My mouth is open to deny it, but she shakes her head. I keep quiet, letting her finish.

“You don’t smother me. Your love isn’t a weight I have to fight off to keep from crushing me. Your love is like …” She trails off, brow wrinkled in thought. “Your love is a strong hand on a ladder!” Zoey smiles, huge and bright, happy with the comparison.

“What’s that mean exactly?” I ask, not without a trace of humor.

“You hold me steady, but you still let me climb to whatever height I’m trying to reach,” she explains, as if it’s the clearest thing in the world.

And once she says it, it is.

Emotions crash through me, threatening to drown my head and my heart. Needing a brief reprieve from the onslaught, I drop my hands between us and finger the craft in her lap.

“What are you working on?”

“I’m crocheting you an apology hat, to go with your scarf.”

Damn, she won’t let up.

In a fit of self-preservation, I grasp for a joke. “You seem hell-bent on me keeping my head covered. Wear a helmet, you say. I’m making you a hat, you say.” I put on a high-pitched voice, making a complete mockery of her normal smooth, sultry tone.

Zoey laughs. “You caught me. I’m obsessed with keeping this head safe and warm.” She sets her project to the side and cups my cheeks with her hands. The hard plaster of the cast is rough against my skin, just as the bare palm of her other hand is soft. She shifts, rising on her knees so she can press a kiss to the center of my forehead. “Mainly because I love the brain that’s rattling around in it.”

The words dig into my heart, ruthless, loving claws. With her movement, the blankets fall away, and I’m confronted with her bare chest and stomach and the teasing triangle of curls at the center of her. The sight has me groaning.

Even though I want to crush her to my chest, I’m wary of her battered body. Instead, I circle my arms around her in a gentle embrace, lowering her to the bed. She spreads out beneath me, muscles relaxed, and gifts me with a gorgeous smile.

I hunger for her mouth and take it with the passion I want to show the rest of her. For now though, I keep my fervor to the meeting of our lips.

Zoey gasps and moans, her fingers raking down the front of my shirt, fumbling with buttons until she has the fabric parted and can get at my skin. Her nails dig into me, as if she plans to scratch and tear until I’m covered in her marks.

“Do it. Be rough with me,” I beg against her mouth.