King's Country (Oil Kings #4) - Marie Johnston Page 0,40

I had any experience in relationships that didn’t revolve around sex. As long as I was putting out and the guy wasn’t an abusive asshole, the relationship was fine.

The wood-paneled ceiling wasn’t going to answer me. I changed into a nightshirt that I’d shamelessly stolen from Dawson.

I wasn’t that far removed from Pop.

As I was pulling back the covers, a knock startled me. Daisy popped her head up.

“Way to be on guard.”

“Bristol!” Dawson called. “Open up.”

My heart flipped and I didn’t realize I was grinning until I reached the door. A guy yelling outside my door should hit all the wrong buttons, but Dawson’s voice was a balm to my healing nerves. I whipped it open.

He entered, stooping to keep from hitting his head on the frame. “What the hell are you doing?” His scowl was somehow sexy as hell. A lock of damp hair fell over his forehead and the scent of fresh soap surrounded him.

“I was going to bed.” I put a hand on my hip, which only hitched his T-shirt higher and drew his attention to my bare legs. My healing leg was half bent and I hoped it appeared sexy and not withered, so much smaller than my left leg.

“Without saying good night to me?” he growled and crowded me backward toward the bedroom. The mattress hit the backs of my legs and I dropped.

He closed the pocket door.

My tiny bedroom became minuscule with the tall cowboy towering over me.

“You hadn’t gotten back by the time I left. I didn’t know if you wanted me to wait.”

He yanked his shirt over his head. “I didn’t want you to go.”

I loved hearing those words. But how could I stay? How could I live off Dawson when I was able-bodied enough to take care of myself? How could I go from one man with all the authority to another within a span of months?

But I stuck with, “I didn’t want to go.” The ripples of his abs made my mouth water. Bronzed skin. His forearms and biceps were more tanned than his torso. I never gave farmer tans a second thought, but on Dawson, it worked.

He flicked open the button of his jeans. As much as I wanted this to keep going and advance beyond spooning, my logical brain wouldn’t shut up.

“There’s no convenient bathroom.” He’d have to clean up when we were done, and if I couldn’t afford physical therapy, I definitely couldn’t afford a walk-in visit for a bladder infection either. I’d have to wander across the yard to use the bathroom too. As much as I wanted to ride Dawson like he was a prized horse, he had to know what he was getting into with me.

“The trailer’s bathroom is clean.” He stepped out of his boots.

“What?” I dragged my gaze from the V above his waistband to his eyes.

“I cleaned the trailer all day. Hauled garbage out. Scrubbed. Any belongings are packed into garbage bags with fabric softener sheets. I put them into the shop to air out so you can go through them later.”

The fabric softener sheets were supposed to keep mice away. I’d squirreled them all over the trailer and RV. “How did you—I didn’t see you at all today.”

“I told Tucker to tell you what I was doing if you asked.” His lopsided grin was adorable and drop-dead sexy when he reached into his pocket and withdrew a string of three condoms. He tossed them onto the shelf my drawers made along the wall, then shoved his pants down.

“You cleaned the trailer? All of it?”

“Most of it. Febreze has been sprayed over all the cushions and carpet and I added a plug-in air freshener, so you should be able to use the bathroom without getting nauseous.”

I sat up, trying—and failing—to keep my gaze off his proud erection. He was a large man. “Dawson. Why?”

He stepped out of his pants. “Because I knew you’d insist on coming back here once you could move around freely. And I knew how stressful facing the trailer was for you.”

It must have been a filthy job. Yet I couldn’t deny the surge of relief inside of me at the thought of using the bathroom in a trailer that wasn’t festering and smelly. “That was sweet. Really, really sweet.” My throat tightened. No one else had ever done that much work for me. It’d been easy to tell myself that Dawson and his employees helped me because they didn’t want to see the cattle suffer, or Bucket,