The Departed

didn’t care .”
    As he turned around and stared at her, eyes burning with emotion, Dez’s heart leaped into her throat. “You’re going to feel bad about it, and I can’t stop you,” he said, his voice gruff, raw. Naked emotion shone in his gaze. “It may well keep you up at night. But you know what keeps me up at night? The sight of you lying on the ground, your blood all over my hands, and I can’t fucking stop it.”
    “Taylor…” Slipping off the stool, she moved around the island, coming up to stand in front of him. She cupped her face in his hands, stroked a thumb over his mouth.
    What did she say to him? Her heart ached inside her chest and she wanted, so badly, to take that pain from him. Rising on her toes, she pressed her lips to his. She couldn’t just keep saying, I’m fine . He could see that. And saying it wasn’t going to do anything to undo the nightmares, she realized, not if they ran that deep.
    Maybe…she closed her eyes and pulled away, resting her head on his shoulder as the words she’d held inside burned in her throat. Maybe she could give him that. Would it help? Would it hurt?
    Swallowing, she lifted her head once more and studied him. She stroked her hands down his chest, down to his sides. “Have you ever had something burning inside you, something you wanted to tell somebody for a long, long while, but you just couldn’t?”
    His lids flickered, but he said nothing. His uninjured hand came up, his thumb lightly brushing the scar on her neck.
    “I could have said it a year ago. I meant it then. Hell, I could have said it two years ago, five…” Nervous, she realized. Oh, fuck, she was nervous. Was she supposed to be nervous? She’d never told anybody. Not like this. She thought she might have told her friend Taige, but that was different. Had she ever told anybody as a child? Her mother? Her grandmother…
    Focus, damn it .
    Biting the inside of her cheek, hard, she waited until that small, sharp pain cleared her head enough for her to think again. Then she focused on that steely blue gaze. Yes. She could have told him five years ago, easily. She suspected she probably could have told him within a few months of meeting him, not that he’d made it easy for her to love him—Taylor Jones wouldn’t want anybody loving him. But she loved him anyway.
    And it was time she let him know that.
    Cupping his face in her hands once more, she focused on him—just him. He was her anchor, she realized. When he was there, he made everything so much easier, so much more real. She needed him.
    “I love you.”
    * * *
     
    FOR a few seconds, those words didn’t want to connect in his head. No, that wasn’t right—they wanted to connect, but some protective instinct just wouldn’t let them, not immediately, at least.
    He could feel the ridge of her scar under his thumb, the warmth of her skin. He could see the darkness of her gaze, the intensity of it. There was a small, solemn smile on her lips, so gentle and easy.
    Closing his eyes, he let himself think about what she’d said—let himself think about the words .
    Fuck. Fuck —
    Abruptly, he caught the front of her shirt in his hand, fisted it, dragging her closer. He pressed his brow to hers. In a ragged, harsh voice, he demanded, “Do you mean it?”
    “Now come on, Jones.” She chuckled. “Since when have I ever said anything I don’t mean?”
    She might have said something else, but he didn’t know what—he couldn’t say he even cared. He was too busy kissing her, his mouth all but devouring hers. And she didn’t seem to mind at all.
    Handicapped by his broken arm, he struggled one-handed with her clothing, determined to have her naked— now . She apparently had the same focus in mind, her fingers fighting with the buttons on his shirt, shoving it open, but she didn’t mess with trying to get it off. Fine by him.
    He wasn’t too worried about his clothes, but hers were a different story. The shirt, it had to go. Same with her bra, her jeans, her panties, although his fingers were clumsy and everything seemed to tangle with him. Growling, he fisted his hand in the silky little strip of cloth high on her hips, ready to rip the panties off. She laughed and said, “Slow down there, Jones. I just bought those from Victoria’s Secret—you tear them, you buy me new ones.”
    “Fine. I’ll buy you a fucking truckload.” With a vicious twist of his wrist, the fragile silk shredded. Dropping it to the ground,