I shrug, wallowing in self-pity. I don’t open my eyes.
“You okay, baby doll?” He comes to the side of the bed, a towel wrapped at his waist. A washcloth is pressed to the wound at his side that he assures me isn’t bad. You wouldn’t even know it was there from the way he acts, except there’s pink seeping through the white of the towel.
I know he’s calling me that nickname I hate to rile me up, but I don’t have the energy to bite back at him at the moment. I’m a tangled knot of emotions, and right now the only one that seems to rise to the surface is sadness. Regan Porter, the get-along girl, is totally broken. I hate that.
“What’s bothering you?” he asks, and there’s a hard edge of concern in his voice. I squeeze an eye open and see his eyes scanning the room, no doubt assessing a threat.
I feel guilty for making Daniel panic, so I sigh. “Is it weird if I say I think I need a hug?”
He looks down at me in surprise and then chuckles, that roguish grin stealing across his handsome face again. “You want me to slide into bed with you and cuddle?”
“Actually, that sounds amazing,” I tell him and sit up, hugging the sheet to my breasts. “Is it weird if I want to cuddle?”
“Does it matter? Nobody’s here to judge,” he says, sliding a leg into bed and then pulling his big body down on the left side of the bed. He keeps a hand at the towel at his waist, and then he’s lying in bed next to me and lifts an arm, gesturing that I should come tuck my body against his.
And I can’t resist. It’s been so long since someone’s touched me with kindness and affection—not sleazy motives—that I move right over to him, tucking my face into the crook of his neck and wrapping an arm around his shoulders, even as he settles his arm against my back. He’s warm and damp and he smells like fresh soap. So good. I love the feel of his skin pressing against mine, and the hand that tenderly strokes my shoulder. Not in a sexual way but to comfort.
I burrow against him. “Thank you.”
“Anything you want,” he says in a low voice.
I’m not freaked out by the touch of Daniel’s skin against mine anymore. It doesn’t make me want to puke. Instead, I relax and sigh as he continues to idly stroke my skin with one hand, my body pressed against his. We’re both more or less naked underneath the sheets and towels, but it doesn’t feel sexual. At least, not yet.
I can’t really forget about him jacking off in the shower, though. It’s there in my mind every time I close my eyes.
I open my eyes languidly, feeling warm and loved for the first time in forever. My stomach’s growling, but I don’t want to move. I am feeling too good. I see the washcloth is still on his side, and I slide my hand down his chest and peel it away from his wound. There’s a bit of bruising, and it looks like there’s a big slice down his side. It’s still seeping blood. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Nothing a bit of superglue won’t fix,” he tells me, and his hand brushes my wet hair off my shoulders.
It feels so good that I turn my face against his neck again and nuzzle him before I even realize what I’m doing. “Mmm.”
Against me, Daniel stiffens. “Regan,” he murmurs. “Baby doll—”
“I know,” I tell him and let my tongue flick against the hot skin of his neck. Truth is, I’m relaxed and loose and I don’t want to lose this moment. Nice, sweet, agreeable Regan Porter would be scandalized, apologize to Daniel, and retreat because that would be expected. But that’s the last thing I want to do. He’s warm and delicious and I’m feeling good in his arms.
I want to keep feeling good. So I slide a little closer to him and let the sheet drop from my breasts. “We’re hugging, right, Daniel?” I say this even as I lean in and bite at his collarbone with my teeth. Ooh, he’s hard and muscled everywhere, and so warm that it’s like snuggling with a heating blanket. “You’re not going to touch me, right?”
“Not unless you tell me to,” he says.
I won’t. I’m not ready for that yet. But I’m feeling a little . . . adventurous. I run my hand up his chest again, avoiding his wound and admiring the warmth of his skin under mine and how there’s not an ounce of fat on him anywhere. He’s pretty, this assassin. If I wasn’t screwed up in the head, I’d be drooling over the sight of him every time I turned around. It’s good that I’m all fucked up, or I’d jump him every chance I got.