He must have heard it in her voice. That or he knew her well enough to read her mind because his arms immediately came around her, hard and warm. But his eyes. Damn it, his eyes weren’t filled with heat. They were worried and concerned.
For her.
The very last two things she wanted. “Hold me,” she said. Demanded. “Just for right now, hold me.”
“Becca,” he said, and oh, God, it was in his voice. So solemn. Sliding a hand up her back and into her hair, he fisted the strands, pulling her head up to look into his face. He stared down at her, searching her expression, his own steady.
“I’m not fragile.” She kissed a corner of his mouth, moving along his rough jaw to his ear, which she nipped, liking when he sucked in a harsh breath. “Don’t you dare treat me like I am. I’m not going to break, Sam.”
“Maybe you should.”
No. Hell no. “I just want to feel something good for a change,” she said. “Please, Sam, make me feel something good. Make us both feel something.”
“I can’t.”
She froze for a beat and then tried to shove free but he held on with a grip of inexorable steel. “I can’t do good,” he said softly, his mouth against hers, “but I can do great.”
As payback, she nipped his throat. And then the crook of his neck.
He let out a shuddery groan, lowered his head, and played her game. He took her lower lip between his teeth while she wrapped a leg around him and tried to climb him like a tree.
He slid his hand beneath her other thigh and hoisted her up with ease.
Then he turned and dropped her on the couch, following her down.
“Now?” she whispered hopefully, flinging her arms around his neck.
“Yeah. Now.”
And he kept his word. He wasn’t good. He was great.
Chapter 24
It took a while, but when Becca finally retained enough muscle memory to move, they dressed, and Sam brought her into the small kitchen. Kicking a chair from the wood table, he gestured for her to sit and strode to the fridge.
Still a little shaky—the aftershocks of emotional trauma compounded by really great sex—she sat and looked around. “You’re being awfully generous with the Man Cave today.”
“Maybe I like the sight of you in it.” He brought her a soda and a cup of ice, setting them on the table in front of her. Then he kicked out a chair for himself. “Drink,” he said.
She looked at the soda. “You got anything stronger? Say, a hundred proof?”
She expected a smile but didn’t get one. “No,” he said. “I don’t keep it here anymore.”
She opened the soda and poured it over the ice. “Anymore?”He held her gaze. “I used to like it too much.”
“AA?”
“No. Cold turkey.”
She let out a breath and gulped down some soda. She set the glass to the table and wiped her mouth. “You decided to quit, and you quit. Problem solved. Why can’t everyone do that?”
“You have to quit for the right reasons,” he said.
Her gaze slid back to his. “What were your reasons?”
“I decided I wanted to stick around for the rest of my life.”
She huffed out a breath. “That’s a good reason.” She played with the condensation on her glass until Sam nudged it out of the way, hooked a foot around the leg of her chair, and dragged her in closer so that she was caged between his thighs.
“Talk to me, Becca.”
“I’m not going to Seattle tonight to play in the concert with Jase.”
“I got that,” he said.
“I’ll have a panic attack if I do.”
“I got that, too.” His hands came up to her arms. Gently. Softly stroked up and down. And the gesture made her open her mouth and say more. More than she wanted to.
“The first time it happened,” she said, “I was seventeen. I’d just grown about eight inches in six months and was so awkward that my fingers didn’t work. I embarrassed everyone. My parents, Jase. . .” She shook her head.
“Stage fright at seventeen sounds perfectly normal,” he said. “Stage fright at any age is normal.”
“Maybe.” She blew out a breath. “I fought it. I managed to keep playing for ten more years, and though I loved it, it was a really difficult time. I used to take anxiety meds to play.” She paused. “Jase started stealing them. I let him. And then he moved on to . . . other stuff. Pain meds that he got from one of the other musicians. He got addicted.”
“Not your fault,” he said quietly.
She stared at him. “I stopped playing when he needed me most. I missed playing, but not enough to get over my fear.”
He covered her hand with his, entwined their fingers. “The Becca I know isn’t afraid of shit. Well, except for spiders.”
“And things that go bump in the night,” she added with a low laugh. She stared at their hands, his big and capable.
He squeezed her fingers gently. “Who’s Nathan?”
The question startled her—or maybe it was the sound of Nathan’s name on his lips. She pulled free of him too quickly and spilled her soda. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry!” She jumped up but Sam grabbed her hand.
“It’s nothing,” he said and, ignoring the mess, pulled her into his lap.
Becca curled into him and pressed her face to his throat. He cuddled her and let her settle, but not for long because this was Sam, and he never ran from a problem. Nope, he faced it head-on, however he felt was best—and that was never the easy way, or the fast way.