“Am I wrong for feeling like this?” I glance out the window to the lights beyond and then drop my head into my hand.

“How do you feel?”

“Lost.” I look up at him, this incredible man, and confess what I should never say to him. “Empty, like I’m being left all over again. It makes me feel like I’m being ridiculous, petty, even though I don’t care about the financial value.”

“Come here.” Propping himself up, he growls when moving and holds his side. I sit down carefully, not wanting to cause him more pain.

Rubbing my back, he runs his fingers lightly over my skin. He catches a drop of water I missed and brings it to his mouth, running it across his bottom lip. Although it seems impossible to think about anything else, my body reacts, sending a shiver over my skin and leaving goose bumps in its wake.

My nipples push against the soft fabric of the towel, so I tighten it as a wave of confusion comes over me. How can I feel this attraction to him when I’m so emotionally drained?

But as I let my gaze run over his body—the muscles creating hills and valleys, hard edges and sharp planes—I realize I feel so much because of him, not in spite of.

He drops the ice pack to the floor and then reaches for my hand tucked against the towel and my chest. His fingers are cold, but a warmth blooms in my chest and begins to spread. As he unwraps the towel like a present, exposing my body to the heated air and his craving gaze, I drop my eyes to my lap and gulp.

Pressing the palm of his hand to my skin, I suck in a staggered breath. “Look at me, Lark.” I can’t. It’s not him but the conflicting emotions battling inside me. “Hey,” he says, lifting my chin until my eyes reach his. “Don’t ever look down, not ever. You hold your head up and demand respect.”

“I don’t know how to feel. It’s too much and then nothing at all.”

“Because you’re thinking. How does your heart feel?”

He looks at me like he’s the lucky one, but he’s not the lucky one when it comes to us. I am. “Not as lost as my head.”

Sliding his hand down my neck and resting it on my collarbone, he whispers, “How does your body feel?”

“Comforted by your touch,” I whisper in return.

When his hand grazes over my skin and dips between my legs, he doesn’t say anything. He slides through the slickness of my lips first, and then says, “Your body is feeling, experiencing, reacting. It’s your head that’s doing you in.” He slides his finger up and down a few times and then rubs gently over my clit. “Just feel, baby. Relax your mind and listen to your body.”

As if that was the permission I needed, I slowly grind against his hand in reaction. That will only be a temporary high. I need more of him, his hands on my body, and everything at the same time.