Page 142 of When Love Takes Root

That made me emotional in a way I couldn’t explain.

He kissed my shoulder. “You with me?”

“I’m with you.”

His gaze softened. “Good?”

“Very good.”

His smile came, slow and relieved.

Then I ruined it by tearing up.

His face changed immediately. “Talk to me.”

I shook my head. “I’m not sad.” He searched my eyes. “I’m not,” I promised.

“What is it?”

I swallowed around the ache in my throat. “I forgot it could feel like that.”

His expression softened.

“Not just the sex,” I whispered. “Being held. Being checked on. Being wanted without feeling swallowed whole. Being touched like somebody was listening.”

“I was listening,” he said before kissing my palm.

“I know.”

He eased away carefully, then pressed a kiss to my forehead before standing. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched him disappear into the bathroom with the lazy, boneless disbelief of a woman who’d just been thoroughly loved and was still trying to remember her own name. The sheets were tangled around my hips. My sweater was somewhere on the floor. My body felt warm, tender, and open in more places than one.

When Josiah returned, he had a warm washcloth and the same steady face that had made me trust him before my desire ever got brave.

He sat beside me. “Let me take care of you.”

I nodded.

He cleaned me with a gentleness that made my eyes sting, one hand resting lightly on my hip, the other moving with careful patience. He wasn’t awkward. He wasn’t hurried. He wasn’t acting like care ended when pleasure did. He moved like after was part of the promise too.

That nearly broke me more than the lovemaking.

When he finished, he tossed the washcloth toward the hamper and pulled one of his T-shirts from a drawer. He looked at me before bringing it close.

“Arms up, baby.”

I obeyed before my attitude could form a committee.

He slipped the shirt over my head, then eased my arms through the sleeves, smoothing the fabric down my body like he had every right to be gentle and none to be careless. The shirt swallowed me, soft and warm, smelling like him in a way that made my chest ache.

Then he grabbed the glass of water from the nightstand and brought it to my mouth.

“Drink.” I lifted a brow. His face stayed calm. “Don’t start with me. Drink.” I took the glass and sipped. He watched until I swallowed enough to satisfy him, then took it back and set it down. “You need anything else?” I shook my head. His eyes softened. “Come here.”

He climbed into bed beside me, not crowding, not assuming, just opening an arm. I moved into him before I could talk myself into pretending I didn’t need the shelter. His arms closed around me, warm and firm, and he pulled the comforter over both of us.

For a while, neither of us spoke.