Page 52 of Searching Blind

“Another scar on my thigh from?—”

He shook his head. “I don’t want you reliving that.”

Neither did she. She didn’t want to think about the man who had shot her and left her for dead deep in a cave. Didn’t want to think of the darkness, so absolute it had been like a living thing all on its own. Didn’t want to think of the cold. The endless hours of fear. But she would never forget how it had felt to see the flashlight, and then Sawyer was there, and she wasn’t alone anymore. Under normal circumstances—if they’d met in a bar—she would’ve thought him handsome, but when his sweaty, mud-streaked face appeared from a crevasse in the cave’s wall, he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

She took a deep breath and shook off the haunting memories, focusing instead on his face in front of her.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

“Yes.” His voice was rough. “Please.”

Lucy let her hands fall into his, their fingers intertwining. “My hands are rough from working. I have calluses here.” She pressed his thumb into the most worn spots. “And here.”

His fingers were rough against hers. He had a strength in his grip that was comforting and frightening all at once, reminding her of the danger he was always so willing to walk into without hesitation.

“My hands aren’t soft either.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips as he held up his own hand, palm facing outwards so she could see the worn ridges and scars crisscrossing along his skin. “But I like your hands. They feel… strong. Capable.”

Lucy smiled at that, her heart fluttering in her chest. “I suppose they are. I’m always climbing or handling various tools. My job demands it.” She paused, trying to think of what else she could tell him. “I prefer jeans and a flannel shirt over dresses and heels. I’m tall for a woman and I’ve got broad shoulders from years of rowing. My legs are strong from hiking.” She guided his hand over her arm muscles, then to her thigh. His touch sent sparks through her blood.

“And yet,” he murmured, running his hand back up to rest on her waist, “you fit perfectly right here.” His grip tightened slightly, drawing her closer until she was sitting on his lap.

“Sawyer,” she whispered.

His name hung in the air between them, a quiet plea for something she didn’t quite dare articulate.

“Lucy,” he whispered back, his own voice thick with longing.

His fingers traced the curve of her waist, then upwards along the column of her spine, taking care around the bandage. Her body felt like a live wire, electricity humming through her veins.

“You have goosebumps,” he murmured, his tone dancing between teasing and serious. “Cold?”

God, no. She was on fire, burning up with a desire she had been trying to ignore for months. But it was Sawyer. It was always Sawyer. From the moment he had saved her, she had felt an unparalleled connection to him, a bond that went beyond gratitude into something deeper, wilder, more intimate.

“No, not cold,” she said, her voice barely louder than the crackle of the fire. She leaned in, her heart pounding in her chest. “Just… excited.”

He froze for a second and then his touch moved again, tracing the line of her neck up to cup her face once more. He leaned in slowly until their lips were scant inches apart.

“Can I?” he asked softly.

chapter

eighteen

Living in fear isn’t really living, is it?

His words echoed in her mind. She had been living in fear long before the Shadow Stalker took her. Fear of her past, fear of her future, fear of the unknown. She’d avoided anything that could potentially harm her, she’d avoided truly living.

She was tired of it.

She wanted to live.

She wanted him.

“Yes.” The word was barely out of her mouth when he closed the distance between them, and their lips met in a kiss that shot fire through every nerve in her body.

The world disappeared in that instant and all she knew was Sawyer. She was acutely aware of every point where his body touched hers—the curve of his bicep under her fingers, the firm muscles of his abdomen against her own, his strong thighs beneath hers, the growing ridge of his erection. And always, there were his hands—mapping her face, tangling in her hair, tracing the curves of her body—as though he was committing every inch of her to memory.

Sawyer pulled back, but only slightly. “Wait. Lucy, you’re injured.” There was an urgency in his voice that matched the pounding of her own heart. “Are you sure you’re okay for this?”

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