“I’m okay with it.” Because she could, she laid her hand on his bare shoulder, then rubbed it down his back. “More than okay.” She paused, then said, “So . . . why are you blowing sunshine up my skirt? If I were wearing one, that is.”
He released her ankle and in silence finished his sandwich, then lay back on the quilt beside her and rested his beer bottle on his bare stomach. “What makes you think I’m blowing sunshine?” he asked as he got comfortable, just when she’d thought he wasn’t going to answer.
“Please. When was the last time you were uncertain about anything, especially a woman? You think I haven’t been paying attention to how you operate since you’ve been here?”
He patted her thigh. “Can’t put anything over on you, can I?” He didn’t sound worried about it; in fact, there was a definite note of satisfaction there.
“So what was the point?”
“Just trying to make you think you had a little bit of control,” he said, then burst out laughing when she swiftly pinched him. “Ow!”
“You deserved it.” She gave a contented sigh and closed her eyes again, basking in the peace, the light breeze rustling through the tree limbs overhead and changing the dapple pattern of the sunshine. Tricks was sound asleep, resting after her exertions. Morgan was stretched out just inches away, and his presence let something relax deep inside her, as if she knew he was on guard and she was safe. She moved her hand so she was touching his side and went to sleep.
Morgan didn’t want to move and maybe wake up Bo, but he still managed to lift his head enough to take the occasional sip of beer. No way was he letting the Naked Pig get warm on him. It felt nice to just lie there, pleasantly tired from the three times he’d made love to Bo last night as well as the strenuous swim he’d taken. He’d definitely been pushing himself, but he was still happy with the distance considering how long it had been since he’d done any training.
When he was on the job, the physical and skill training was almost nonstop. You didn’t learn how to shoot and keep the same level of skill without constant practice. You didn’t swim fifteen miles, not get in the water for three months, and assume you could still swim the same distance. Staying on top in skill and condition required constant training. Now that he knew about the lake, he intended to be in it almost every day, preferably with Bo here to keep an eye out because even expert swimmers could get in trouble. On the job, he didn’t bat an eye at always having a teammate to back him up, but part of him rebelled at the idea of Bo possibly putting herself at risk to help him if he cramped up or something like that.
His reluctance to endanger her, even in theory, said something. He’d worked with women before and not once worried about them because they were women; he worried about the welfare of his team in general. Of course, they’d been professionals who knew the possibilities and odds. Bo wasn’t in his line of work; she was one of the ones he served to protect.
He turned his head to look at her, sleeping by his side with her hand just touching him. That light touch made his chest feel too full to hold his heart; the realization was startling, and a little bit panic-making. Damn. Maybe he’d been telling the truth when he’d told Kyle he was in love with her, though he wasn’t sure he knew exactly what love was or what it felt like. He liked her; he liked her probably more—no, definitely more—than he’d ever liked any other woman. He’d been hot for a particular woman, sure, but hot for and liking were two different things and the way they combined now knocked him for a loop.
He’d been engaged, but he hadn’t been in love. He’d even been vaguely relieved when things had gone off the rails, which said a lot. Still, he wasn’t a navel-gazer and he’d never spent a lot of time thinking about what had gone wrong or what he wanted in a woman, or if he would ever truly want to spend the rest of his life with one particular woman. He had the GO-Teams for money and excitement and purpose, he had female companionship when he wanted it, and sex when that was all he wanted. If anyone had asked, he’d have said that wasn’t a bad way for a man to live.
Except—now there was Bo, and it mattered. All of it. If he wanted sex—hell to the yeah—he wanted it to be with her. If he wanted companionship, he wanted it with her. He liked the routine of her orderly house, the lack of fussiness with which she met life. She didn’t do dramatics, she held it together, she coped. That was why her devastation at almost losing Tricks had hit him so hard. He’d have done anything to take that look out of her eyes. He hadn’t been certain she wouldn’t kick his ass out of her bed, considering how hard she’d been working to keep him at a distance, but instead she had turned to him so . . . well, hell, sweetly was the only word he could come up with to describe it. The woman was turning him into a fucking poet.
Okay, he could deal with that—as long as he got her again.
Today . . . something was different today. She was softer, more relaxed, more content. If last night had been the cause, then he’d have a great time keeping that look of contentment there, but his ego wasn’t big enough for him to assume his dick was a magic cure-all. Whatever was going on with her, it was something she’d worked out for herself, and whether or not she’d ever tell him about that “something” was up in the air.
That was another thing: she hadn’t wanted to rehash what had happened last night, hadn’t gone over every detail fretting about what meant what. In his experience, women did, and it drove him nuts. Fucking meant fucking. End of story. But not Bo; she hadn’t brought it up at all, which had forced him to do it.