Rebound (Boomerang #2)(62)

“Personally, I’m glad Jazz isn’t here.” The sight of her draped over me, all long limbs and silky blond hair, is making me rock hard. I’m straining against my pants, and since she’s sitting on me, against her too. “That’d be awkward for me, especially if you moved from my lap. But you bring up a good point. As your trust partner, it’s my job to make you comfortable. What do you say, Quick. How about we get you set up for the night?”

She looks up at me, her blue eyes so open and trusting. “That sounds great.”

I help her onto the bed. It’s not even fifteen steps away and I’m carrying most of her weight, but her eyes are glazed and her face is pale as I get her perched at the edge of the mattress.

She slides onto it, and her face goes pale.

“You’re hurting,” I say. Seeing her in pain brings back the same tunnel vision I felt earlier at the clinic, like I can’t focus on anything except making it go away. “Wait here. I’ll get the pain meds.”

“Not yet, Adam. Maybe after some food? I’m really sensitive to medication.”

“All right. I’ll order something.” I’m so locked into tasks right now, into easing her pain that, mentally, I’m already offering the hotel kitchen a two hundred dollar tip if they can get my order up in twenty minutes.

“Wait,” she says, catching me by the hand. “Thank you.” Her face lights up with a smile so raw with kindness, it guts me.

It’s only now that I remember the things we told each other yesterday about Ethan and Chloe. How she’d looked at me the same way then. I didn’t get a chance to finish telling her about Chloe. We were interrupted by news of the storm before I could, but when it’s the right time, I will.

I lean down and kiss her lips lightly, once and then again, hovering over them a second, and then another second, relishing the taste and feel of her. Kissing her feels like the most natural—but incredible—thing in the world. I have to tear myself away.

“Whatever you need, Quick. I’m right here. Rest.”

In the living room, I get on the phone with room service and order soup, salad, and white wine pasta—which I’m ensured will be here in twenty minutes. I grab a quick shower, pull on jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. Then I get Ali’s suitcase open, find pajama pants and a soft shirt, and I lay those out for her.

I start a fire, then text Grey to let him know I might not make it back for a few days. Finally, when there’s nothing left to do, I watch waves of snow coat the world outside—until I hear Ali calling to me.

“Adam? Can you come here?”





Chapter 35



Alison


He’s at my side in a second, his eyes sweeping over me, worried. “Everything all right?”

“Yes. I just wondered if you’d help me change into something else.” I’m warm in my ski pants, and the slippery fabric’s making it difficult to get comfortable on the bed.

“Already ahead of you,” he says and heads off to the living room, returning before I know it with my pajama pants and a cotton shirt.

“Those will be so much better,” I tell him.

Gently, Adam helps me sit on the bed, straightening my injured foot carefully, his touch so gentle.

“Pants first?” he asks.

I smile. “That’s probably best.”

He leans close to me, and again his leather and spice scent washes over me. His hair’s still wet from the shower, and he gives off a delicious warmth that makes me want to lean against him, breathe him into me.

“Can you ease up a bit?” he asks, getting his hands under my body to pull down the pants.

We work together to get my pants off, and he doesn’t hide his interest in taking in the length of me. When he lifts me against him to help pull my shirt off over my head, I feel every bit of that interest, hard and firm along my thigh.

“Bra on or off?” he asks.

“Off, please.”

He leans against me to unclasp it, his hands heating my skin, then pulls the filmy material over my arms. Again, his gaze sweeps over me, and his eyes grow serious, their gray turning smoky and full of depth. “You’re beautiful, Ali.”

“So are you.”

And he truly is. I want to drink in every bit of him—his elegant, aristocratic features, strong square jaw, his bright, intelligent eyes. And his beautiful hands—artist’s hands, I think—with their long tapered fingers and neatly squared nails. They have a roughness to them and a polish—so perfectly him.

We decide it’s too much work to put on my pants and shirt, so he helps me into a plush white robe and settles me gently back down against the pillows. I can feel the warmth of the now-roaring fire across the room. It’s warm and delicious, and I want to sink into the pillows and pull him down with me.

“Do you want to put your foot up?” he asks, sitting down beside me.

“No, I’m fine, really,” I say. The ankle is still sore, throbbing a little, but it’s the last part of my body that needs attention right now.

He takes my hand and brings my palm to his lips. He plants a kiss there, trails his lips over my wrist. I wonder if he can feel how wildly my pulse is pounding. “What can I do for you?” he asks. “Tell me what you want.”