take them ice picking up Tenneman Falls. You’re it.”
“I know. He just paged me out of bed.”
“Oh, boo-hoo.” She kicked him out of the kitchen, then sagged against the counter. Her life was out of control.
Her love life was out of control.
Her marriage…
Dammit. She’d always known this would happen, that she’d somehow muck everything up, because like the rest of the Wilders, she was always on a hell-bent mission to self-destruct her own happiness. It pissed her off. She slammed the knife into another tomato.
She could blame her mother and father, the alcoholic misfits who’d had no right having children. Or she could blame a system that let kids suffer.
But since she’d so adamantly refused to let Cam be a product of his environment, she knew she couldn’t very well do it either. So she’d raised herself, so what. And so when she’d finished that, she’d raised Cam, too, and then she’d gone out and gotten herself the life she wanted.
The end.
Only she’d still managed to continue the cycle and destroy that life, because apparently some of her parents’ genes lived deep inside her. God, that royally pissed her off. She grabbed a few green peppers and slammed her knife into those as well.
She really missed having a man in her bed to ease some of this tension. She missed having someone hold her close, someone to make her laugh, make her purr.
Warm her feet.
She missed waking up knowing she could have a quickie if she wanted. She missed cooking for someone who was hers, heart and soul.
She missed the skinny lug, dammit, missed everything about him. He really had some nerve taking this divorce thing so seriously.
Okay, that was her fault too. She’d pushed for it. Pushed and pushed, only wanting him to push back, even once.
She shoved the peppers aside and looked for something else, but there was nothing but his coat hanging on the hook by the back door, reminding her that he was here, within touch, and yet untouchable.
They really had stopped seeing each other, and God, that hurt. But dammit, she was turning forty, not dying. She wanted romance. She wanted to be wooed. Was that so wrong? Had she grown unattractive? Somehow lost her sex appeal? She looked down at her new clothes. No. She had it going on, and she needed him to see that, now.
