The Patriot A Small Town Romance - Jennifer Millikin Page 0,113

to her uninjured cheek. She sighs heavily into my palm, then kisses it.

“Thank you for tonight,” she whispers.

“No.” I shake my head, my voice strained. “You shouldn’t be thanking me. It’s my fault it happened in the first place.”

“This was nobody’s fault but Dixon’s.” She begins to dress from a small pile of folded clothes on the bathroom counter. “Your mom left me a pair of Jessie’s pajamas,” she explains, pulling the top over her head, yawning. She looks as if she is ready to fall asleep standing.

“Come on,” I murmur, gently pulling her to the bed. I turn back the covers and she climbs in.

“Will you stay with me tonight?” Her voice is small, and her eyes are closed.

“Yes.” I remove my shirt and jeans, then slip into bed beside her.

“I want to hold you, but I’m not sure how I can touch you,” I murmur. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Dakota backs up inch by inch, slowly melting into me, until I can’t tell where she stops and I start. I press a kiss to the space behind her ear. Her skin is hot from her bath.

“If anything had happened to you,” I whisper, letting the second half of my sentence remain unspoken.

“Shhh,” she croons. “We’re both okay.”

I take a deep breath, inhaling her sweet scent. My lips part, an I love you poised at the edge, but Dakota’s deep, even breathing grows deeper and more even.

I press a gentle kiss to her hair and send up a prayer thanking God for her safety.

For a long time I’ve known what it feels like to love. My family, my land, my country. But this soul-crushing, all-consuming, sharp and powerful feeling in my heart is new. The love I feel for Dakota is different than everything before it.

37

Dakota

Wes.

Dixon.

No.

My eyes blink open. Morning sun filters around the closed blinds, sending just enough light into the room to reveal the outlines of furniture.

I’m safe. I’m in the guest room at the homestead. Beside me, Wes snores gently. He is safe, too. I’m sore, so sore, but I turn my head anyway, just so I can look at him.

He’s beautiful. Outside, yes, but inside, too. He doesn’t give himself nearly enough credit. People like him are a dying breed. Strong and sensitive, smart and resourceful, with a basic and inherent grasp on right versus wrong, good versus evil. He loves his country, but I don’t know if he fully grasps how much he also loves the people in it. The collective many, the people who live every iteration of the American dream. That’s who he fought for. That’s what he fought to protect.

A surge of pride fills me. I’ve always understood why Wes would marry me to get the ranch, but I’ve never fully felt a love so encapsulating that I would go to the ends of the earth to keep it, and by any means necessary. But now, I do.

It’s the same love I feel for Wes.

I should let him sleep, but I can’t. I need to feel his rough stubble under my fingertips.

My muscles protest when I lift my arm, but I ignore them and allow my fingers to continue on to their target.

Wes’s eyes stay closed, but a deep, contented sigh slides up his throat. “How do you feel?” His scratchy, morning voice sends a tremble down my body.

“Good,” I answer, and in this exact moment, it’s true. The sudden need I feel for Wes has an anesthetic effect on my pain. My hand leaves his stubble and slips down under the covers, wrapping around him. His eyes jerk open.

“Dakota… are you sure? Aren’t you sore?”

I’ve never needed him more than I do right now. After the horror of last night, his weight, his hands, his whispered words are all I want. “Please,” I beg, my voice a quiet cry.

He understands. He moves, hooking a leg over me and sitting back on his knees. Gently, he removes my pajama bottoms, then his own, and kneels between my legs. He lines himself up with my entrance, and he pushes inside. His eyes never leave mine. He reaches for me, cupping my cheek, stroking with his thumb.

“I want your weight,” I gasp.

He shakes his head. “Not until you’re healed.”

I pout, and he grins, but he never breaks his rhythm. He pulls down my pajama top, cupping my breast and flicking his finger over my nipple. His hand drifts down between my legs, working until I’ve forgotten every ounce of pain in my