Forged in Smoke (Red-Hot SEALs #3)(111)

Sweet Mary and Joseph . . .

She didn’t need lovemaking, not at the moment. She needed comforting, she needed caring for. No matter how badly certain regions of his anatomy wanted to do more . . . a lot more.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” The words were a mumble against his chest.

“Who?” he asked gently, stroking his palms up and down her spine.

He tried to keep his caresses soothing, although the warm, satin glide of her naked flesh beneath his hands was anything but relaxing on his end. He wrapped a choke chain around his libido and wrestled it under control.

“Gil—” she whispered, her voice breaking. “It doesn’t feel real. None of this seems real.”

He tightened his arms around her, still stroking her back, wishing he could absorb her pain.

Eventually the water cooled, so he pulled back to find the soap and washrag. He lathered her up and rinsed her off and started in on washing her hair. She sighed, resting against him, as he massaged her scalp. Once her hair had been washed, conditioned, and rinsed, he turned the water off and wrapped her in a towel. The towel wasn’t a particularly large one, yet it swallowed her fragile frame.

Concern rose as he dried her off, his touch gentle against the frailty beneath his hands. She was too damn thin. He should have taken her to the cafeteria before taking her to his bed.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, an odd, almost cautious tone in her voice.

He glanced up to find the same wariness in her eyes. “You need to eat. Don’t go to sleep yet. I’ll run to the cafeteria and grab us somethin’.”

She caught his hand as he started to rise. “Don’t bother. I wouldn’t be able to eat anything anyway.”

His frown deepened. “You need to try. You’re too damn thin. You can’t afford to miss a meal.”

A flash of hurt crossed her face, and he gently shook her.

“Don’t even go there. If I didn’t find you insanely sexy, you might have gotten some sleep last night. I want you healthy, that’s all. Healthy enough so last night can repeat into infinity.”

She chuffed out something close to a laugh, but not quite. Running her hand up his arm, she slowed at his bicep and squeezed. “I believe the fact that I couldn’t keep my hands to myself had a lot to do with our lack of sleep.”

Rawls locked down his response. Instead of pouncing on her, like every instinct insisted, he leaned up and over, snagging the sheets and blankets and dragging them down. Lifting her, he set her on the mattress and climbed into bed beside her. Once they were settled, he dragged the bedding over them.

Tucking her against his chest, he kissed the top of her head. “If you start questionin’ how sexy I find you, just remember that I’m naked, so that’s not my Heckler and Koch MP7 pokin’ you in the ass.”

Another of those soft chuffing sounds broke from her. With a sigh deep enough to lift her chest against his arm, she relaxed.

“If we were at my place, I’d cook you somethin’ special. Like French toast,” he said, pressing his lips against her hair. It was the strangest thing, but she still smelled like berries, even though the shampoo and soap in his shower was scentless.

“French toast, huh.” She sounded drowsy. “Is that what you make all the ladies?”

“Only you, sweetheart.”

Which was true. He’d never cooked for a woman; it had always been the other way around. His girlfriends, and he’d had a fair—albeit fleeting—share, had cooked for him. But French toast was high in nutrition and calories. A perfect combination. He’d be making a lot of it in Faith’s future.

Which brought up the question of what the future held for them. Or where they’d be living. He glanced toward the counter where the coffeepot sat. If he picked up a hot plate and a minifridge, he could make do for the time being.

“Gilbert just turned sixty, he was talking about retiring. And Monica had gotten engaged. Hannah had barely returned from maternity leave. My God, her poor husband. Her poor daughter. She’ll never see Ally grow up . . .” She paused, and a long raw silence built and then—“They were more than my coworkers, they were my friends.”

“I know, baby.” He cuddled her closer.

“I didn’t really have any other friends,” she added in a small voice, as though she were confessing a shameful secret.

Did she realize she’d spoken in the past tense?

He cradled her closer but didn’t say anything since there wasn’t much he could say.

“Dr. Benton, he was my professor and then my adviser, but I think . . . I think he was the closest thing to a friend I’d had up to that point.” Her voice was distant, as though she were talking to herself.

His chest tightened and ached. Did she hear the loneliness in her voice? “Didn’t you have friends as a kid?”

She sighed, and the loneliness he sensed in her increased substantially. “My parents discouraged friendships. They felt my immune system was too compromised and that any old cold or flu would be my demise.”

The ache in his chest increased in proportion to the ache in her voice. “They homeschooled you?”

It was a guess, but a good one. If they hadn’t wanted her around kids, they wouldn’t have enrolled her in school.

“At first, but once I outgrew their knowledge, they brought in tutors. I wouldn’t have gotten nearly as good an education at regular school.”