The End - Blackbird book 7

9

He grabbed her face to look down at her with a warm smile. Another thing she'd never grow tired of: seeing him smile.

"I'm gonna get dinner started," he said by her mouth.

What? He intended to leave? Gillian's arms locked around him as she frowned up at him.

Brock scoffed. "Have mercy on me, please. I can't have you like this when I'm still catching my breath. It's torture."

Her answer was sticking tighter to him, and she rested her face on his chest.

"Please, stay," she whispered.

Emotion squeezed Brock's throat. He held her and kissed her hair. Feeling her relax in his arms, so still and quiet, nailed him to where he stood. It acted like a balm on him, defusing tensions, washing away anything that wasn't related to feeling calm and good, there, with her.

His heart beat right by Gillian's ear. She closed her eyes to listen to it. Let out Connor's breathing, it was the most soothing, wonderful sound she'd ever heard.

Minutes ticktocked away as they lingered like that, not a move, not a word, until the rain grew colder. Brock kept an arm around her to close the faucets and grabbed a towel to wrap around her.

"Thanks," she muttered with a smile, stepping back.

He closed it on her chest and paused to touch the scar, right above her left breast. Gillian saw his troubled frown at the mark left by the shot, so close to her heart. Her hand covered his and pressed it softly. He looked up at her.

So close. It'd been so close, he couldn't help thinking. He'd been so close to lose her. He didn't feel guilty about not being there to protect her. Not anymore. What troubled him was how he'd taken her for granted. Well, not her, but her life. Over the last two years, he'd acted on the wrong assumption that she'd always be there, alive.

Her other hand on his cheek startled him from his broody thoughts.

"Y'know, in a way we owe that boy," she said in a low, warm voice, and smiled again at her scowl. "Had he not shot me, I would've never found the guts to be here now."

He shook his head with a sad grimace. "We're such fools," he murmured.

"Yeah. And right now we're wet fools about to catch a cold."

Brock let out a dry scoff and nodded, grabbing another towel for himself.

"Need a clean tee?" he asked.

Gillian couldn't keep her hormones from pointing out that wet Brock with a towel around his hips looked way hot. "No, thanks," she mumbled, hoping Brock would think her colored cheeks were due to the hot water.

"I'll be right back," he said, stepping out of the shower. He needed a great deal of will to turn his back on Gillian. He only made it by reminding himself he could have her like that again, wearing nothing but her velvet skin, in a couple of hours, after dinner.

She rubbed her hair with her towel when he came back, bringing her jeans and bag. He grabbed his tee and underwear and took it to his room, to join the leftovers of his black suit in the laundry basket at the corner. At least the suit coat wasn't ruined. Anyway, even if ten visits to the dry cleaning didn't restore those pants to a decent state, he wouldn't regret it. And Gillian had said she liked this one suit because of the suit coat, so—really, Brockner, are you registering your own thoughts?

In the bathroom, Gillian fished through her bag for two tiny plastic bags. On their line of work, they never knew when an all-nighter would pop up. And since she couldn't go around carrying a full change of clothes, she'd learned years ago to keep the essentials always at hand. Considering the all-nighter she had in mind when she left home in the afternoon, this time 'the essentials' were not ordinary cotton underwear and some shabby tank top.

Brock swallowed hard when he walked out of his room and found Gillian in the bathroom, barefoot, her back turned to the open door. Pulling up her jeans on a black piece of satin and lace that made his fingertips ache rather that tingle. Especially when she turned to him, dark locks of wet hair framing her bright blue eyes and that warm smile on her beautiful face. And no bra under her clean tank top—a tight white cotton top, thin straps holding the low collar barely in place.

His thumb pointed at the kitchen. "Why don't you check the fridge and pick dinner?" It was such a lame excuse, but maybe it worked and brought her within reach of his fidgeting hands.

Gillian was grateful he'd chosen some random tee and not one of his dark polos. That way, she felt confident she could tease him and back away.

"You pick it," she replied, coming to stand only half a step away from Brock.

He couldn't tell what was more inviting: her smile, her intimate voice or her fingers brushing his belly. He glanced down at her lips and his eyes were like a hook, pulling her up to her tiptoes once more to reach his mouth.