Seeker (Riders #2)(31)

"Sure."

I turn and lift my baggy sweatshirt, wondering if he'll comment. It's a San Francisco Giants sweatshirt. Not his, but exactly like the one he had that I borrowed a lot last fall. I had to get myself a replacement.

His fingers are warm as they trace the cuts. Every touch is like a tiny tremor that spreads through me. Small earthquakes of feeling. I'm instantly so nervous that words start building up in my throat, fueled by a need to create conversation and hopefully make wound care less sexy. "Does it look better?"

"Marginally."

"That sounds promising. Am I going to have to file a medical malpractice suit?"

"No way. I rocked this. Your dad couldn't have done a better job on these."

"You remember he's a surgeon."

"I have a good memory."

"For me or for everything?"

I hear him swallow. "Sometimes there's no difference, but  …  both."

All the words in my head disappear and my breathing goes shallow and quick. For a long time, all I feel is his touch on my back. It's the epicenter of all sensation.

"Forget I said that, Daryn."

"I'll never be able to."

"It doesn't change anything."

"Why not?"

"Things with Cordero seemed tense before. At the meeting."

"She's doing this all wrong, but don't change the subject."

"She's just thorough. You'll get used to her. You should read the minutes. They're epic."

"Please stop changing the subject."

"I'm all done here." He tugs my sweatshirt down. "The bandages should hold until morning. I'll leave this stuff with you. Maia can handle it next time."

I turn. He's already on his way out. "Gideon, wait. I really messed things up, didn't I?"

He stops at the steps that descend to the door. "No. We're on this. We're going to get him back tomorrow."

"I mean between us."

He freezes on the small landing at the bottom, hand on the door, his back to me like the photo I have of him at Marcus's graduation. His head falls to the side like he's relaxing, but I know he's not. "What are you doing, Daryn?"



       
         
       
        

I step down to him. He turns and his blue eyes find me. They're guarded, and suspicious.

I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm taking my foot off the brake. Just this once. Just to feel what I've imagined all these months. I lift onto my toes and bring my mouth to his.

I thought he'd hesitate or draw away, but he doesn't. He wraps his arms around me and we collide, connect, combine. His lips are surprisingly soft, his tongue softer, but the energy between us is hard, desperate. Every cell in my body charges with his strength, his energy, his clean alpine smell. His uneven breaths dance with mine, our hunger for each other raw and equal.

He pushes or I pull, and my back thumps into the wall.

"Your back."

"It's fine."

He bends to kiss me again and I steal glances, so I don't forget. I see slivers of sky through his long golden lashes. His wet lips, his eyebrows furrowed with intensity. It's all the friction and disharmony between us, reversed and multiplied and perfect.

"Daryn," he says hoarsely. "My hand."

"It's okay."

"But it's-"

"Fine, Gideon."

His hands slip under my sweatshirt and run up my sides, cool and hard on one side, warm and soft on the other. I want to tell him how he makes me feel but it seems impossible to describe. I pull his shirt up and he understands. Reaches over his back and it comes off and he stands, hair ruffled, eyes heavy. He moves toward me again, but I'm not done looking at him yet.

He's beautiful. It's possible that he was made for me. Strong and lean. Every line of him fascinating.

Tattoos. He has tattoos now. A cross on his right forearm. And script on the inside of his biceps, ornate and only three letters.

Bas

I look away before responsibility crashes back in. There's a black brace on his left arm. It wraps around his elbow and biceps, extending over his forearm and becoming the sculpted metal that's his prosthetic.

A sick feeling blooms in my stomach. Dread for all the things I'm trying to ignore. All the things we haven't said yet.

Gideon has gone stone still.

I look up.

The expression on his face is definitely, definitely not what I want to see.

His anger I can take. Not this.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to regret this," he says. "Took a little longer than last time." He grabs his shirt off the step and leaps up to the hallway, disappearing into the bathroom. He leaves the door ajar and I hear the faucet run.