Page 58 of Colton's Secret Weapon
And had done a little preliminary digging.
“Go to sleep,” he added, as though talking to a child. Hearing himself, too late, he wished he’d just left it atnothing.
Because, other than the current problems in Dove’s life, there was nothing. Could be nothing. Between them.
“That’s the third big sigh you’ve made since you got into bed.”
He didn’t turn his head to see if she was still facing the wall beside her, but neither had he felt her move. Taking that as a good sign he said, “My mind’s on a situation I’m dealing with for a client,” he told her in absolute truth. “Nothing I can discuss.”
“Attorney–client privilege,” she said, helping him out of his mess.
He didn’t say yes. Technically, he’d be lying. Because when the client with whom he was speaking was the one whose case he was pondering, privilege was moot.
But he took care to put work out of his mind. Or to put the client who was consuming him on the back burner. To, at the very least, ensure that he kept his breathing even.
And, in doing so, felt himself relax enough to sleep.
Skin against skin. Brought to a semiconscious state, Dove registered the sensation. Human warmth against her arm. She’d been in a boat on a river in the dark, rowing so she didn’t make any sound and bring danger upon her. Her arms were growing weary.
And there was warmth. She wasn’t alone.
Lying still, she wavered between sleep and consciousness, relaxed and dropped off again. Until movement woke her completely. Then she froze.
She was lying on her back, not on her side as she’d fallen asleep. And not on the edge of the bed, either. Her arm had most definitely met human flesh. Mitchell’s back. A bare portion of it.
And it felt…so incredibly good to be touching him.
Their time together—with no breaks—seemed like weeks, not days, and yet, other than the hug he’d given her the other morning, and the time she’d slid her hand into his at the hospital, they’d never touched.
As though doing so was off-limits.
How could something that brought so much comfort, even just an arm to a back in the night, be wrong?
She wanted to move until her hand was touching him, too. Just to lay her palm against him and go back to sleep, but didn’t want to wake him.
Didn’t want to spoil the moment.
But the more she lay there, wide awake, the more she wanted. Which led to thoughts of how he’d wanted her, too, the other morning.
And the more she thought, the more consumed she became with knowing how it felt to have her hand flat against his back. To absorb the sense of life emanating from his skin. To feel his essence in a physical sense.
Could her touch help him? Maybe instill some positive energy within him? She’d never practiced touch therapy before, but knew others who had. For healing purposes.
But what about just for…comfort? The word came again. Pushing at her. And Dove capitulated. Because…what if she denied herself and lost an opportunity she’d been given? Keeping her movements as imperceptible as possible, she slowly put her hand where her arm had been.
Just lay it there. And smiled. Never in her life had she taken such a large dose of positive energy from another human being. Maybe she hadn’t been as open to doing so.
Or hadn’t needed it so urgently.
Closing her eyes, she lay there, not holding Mitchell, just…feeling him…and drifted back to sleep.
Mitchell awoke abruptly. From an erotic dream that had left him hard as hell, a hand to his penis. A dream that didn’t end with consciousness.
He was hard, all right. And holding a feminine hand that contained the fingers actually covering a part of himself that hadn’t known feminine company in months.
He worked to get his mind in gear. Came up with two things. He’d figured out how Dove had handled her getting-cold-in-the-night situation. She was under the covers with him.
And the second was just more of a wondering. Was she conscious?
