Flamebound A Lone Star Witch No(17)

“I’m sorry.” Now I’m the one holding him.

For long seconds he doesn’t answer, just presses me against him. He holds me tighter, then slips the towel from around me and lowers me gently into the bathwater.

It’s hot—really hot—and it feels good. The last of the achy, cold feeling leaves me, a strange, floaty lethargy taking its place. My eyelids want to drift closed, but I don’t let them. I need to talk to Declan about Shelby, need to tell him what I felt. What the tarot cards said. See if he can help.

But first I want to know how he knew that I was in trouble. We’re soulbound, yes, but I can’t sense him when we’re apart. I don’t know his mood or what he’s doing or if he’s in danger. So how did he know that I needed help, needed him?

I ask him, and his first response is a searing look and an even more searing kiss. “I felt your distress. I didn’t know what was causing it, didn’t know if you were in danger, if you’d found another body, if someone was hurting you.” He closes his eyes and shudders as his hands reach for mine.

This time, I do let my eyes close as I settle against the back of the bathtub. He needs a minute to regain his equilibrium and so do I. I hate how vulnerable I always appear to Declan. I want him to think of me as strong and smart and capable, not some damsel constantly in need of being rescued.

And yet I have to admit that it feels nice. Not the being rescued part, but the knowing someone cares, really cares, about what happens to me on a very different level than my family or my friends.

Declan shifts, slides over, and I open my eyes just in time to see his still-jean-covered legs slide into the water on either side of my shoulders. Then he’s leaning down, pressing kisses against my temple, over my hair. “I need a minute,” he says softly. “To convince myself that you’re really okay.”

I don’t move, don’t breathe, terrified of doing something to end this moment. Declan is never unsteady, never exposed, never vulnerable. Not in front of me or anyone else. The fact that he is now, and that he’s sharing it with me—even if it’s only because he can’t help himself—is a huge concession on his part. I want to savor it. Not because I enjoy seeing Declan shaken up and worried, but because I know this is another step toward intimacy, another step down the path Declan and I are destined to walk together.

I don’t know how things are going to end between us—though there’s a big part of me that is sure this will end badly—and for once I don’t care. Everything in me yearns toward him, wants to protect him. To share with him. To love him.

The word catches me off guard, freaks me out a little, so I shove it down deep inside me. I’m already feeling vulnerable and confused. The last thing I need to do is try to deal with feelings like that in addition to the others that are ricocheting around inside me like bullets gone terribly awry.

Eventually Declan raises his head and the iron grip he has around me slowly loosens. I bite my lip to keep from whimpering, from begging him to hold me just a little longer. I expect him to move away, to complain about my carelessness or the fact that his jeans are soaked up to the knee.

He does none of the above. Instead, he reaches for the bath gel I keep on the shelf that runs beside the tub. It’s homemade—a relaxing blend of lavender, rosemary and ylang-ylang made especially for me by my sister Rachael. She’s the healer in the family, and the one who makes herbal shampoos and lotions and a million other things.

Declan squeezes some of the bath gel onto his hands, rubs them together. Then he leans forward and glides those hands all over me. He starts at my neck, skims down my back and then up my arms to my collarbone before going lower to tickle my ribs and belly button.

My pulse quickens—I can’t help it, can’t control it. I never can when Declan is touching me—even now, when I know what he’s doing is meant to soothe and relax me. My whole body goes on alert, my sex softening as my nipples harden.

I know he sees my response, feels the restless way I start to move in the water. But he doesn’t pause what he’s doing. He soaps his way over my stomach and up my rib cage before gliding his hands up and over my breasts with the utmost care.

I gasp, arch into his touch. I can’t help it. Even upset, I long to feel his hands on my breasts, long for him to cup the weight of them while he pinches my nipples just the way I like.

He doesn’t do that, though. Instead, he skims over them like they’re just another part of my body. Then he moves lower to soap up my thighs and knees and calves. He’s gentle with me, tender, careful not to press against any of the fading bruises left over from my encounter with the madman. I know it drives him nuts to see them, but tonight he doesn’t show his angst by so much as an uneven breath or muffled curse.