She had refused to listen to the doctor when he came in to tell her he’d run another test on her. She couldn’t hear it at the time. Denial was the only way she could get through seconds and minutes and hours. Now her gaze went to the mirror, looking at the uncontrollable, very thick hair, all the waves and whorls falling like silk down the back of Elijah’s head. She could imagine a child with that hair. Hair so thick and inviting, she had to dig her fingers into his shoulder to keep from burying her fingers in it.

She closed her eyes when his mouth moved over the curve of her hip, her panties sliding down with the coaxing of his fingers.

“Elijah.” She said his name in a warning tone.

“Let me, carina. I need this.”

She swallowed hard. There was need in his voice. It wasn’t his usual demand. Or command. His tone was soft, distressed. A note in there said this was essential, beyond his capability to stop. She didn’t know why she gave him that. She just stood there, shaking, tears running down her face, burning along the laceration on her cheek as his mouth took the pain from her hip and leg. As his hands took down her cute little boy shorts to leave her completely exposed.

She told herself it wasn’t anything he hadn’t already seen. She told herself he was being impersonal, but having his mouth on her mottled flesh was the furthest thing from impersonal she could imagine. His lips felt like a kind of worshiping against her skin.

Siena forced her eyes open so she could see him. He was beautiful. That was all there was to it. So beautiful. She could look at him forever. She could dream about him. Fantasize. But she would never, ever, be so stupid as to allow her feelings for him to show again. It didn’t matter how beautiful he was. She knew she could never match his sexual expertise. Heat crept up her body again, coloring her skin a deep rose.

She found herself mortified, his assessment of her skills reverberating through her mind. A single sound escaped. How did this happen again? Her stripped naked. Him fully clothed. She was an idiot when it came to him.

Instantly he lifted his head and blinked up at her, as if coming out of a deep fog. “Siena. Stop it.” His hand circled her thigh. He brushed his fingers along her skin, right next to the long laceration, soothing the tightly pulled edges. “You have to let that go.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to talk about it, but I can’t. I need clothes on. And you have to stop.” Her breath came in ragged, choppy gasps so her declaration sounded tattered and frayed and very, very weak.