Page 86 of High Velocity

All I get is a grunt and a nod before he disappears down the hallway, but when I turn to Ama, I catch her dabbing the corner of her eyes with a tea towel.

“Onions,” she blurts out when she catches me looking.

I grin at her to let her know I’m not buying it. Onions, my foot.

“Whatever,” she grumbles. “Take your food and get outta my kitchen.”

She shoves a stack of containers in my hands. I lean in to kiss her cheek.

“Thanks, Ama. You’re the best.”

“Oh my God, that feels good.”

Bending down I drop a kiss on her lips. Her eyes blink open.

“I’m serious. You are so good at this; it could be a post-retirement career for you. Instead of handing out carts and welcoming customers at Walmart, you could work part time at a salon as a hair washer. I’m serious; you’d rake in major tips with those agile fingers of yours.”

I scrunch my nose and continue to work the conditioner in her hair.

“I’ll pass. No desire to put these ‘agile fingers’ anywhere but on you.”

Her eyes drift shut again as a smile spreads on her lips.

She’d crashed hard after dinner last night. I remember that, feeling pretty good in the hospital, but getting knocked back on your ass once you get home. This morning I was cooking bacon for some breakfast sandwiches I could bring her in bed, when she came stumbling out of the bedroom, demanding coffee.

Over breakfast she complained about feeling grungy. Since she still isn’t allowed to get that shoulder wet until after her checkup with Dr. Littleton next Wednesday showers are still out. The harvest site on her leg had healed nicely, but the larger incision on the back of her shoulder was still oozing a little. So bath it is, and since she only has one working arm at the moment, I offered to give her a hand.

We’re in the bathroom and she’s sitting on a kitchen chair leaning back against the vanity, with her head tilted back in the sink. It was the best way we could think of to keep that shoulder dry while I wash her hair. I’ve got the tub filling for her bath after.

I’m trying to remind my dick she’s injured, fresh out of the hospital, but there is too much stimulation. Those little pleasure sounds she makes, the slick slide of her wet hair through my fingers, the scent of her shampoo, the fact my crotch is almost in her face. None of it helps me stave off my body’s natural response. It doesn’t help knowing that as soon as I’m done rinsing her hair, she’ll be getting naked to get in the tub, where I’m supposed to help her bathe.

I’m fairly disciplined, a result of my training, but there’s a limit to how much of this kind of temptation a man can resist.

I wrap her hair up in a towel and help her to her feet. Then I grab the kitchen chair, which is in the way in the small space, and flee to the kitchen. While I finish up the last dregs of coffee in my cup, I force my mind back to my conversation with Jonas on the porch last night.

He’d already been out there, rocking in Thomas’s chair, sipping a bourbon, and staring out at the view by the time I joined him. He was reminiscing at first, about growing up on his father’s ranch in Texas, and how disappointed his dad had been when he chose to enlist instead of staying to work the ranch. Then he turned the focus on the future, voicing a desire to take my mother traveling and show her some of the world he’d discovered during his career in the armed forces.

At some point, he asked me point-blank whether ranching was something I could see myself growing old doing, and I had to be honest with him. It isn’t. I mean, I don’t mind the work, not at all, but I’m not passionate about it, not like I am about search and rescue, the High Mountain Trackers. I shared with him that’s the part of my job that makes me feel alive and fulfilled in a way I didn’t think was possible even two years ago. He seemed to appreciate…

“Jackson?”

I instantly forget my train of thought at the sound of her voice. Setting down my mug, I return to the bathroom, poking my head inside. My mouth immediately turns dry at the sight of her. She’s virtually naked, save for the T-shirt she’s got her head and right arm tangled up in.

“I tried to get it over my head before pulling it off my bad arm, but it got stuck on the hair towel.”

My blood instantly rushes south as she pulls ineffectively at the stretchy fabric, making her tits bounce.

I brush her hand away and take over, finding the edge of her shirt and carefully peeling it off her. She loses her hair towel in the process, and her damp hair comes tumbling down her shoulders, the ends brushing her pink nipples.

With a pained groan, I turn my back and pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t know if I’ll be able to muster the fortitude to put my hands on her and not make love to her body. Almost immediately, I feel the pressure of her hand in the middle of my back.

“Get in the tub with me.”

“Hotshot, that’s not a good?—”

“Please?”

Jesus, I’m weak.

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