Page 36 of Protected By the Billionaire Ex-SEAL

“I swear if you say sorry again, I’m going to punch someone. Not you, obviously.”

She shuts her mouth and nods. Then she tightens her arms around my waist. I know it’s a seeking of comfort, but it’s also a sign of trust that blows my mind away.

We stay like that for the next few minutes, her just calming her nerves down and me content with holding her like this. Then she sighs against me. Then her breath hitches.

It’s at that point that awareness seeps in that I’m still running my hand over her back, but now it’s become an intimate caress that she feels as much as I do. The warmth between us expands…shifts. What was once comforting changes into a tension that I know all too well, and I have to swallow against my constricting throat.

I can hear her swallow, too, and it’s like a gentle scrape against my stomach. It tightens in response, and it’s almost a relief when she finally leans away from the hug to let me breathe.

Almost because I still want her in my arms, with me breathing her in.

Instead, I stay where I am, inches from her. Still so close.

“You good?”

Her gaze flicks up as she nods. The nerves are gone, but her voice is hushed—like she doesn’t want to interrupt whatever this is. “Thank you. For understanding what I needed.”

My voice is gruff when I speak. “I’m trained to read people’s needs.”

“Your client’s needs?”

“Yeah. But you’re also a friend. At least, I hope we are…”

“I suppose we are.” She smiles. “You’re a good friend.”

It’s such a sincere statement that I can’t help my feelings of guilt. I shake my head.

“I’m a bad friend.”

“What—”

“Because if I’m a good friend, I wouldn’t spend this much time thinking about you.”

Her mouth forms an O, but her eyes continuously seek mine out. After a while, she shakes her head, too.

“Then I must be a bad friend, too, because I also can’t stop thinking about you.”

I’m blindsided by the statement but more so by the flash of heat in her eyes that can’t be mistaken for anything else.

“Yeah?”

She nods. Then something comes over—a memory, perhaps a reminder—that has her expression darkening before she looks away.

“Why did you leave?”

“What?”

“That night at the motel. When I woke up barely an hour later, you were gone.”

It takes me a second to catch up and force my thoughts to the subject, but when I do, I realize I never explained my side to her. Call it a defense mechanism or pride, but it was a jerk move, no matter how I think about it.

And it’s time that stopped now.

“Yes, I was. My ex-boss called me for an emergency. I couldn’t turn him down, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Oh.”

“And I returned. Sometime around five in the morning. But you were gone.”

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