Loves Me, Loves Me Knot (18 page)

For Jenna, divorce had just been awkward and lonely.

Yes, she’d been the one to file. And she still maintained that it was the right decision. At the time, there really hadn’t been any other choice; things weren’t changing and they couldn’t continue on the way they’d been going.

She’d never been sorry for the decisions she’d made, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t sometimes sorry about the way things had turned out. It was one of those fun little hiccups in life that left a person smack-dab between a rock and a hard place.

Sometimes, when she was feeling particularly alone and the silence of her apartment started to close in on her, she actually wished her split from Gage had been more dramatic. If they’d gotten into ear-splitting, window-shattering fights . . . If Gage had a drinking problem, or she’d put them thousands of dollars in debt with extravagant shopping sprees . . . Maybe if things had gotten physical and he’d slapped her or she routinely used his six-pack abs as a punching bag.

Then
divorce might have been a blessing.
Then
she might have enjoyed her newly single lifestyle and been like one of those footloose-and-fancy-free
Sex and the City
girls, going out clubbing every night and sleeping with every random man who came down the pike just to prove she was in charge of her own sexuality.

But the truth was, Jenna didn’t want to be in charge of her own sexuality—not if it meant serial dating and sleeping around. And as much as she loved them, she
didn’t want to spend every night in some bar sipping Cosmopolitans with Ronnie and Grace, either.

She wanted this. This, and what she’d had with Gage before things had started to go downhill.

The quiet comfort of being with a man she loved.

The feel of warm arms holding her tight, and another body taking up space in bed with her—sometimes snuggled close, sometimes simply causing the mattress to dip and sway and let her know she wasn’t alone.

The knowledge that somebody was going to be there when she got home at the end of a long day. Someone to ask how work had gone. Someone to kiss her cheek and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Someone to sit across the table from her while they ate dinner, or beside her on the couch while they watched the latest crime drama on TV.

If she told Gage any of that, though, he would think she was crazy. His immediate response would most likely be,
So why the hell did you file for divorce in the first place?
because he’d never really wanted or approved of the separation.

Her big problem at the moment, though, was how easy it was to forget all that when Gage was lying next to her, smelling so good and feeling like the best thing she’d ever had against her body.

Not counting the great sex from last night, of course.

Letting her eyes flutter open, she took in the broad expanse of his chest just beyond her cheek. His deep, even breathing and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear lulled her.

Despite the tiny voice in her head telling her to keep her hands to herself, she slowly let her fingers drift along the outside curve of his pectoral muscle and up
to his shoulder where orange-tipped flames shot from the mouth of the angry dragon.

“When did you get this?” she asked, reverently tracing the edges of the amazing artwork.

Gage’s skin twitched under her fingertips, but he didn’t move away.

“After the divorce,” he said a minute or so later.

She didn’t need to know that he’d started getting the new tat the day he’d signed the divorce papers. He hadn’t been sure what type of design he was going to get when he’d walked into the shop; he’d only known he wanted something big that was going to take a good, long time to apply.

A neck-to-hip dragon that covered nearly his entire back had certainly fit the bill. It had taken months to complete, but the pain and long hours spent in the chair had helped to drown out every other thought racing through his brain. And it was hard to feel the hurt in his heart when razor-sharp needles were tapping ink into his skin.

“I like it,” she murmured, not bothering to lift her head from his chest. Every word, every breath she took, reverberated against his flesh.

He’d have liked to say it didn’t affect him, but if she slid the leg that was draped across his thigh just a couple inches higher, she’d realize that everything she did had an effect on him.

The perfume she wore that was a unique blend of wildflowers and citrus.

The way she painted her nails with clear polish so that they held a bit of shine, but never covered them with color. And contrastly, the way she always kept her toenails painted bright red or pink.

The clothes she wore that were reminiscent of the flower-children fashions of the seventies, but looked a hell of a lot sexier on her. The flowing blouses with tight jeans, or the occasional prairie skirt with a snug top. He knew she could be self-conscious about her diminutive figure, but as far as he was concerned, she had just enough on top to set any man’s mouth watering.

The way she wore her hair—short and sassy, with just enough length for him to run his fingers through, to ruffle in the breeze, to tickle the inside of his thighs while she . . .

Yeah, um, better not to let his mind wander down that particular road or she wouldn’t need to shift her leg at all to notice what was happening with him south of the border.

It was everything about her—the big and the small, the significant and the trivial. That’s why, even after he’d put his John Hancock on those papers and they were officially divorced, he still hadn’t been able to stop himself from having her name very carefully, very subtly worked into the central design of the dragon’s body. So that no matter what choices she made, no matter what decrees were filed with the great state of Ohio, she would always be with him.

Always.

“Did I ever tell you how hot I think your tattoos are?” she asked, breaking into his thoughts. “Well, the two smaller ones, anyway, since you didn’t have the dragon while we were together. But I always thought they were very sexy, and I wished I had the courage to get one of my own.”

That surprised him. And sent his imagination running
in all sorts of interesting directions. He could picture ink on Jenna. Something tiny and feminine on her ankle or hip or the swell of her breast.

The very thought heated his blood, had him thinking about getting her naked, and he figured he might as well give up on even pretending he wasn’t half-hard beneath his Fruit of the Looms.

Well, what the hell. She was stretched out beside him, curled around him, and didn’t seem to be all that concerned about keeping him at a distance, either literally or figuratively. Let her feel what she did to him and deal with the consequences.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure whether to hope those consequences kept her dressed and at arm’s length or got her naked and straddling him like she had last night.

“So what would you have gotten if you weren’t afraid of needles?” He didn’t ask where. He was afraid if she named one of those uber-sexy spots on her creamy flesh that he’d already envisioned, it would send him right over the edge.

“I’m not afraid of needles!” she exclaimed, sitting up slightly and turning to face him.

Even in the casual, sporty pajama set, she looked like a goddess. A pixie goddess with her lips tipped by a mischievous smile, but a goddess all the same.

“I just don’t like pain. And what if I go through all that, then decide in three years that I don’t really want a penguin on my ass?”

Gage raised a curious brow. “A penguin?”

Shrugging a shoulder, she said, “That was just an example. I was actually thinking of something more
along the lines of a rose or a butterfly.” She wrinkled her nose. “But those are boring, aren’t they? I mean, everybody has rose and butterfly tattoos.”

His hand cupped her arm just above the elbow, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth of its own volition. It had to be of its own volition because he would never—not since their divorce, anyway—voluntarily stroke her skin in what might be construed as an intimate gesture.

Would he?

“Arm cuffs and barbed wire are pretty typical,” he replied, automatically flexing his bicep and wrist where one of each resided.

Her lashes fluttered as she glanced from the tribal band to the barbed wire and back. Then she reached to touch each with the fingertips of both hands—her left hand on his right wrist, her right hand on his left bicep.

“Yes, but very few people can pull them off as well as you do.”

Before he could ask for clarification on that statement, she lifted her gaze to meet his. “I thought about using your name.”

The emerald green of her eyes distracted him and he frowned as it took a second for her words to sink in. When they did, his stomach tightened and oxygen got stuck in his lungs.

His name branded in indelible ink somewhere on her body. Marking her forever as belonging to him.

He’d had no idea she’d considered such a thing . . . no idea she’d considered getting a tattoo at all.

On the one hand, he’d never pictured his pure, perfect Jenna marring her flesh with body art of any kind. Single ear piercings had seemed like plenty of decoration
for her, and he’d never thought she needed—or wanted—more.

But on the other . . . Christ, the very thought of her letting herself be imprinted with his name, not only willingly, but happily . . . Of her cheerfully walking around with a label that told the world she belonged to him . . .

Even if it wasn’t easily visible while she was dressed, she would know it was there.
He
would know it was there.

A stab of unadulterated pleasure and possession jolted through him, sending his heart thudding in his chest, blood slogging through his veins, and his balls tightening with desire.

He wanted to kiss her right here and now, then drag her off to the nearest tattoo parlor and see that she indeed had his name branded on her body before the night was over.

As it was, his grip had tightened on her arm and his shorts were tenting in a manner that couldn’t be missed, not even by a blind woman.

But Jenna didn’t act as though she noticed his physical reaction to her nearness or the confessions she was making one after another this evening. She simply continued to caress the lines of black ink on his wrist and bicep.

“Did I ever tell you how much I loved that you were a cop, too?” she asked in the same soft tone she’d been using since he’d placed her on the bed and tried unsuccessfully to walk away. “I was always so proud to know you were out there upholding law and order, helping people and keeping the community safe.” A shimmer of sadness flashed across her face, but was quickly
swallowed up by the small smile she forced to her lips. “It made
me
feel safe and protected.”

The sexual heat that had been warming his blood by slow degrees over the last several minutes moved to his solar plexus and started to transform into an uncomfortable burning sensation.

All he’d ever wanted was to keep her safe. And according to her, she’d
felt
safe with him.

So how the hell could things have spun so far out of control? How could they have been married for three years, yet he’d never known she’d secretly wished for a tattoo—something as personal and distinctive as his name, no less? Or that she’d not only approved of but admired his choice of career.

Had she kept herself closed off from him so that he couldn’t have been aware of these things? Or had he been the world’s biggest idiot?

He suspected it was the latter. At the very least, he felt like an idiot. Like a man coming out of a decade-long coma to find that everything around him was strange and altered, and that life had moved on without him.

Was it possible that if he hadn’t been such a fool, his relationship with Jenna might have turned out differently?

His gut said no. Just because he’d been clueless about a couple of things didn’t mean there weren’t still huge chasms of opposing opinions separating them. But she did have him reconsidering some of his previous trains of thought, some of the decisions he’d made and the beliefs behind them.

He raised a hand to stroke her hair, letting the soft black strands sift through his fingers. “All I ever wanted was to keep you safe,” he told her in a rough whisper.

It wasn’t easy for him to admit such a thing, not when he’d spent their entire courtship and marriage—hell, his entire life—being the strong, silent type. But if she could share some of the stuff closest to her heart tonight, in this dark, tiny room in her aunt’s big old farm house, then so could he.

She leaned in, resting her torso against his chest and bringing her face so close to his own, he could feel her breath dusting his cheeks.

“You did. I was never afraid when you were around. Or when you were gone, because I knew you were out there fighting the good fight, and that if I needed you, you’d be there in a millisecond.”

“Faster,” he said past the lump growing in his throat.

She smiled at that, a gentle, angelic smile that reached her eyes and sent them sparkling. “Faster.”

Relaxing across his upper body, she trailed her fingers around to the nape of his neck and toyed with the hair that was just beginning to grow out. Her touch tickled all the way down his spine.

Barely above a whisper, she murmured, “I always knew you’d be there for me if I was ever in danger, if anything was ever wrong.”

He heard the pain in her voice, the words left unspoken, and felt a stab of guilt. “But you didn’t think I was there for you the rest of the time, did you? For the everyday stuff.”

In response, her lashes fluttered in a slow blink, her teeth nibbled her lower lip, and then she nodded.

His chest squeezed. Shit. He’d been such a fool. He’d screwed up their marriage in ways he was just now beginning to understand, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. It was too late. The divorce was
final and had been for more than a year. She was lost to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, the words grating as he forced them past a throat gone raw with emotion.