Jill Shalvis - Then Came You

But it was embedded in her brain, and the shock of it, and her anger, hit her again, and she began to shake. She reached out for the wall but Wyatt turned her to face him and anchored her close. She rested her head on his shoulder and leaned into him as the tremors took her.

Wyatt set the soap aside and wrapped his other arm around her, too, and rested his head on top of hers, holding her until she calmed.

“I’m better,” she said.

He didn’t respond, nor did he let go of her. Instead, his hands glided up and down her back in a gesture she was sure he meant to be soothing and comforting, and it was. At first.

But then she started to tremble for another reason altogether, and that reason was directly related to being pressed up against his wet, hot, hard body. “If you want me to stop looking at you like that,” she murmured. “You’re gonna have to stop touching me.”

“I can control myself if you can.”

She stilled, then sighed. “Well that’s just great.”

He let out a low, male sound that went right through her to all her good spots, and lifted her chin so he could look into her face. “You can’t control yourself?” he asked.

Of course she couldn’t control herself, not with him, a fact she’d proven over and over again.

“Emily,” he said, a bit strained now. “I shouldn’t know that.” He nudged her from him so she could rinse, during which time he soaped himself up as quickly and efficiently as he’d stripped them both, a fact that did nothing to lessen her sudden and desperate need for the oblivion he always brought her.

He turned off the water and wrapped her in a towel, and then grabbed one for around his hips, blocking her view. “Sleep,” he said firmly. “You’re going to sleep.”

And then he practically shoved her into her bed.

She squeezed her eyes shut, not wanting to see him leave.

“Shit,” she heard him say, and the sound of his towel hitting the floor spiked her pulse as he slid in next to her.

“Wyatt—”

“Shh.” He flipped her away from him and hauled her back to his front. “Close your eyes and go to sleep.”

“We’re not going to . . .”

“What?” he asked.

He wanted her to say it? “Have sex,” she whispered. “Like the last time you slept over.”

“Besides the fact that we’re not doing that anymore, we didn’t have sex that night. Or any night here in this house.”

“Then what were we doing?” she asked.

It took him a moment to answer. “I’m going to let you wrestle with that one,” he finally said. “You let me know when you get it figured out.” He had a sinew-lined forearm snug against her belly, one of her bare breasts cupped in the palm of his big hand. His mouth was resting at the nape of her neck to subdue her. When she tried to move, he gently sank his teeth into the crook of her neck. The move was incredibly intimate, a little protective, and a whole lot possessive.

And she wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but also arousing as hell.

Which wasn’t helping her cause. “If we’re not going there tonight,” she said, “you need to stop touching and biting my good parts.”

“Can’t help it that you’re one all-over sweet-as-hell good part. Go to sleep, Emily.”

“There’s something poking me in my butt.”

“It’s just the blankets,” he said. “Ignore it.”

She squirmed a little, trying to get comfortable, and from behind her came a rough groan as his hands tightened on her. “Stop wriggling,” he commanded.

She couldn’t help it. The “thing” poking her had gotten bigger. “That’s not the blanket, is it?”

“No, it’s not the blanket.” He ran his hand softly down her arm and took her hand in his. “Now stop talking.”

Wrestling with the fact that she’d done this, she’d put the whole leaving Sunshine in motion, she’d ended whatever it was they’d had, she tried to remember why.

Los Angeles was her home.

Her dad was there, and he needed her.

The life she’d always wanted was there.

None of that helped. Wyatt was right here with her and she already missed him like hell. “Wyatt?” she whispered.

He let out a long breath. The alpha male version of What the hell now?

“I’m sorry,” she said.

His arm tightened on her but he didn’t speak.

She closed her eyes and tried to go to sleep. But it took a long time.

Emily woke up in the predawn to a grumpy Q-Tip on her chest and her phone buzzing. Since she’d fallen asleep what felt like only a few minutes ago, she was groggy as hell, but one thing was obvious.

Wyatt was gone . . .

Her heart clenched painfully as she reached for her phone. “’Lo,” she answered without looking at the screen. “Who died?”

“Don’t get mad,” Sara said. “But I let Woodrow out the back door and he took off on me.”

Emily tossed off her covers and sat up. “Took off? He never takes off.”

“Exactly, but he did, and I didn’t have my shoes on so I couldn’t run after him. I thought he’d just go out and do his business and come back. Should have known better, men never do what they’re supposed to. It’s why I’m gay.”

“Where’s Woodrow now?”

“No friggin’ clue. By the time I got my shoes on and made it outside, he was gone. I’ve got to get to work. Can you send Wyatt out to help me?”

“Wyatt’s gone,” Emily said, reaching out with a hand to touch the indentation on the pillow where his head had been.

“Why?” Sara asked.

“Because we’re not a thing. He was here last night just to make sure I was okay.”

“Bullshit. You messed this up by running chicken.”

Emily sighed. “I simply moved up a situation that was going to happen anyway.”

“If this is the part where you tell me how many days are left, I’m never going to cook for you again.”

Emily stared up at the ceiling. “Go to work, Sara, I’ll get Woodrow.” She disconnected and pulled on the first item of clothing she came to, which was a pair of sweats she’d stolen from Wyatt. They dwarfed her, but they’d keep her warm in the morning chill. She shoved her feet into sneakers, grabbed a jacket, and took off out the back door. “Woodrow!” she yelled.

Nothing.

She followed the route they always walked in the mornings, calling his name as she went, getting more concerned when she got no response.

Woodrow wasn’t a lone alpha type, he didn’t like to be alone.

A minute later she heard a bark coming from the one direction she really didn’t want to go—Big, Scary Neighbor Guy’s house.

Once again the ranch-style house was dark. And thankfully, there was no truck in the driveway. Emily pulled out her phone and called Sara. “I think he’s at Big, Scary Neighbor Guy’s house.”

“Don’t go in!”

“No kidding! I don’t think anyone’s home—”

Another bark. Definitely Woodrow.

“I heard that!” Sara said. “Sounds like him.”

“I’m calling Wyatt for backup.” Emily ended Sam’s call and tried Wyatt’s cell. When he answered, she told him what was going on.

“Go home,” he immediately said. “I’ll be right there.”

“But—”

But nothing, he’d ended the call. She shoved the phone in her pocket and turned to go home—and then heard a fierce bark.

Woodrow.

Heart in her throat, she eyed the house. Still dark. Still no sign of life. She walked around the back, where she found three pens, no animals in any of them. There was also a barn and a shed, both open. From the barn came noises that were all too familiar—the yipping and barking and howling she’d sometimes heard late at night.