Cherise Sinclair - If only

Vance disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a damp washcloth. After sitting on the other side of the bed, he gently wiped her face. “That better?”

The coolness cut through the last of the dream. When she nodded, he brushed her damp cheek with his knuckles. “Hell of a time you’ve had.”

“Want to talk about it?” Galen asked.

“No.” Her voice came out raw, as if she’d actually managed to scream.

“I see.” Galen slid his hand down from her wrist and curled his fingers around her hand. If she’d been drowning, his grip would have pulled her to safety. “Can you go back to sleep?”

“I guess.” Exhaustion dragged at her body, but the thought of being alone in the dark was terrifying. Don’t leave me. Please. She stared down at the bedcovers. A second later, she realized she was gripping Galen’s hand so tightly her fingers ached.

“Baby girl, you’re a piece of work.” Galen shook his head. “Since you won’t ask, let me offer. Do you want one or both of us to sleep in here tonight? Just sleep.”

They’d stay with her. She’d never wanted anything so much in her life. “Yes,” she whispered. A double dose of safety. “Both.”

Galen touched her nose with a gentle finger. “That’s a start.”

She had a feeling he didn’t mean that they’d managed to get into her bed.

Vance grinned. “Want the bathroom before you’re pinned in the center?”

The surprised laugh she gave hurt her bruised face. “Yes.” She painfully crawled out of the bed.

To her relief, Galen merely handed her the crutches.

By the time she returned, both men had stripped, leaving only their jeans on. She stopped, realizing she’d never seen them shirtless. Vance’s chest was a solid wall of muscle under a light dusting of golden-brown hair. In contrast, Galen was all streamlined muscle under taut olive skin. His black chest hair made a triangle pointing downward toward his jeans.

After a second, she kicked herself back into moving, regretting that she was too tired to properly appreciate the view.

On the far side of the bed, Vance got in, then held up the covers for her. “You prefer on your stomach, back, or side?”

She froze, and the fear swept back in, more shocking from being unexpected.

Vance slid out of the bed and walked over to her, his eyes gentle. “Cold feet are best dealt with by letting someone warm them up for you. Come on, sweetheart.” He took her crutches, leaning them against the foot of the bed, then waited for her nod.

This was so wrong. This cowardice wasn’t her. At all. But as he simply waited, as she met his steady, so very controlled regard, she knew he was nothing like Frank. She pulled in her lips…and nodded.

He ran his knuckles down her cheek. “Thank you for your trust, Sally.” And with the easy strength she’d started to expect, he lifted her and set her down in the bed.

Oddly enough, she hadn’t “slept” with that many men. Most of her sexual play had been at the club. And, aside from Frank, she’d always kept some control. Galen and Vance had taken that away, only permitting her the courtesy of making a few decisions because she’d been hurt. The realization set up a quiver of worry—and need—inside her.

He followed her in and lay quietly.

Oh, right, wanting to know how she slept. “On my side.”

“Got it.” He rolled onto his back and, to her surprise, adjusted her so her head was on his shoulder, her stomach pressed against his side. Watching her closely, he gently lifted her left leg over his thighs. Her sore hip and ankle jolted with pain, then subsided. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“Yes.” Too comfortable. She flattened her hand on his wide chest. So big and muscular. His skin held the scent of soap.

And then Galen slid into the bed and moved behind her to spoon against her back. She tensed when his hand brushed her sore hip, but he moved his hand up to her side.

Warmth surrounded her along with his rich, masculine scent. She gave a soft sigh. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, pet.”

“Get some sleep.” Vance stroked her hair.

Although her body was comfortable, her mind wouldn’t turn off. Vance’s statement kept swirling through her brain. “…there are times that you need to be able to share how you feel.”

She actually agreed. So why, when she wanted the guys to stay with her, hadn’t she been able to say that? Other submissives—other women even—had no trouble asking for hugs, for help, for a shoulder to cry on. She’d never realized she didn’t.

Under her hand, Vance’s chest slowly rose and fell, the curly hair tickling her fingers. He had just the right amount—somehow making him seem even more masculine.

He’d give her that hug if she asked. But at the thought of actually doing so, her brain just…stopped. Her insides tightened, her mind retreating at the thought of opening herself to ask for anything.

Galen curled his arm around her waist and pulled her against him firmly, despite the way she startled. His voice was a rich growl in her ear; his breath ruffled her hair. “Sleep, Sally. You’ll have time in the morning to stew about everything.”

Snuggled in compassion, embraced in safety, she let herself slide away.

After showering and dressing, Galen checked the guest room.

Still buried in covers, Sally’s body was a rigid stillness, indicating she was awake. He wanted to talk to her, to know she was all right, but he’d promised her the time to stew. He’d give her a few more minutes.

In the kitchen, Vance sat at the long granite-topped island with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. “Morning. You taking the day off too?”

“Seems like a good plan.” Galen had put in so much overtime he felt no guilt at taking a few hours back. “Think she’d let us send a cleaning service to her place?” He poured a cup of coffee, added cream and sugar, then snagged the discarded front page before settling onto one of the wider counter-height chairs.

“Doubt it. She’d probably consider it either an invasion of her privacy or her rights or something.”

“Stubborn little thing, isn’t she?” And the way she’d lingered in his mind since she’d safeworded and stormed out of the Shadowlands was worrisome. He’d never had a problem dismissing a submissive before, never had one keep him awake. Not since his wife had died.

“Too stubborn. After what she went through, she should have been bawling her heart out.”

Galen glanced toward the stairs at the sound of the shower coming on. “She’ll have another chance to weep—it’s your turn to cook.”

Vance didn’t grant the insult a reply, but returned to reading the paper.

As Galen took the last sip of coffee, Sally limped into the kitchen. She’d donned the jeans and soft pink T-shirt he’d brought from her apartment and left for her on the bathroom counter. The shirt had been folded, and he hadn’t seen the front. A robot-like Dalek from Dr. Who was saying: Exterminate All Males.

Christ. He grinned. She really was one of the most interesting women he’d met in a long, long time.

But seeing the scabbed purple bruise on her left cheek wiped out his smile. Be a pleasure to rip the bastard’s balls off and stuff them down his filthy mouth and… With an effort, Galen tamped his fury down. The imp needed cuddling today more than anger. “Crutches?”

“The doc said I can abandon them if I keep the ankle brace on.”

Her wet hair lay in tangles halfway down her back. No makeup. Barefoot. She looked far too young for either him or Vance, but her Shadowlands records gave her age as twenty-six. That meant she’d probably worked for a couple of years before entering the Master’s program.

Part of the impression of youth was how awkwardly she was holding her body and the absence of her cocky self-confidence. His every instinct shouted for him to fix her—her hurts, her problems—and he didn’t even know where to start.

“Hungry?” Vance’s eyes narrowed as he undoubtedly picked up on her defensive posture.

“No.” She bit her lip. “I mean, yes, but first…I’d like to talk.”

“Of course,” Vance said easily. He pushed a chair out from the island with his foot. “What’s up?”

Rather than sitting, she stood behind the chair, her hands gripping the leather-covered back as if it might attack her. “I was thinking.”

Ayuh, she’d been stewing. “Go on,” Galen said. Now they’d hear about Borup and the attack.

“You said I don’t share. Or ask for what I need.” Her gaze dropped to her hands.

She wasn’t talking about the bastard, after all. And she normally looked a Dom straight in the eyes. What was bothering her? “Were we wrong, pet?”

“No.” She swallowed, and her fingers turned white-knuckled. “I hadn’t realized that. It’s a problem I didn’t…”

“You didn’t realize you avoid talking about your feelings?” Vance summarized.

She nodded. “But I’m trying”—she gave them an unhappy look—“and it’s so hard.”

She was breaking his heart. Galen patted his thighs, wanting to feel her as well as hear her. And face it, he needed to give some comfort if that was the only fucking thing he could offer. “Come here.”

When she walked to him, he pulled her stiff little body onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her. Slowly she relaxed against his chest, and that much trust from her after yesterday was the sweetest of compliments.

His glance at Vance got a nod that left the direction of the conversation to Galen. So he kissed her temple. “Now tell us what you need.”

“I don’t know how to fix this problem. To ask. Or share what I’m feeling.” Her head was down, her voice barely above a whisper.