If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(60)

A string of curse words leaves me, and it takes five seconds, which is five seconds too long, before I manage to catch her arms again and stop her from tickling me.

Bending, I throw her over my shoulder, making her shriek. “Sebastian! What are you doing?”

“Being the bigger person. Throwing you in the shower.”

“I don’t need a shower,” she protests.

“Respectfully, Ziggy, you do.”

“Sebastian, be careful of your foot! I’m not small. Put me down—whoa, you’re strong.”

I take the first leap quickly up the stairs, holding her tight. “My foot’s fine. I’m insulted you’re this surprised by my strength.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t know many people who can chuck a six-foot-one woman over their shoulder and walk up the stairs, let alone with a barely healed foot.”

“Well, this person can, so get used to it.”

“Oh? Is the fireman carry going to be a new staple of our friendship?”

God, I wish. I could get used to throwing Ziggy over my shoulder and hauling her upstairs, tossing her onto my bed, kissing my way up her body—

I shake my head, banishing those thoughts from my mind. I promised myself and her that we weren’t going there. I just told her I was being the bigger person, and I want to be—my best self, for her, with her.

“If you’re this stubborn, in the future,” I tell her, “and you plan on trying that tickling shit again, then yes, the fireman carry is definitely going to stay.”

Gently, I crouch, lowering her to her feet in the guest bathroom. “I’ll bring you a towel and some clothes to change into, okay?”

She peers at me, a small smile tugging at her mouth.

“What?”

Her smile widens. “You look really funny.”

“I look funny? Sigrid, have you seen yourself?”

She turns, peering at her reflection in the mirror, then immediately busts out laughing. “Oh boy. It was worse than I thought.”

Her hair’s powdery white, flour still dusting her eyebrows, lashes, and clothes.

“See? I told you that you needed a shower.” I tear my gaze away, because if I stay here, I’m going to do something I’m not supposed to, like spin her around and press her against the sink, then kiss her until she’s sighing and pleading, until we’re fused so close, flour covers me the way it covers her.

“Be right back,” I tell her.

After grabbing a towel and washcloth, a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, I step back into the bathroom, freezing as she peels off her hoodie, then tosses it aside. Her T-shirt’s slipped off her shoulder, revealing a splatter of freckles painting her skin. She brings her hands to her hair and starts to tug out her ponytail.

“Here you go.” I drop everything beside the sink, then start to drag the door shut.

When I hear a yelp, chased by a muttered string of Swedish, I freeze. Ziggy only seems to mutter in Swedish when she’s really upset.

“You okay?” I ask.

“This hair tie is just…really knotted, and it’s tugging my hair. I’m fine. I’ll get it out.”

“Do you…” I open the door a little wider, looking at her. “Do you need me to help?”

She bites her lip. “Yeah. Maybe. Just please don’t tug. I’m…really sensitive.”

I step behind her, gently taking over where the hair tie’s tangled in her hair. “I’ll be careful.”

We’re both quiet while I work. Ziggy dusts herself off more, brushing the flour from her face over the sink, shaking it out of her hair as it comes free of the hair band. I focus on gently loosening each strand, taking my time, careful not to pull her hair as I do.

Finally, the hair tie’s free, and I set it on the counter. “There.”

Her hand reaches out and finds mine, then clasps it. She gives me one of her firm Ziggy squeezes. Slowly, she turns and faces me.

She looks almost like herself now, most of the flour gone from her hair, brows, and lashes. “Thank you.” Her hands come to my face, brushing the flour from my cheeks, bristling across my scruff.

It’s very hard to stand here, our bodies almost touching, her hands cupping my face.

“Don’t thank me,” I say quietly.

“Too bad. Already did.” She reaches up for my hair, brushing flour from that, too.

I clear my throat roughly, fighting the ache to press myself into her, to push her against the sink and taste her mouth again. I’ve gone a week without kissing her, and I’m nearly mindless with wanting to do it again.

I can’t kiss her again. I won’t.

I try to make myself pull back, but I’m weak and desperate, so instead I turn my face into her hand like I did earlier tonight. Christ, I’m practically nuzzling her. “Did you get flour in my hair too?”

Her touch lingers for a moment in my waves before she drops her hand. “A little. But mostly, it got wild in the tickle wrestle. I was just fixing it how you like.”

It’s suddenly silent in the bathroom but for the faint, steady plink of water dripping from the faucet. I stare at her, feeling a tug right between my ribs, drawing me in. I want to hold her close. I want to touch her and taste her, learn her and earn her satisfied sighs. I want to feel the strength and softness of her body and kiss every freckle splashed across her skin.