Page 71 of Flint’s Strike

Shit.

I never explained what I do with the blankets once I finish them.

“I donate them to shelters. Halfway houses. Transitional housing organizations. If I didn’t, I’d have blankets stacked all the way to the ceiling.”

“Eliot. Show me the neon.” She doesn’t comment on my admission, accepting it like she’s accepted everything else she’s learned about me over the past week.

I avert my eyes as I pull out the bright monstrosity. I’ve only managed a dozen rows so far, alternating between eggplant purple and surface-of-the-sun yellow.

Parker takes it carefully, running her fingers over the thick edging. “This is amazing. My mama tried to teach me when I was a kid, but nothin’ she made ever looked this good. I don’t even hate the colors. How’d you learn to do this?”

“One of the nurses in the hospital. She said I was grumpier than a two-dollar mule, and if I didn’t let her teach me to knit, she’d make my life a living hell. Since I was already in Hell, I listened. Took a month or so before I realized knitting took my mind off some of the pain.”

The look she gives me is equal parts understanding and amusement. “Grumpy? You?”

We share a laugh, and she sets the blanket back in my project basket. “Have you shown Marlene yet? It is Marlene, right?”

My brows lift, and I brace my hand on the arm of the couch to stand. “It is. She’ll see it tomorrow. You paid attention.”

“I always pay attention.” Something flickers in her eyes for a moment—an emotion I can’t place—before she picks up her bag and grins at me. “I should put this somewhere other than the middle of your floor.”

“Top of the dresser in the bedroom. I’ll check the locks and be right there.” I watch her saunter down the hall, her flowing pants framing her ass perfectly, and the reality of what I saw in those blue depths hits.

She pays attention to everything. All the time. And it’s wearing her out.

I find her standing by the bed, a flush staining her cheeks that wasn’t there a moment ago. She smiles, an unspoken invitation to close the distance between us. Warm vanilla, citrus, and cinnamon wind their way through me. Her hand fists in my shirt, pulling me down, and she seals her mouth to mine.

Sliding my fingers into her silky locks, I flick my tongue against her lips, and she opens for me. Sweet Jesus, she tastes like home.

Gentle hands slide up my arms, over my shoulders, and the tender, slow tease of her tongue almost does me in.

My knee buckles when I shift closer, and we land on the mattress off balance enough, she’s on top of me. The curve of her breasts through the silky tank sends my dick to half mast in seconds.

“Sorry,” she whispers against my lips.

“Don’t apologize.”

Taking advantage of the separation, I trail kisses along her jaw, memorizing all the places that make her moan or clutch at my arms, at how she angles her head so I can continue tasting her skin all the way to the shell of her ear.

I slide my fingers under the hem of her blouse and press my hand flat to her back. Her skin is warm against my palm, and she arches into the touch, her breath catching in her throat.

As I trace patterns along her spine, the moans turn into whimpers. Fuck me. I want to hear that sound every day for the rest of my life.

Side by side now, legs hanging off the bed, neither of us seems willing to let go long enough to take the next step.

Until she reaches for the top button of my shirt, and I realize I can’t hide from her a second longer.

“Wait,” I grit out. “Before anything else happens…I have to explain some things.”

Parker stills. “What…things?”

Carefully, I help her sit up, then unbutton my shirt, my hands shaking the whole time.

Parker waits for me to explain, her gaze locked on my face. Not my chest. Not my ruined abs. Not the scars and grafted skin that wrap around my obliques to cover almost my entire back.

I scoot closer, take her hand, and press it to the center of my chest. The sensation’s muted, but I can still feel her warmth. “My left side is the worst. From the top of my shoulder, down my torso, all the way to my hip. Got some isolated burns to my thigh. More to the back of my left knee. My femur was shattered in multiple places. Pins, metal rod, the whole deal.”

“Does it still hurt? Your leg? When you get out of the car sometimes… Am I imagining your limp?” There’s no pity in her voice. Curiosity, but not pain.