Chapter Seven
Riding St. George was even better the second time than the first.
Cecy didn’t want to climb off Gareth afterwards. It felt marvelous to have his organ inside her, both of them warm, relaxed, sated.
When she’d caught her breath she drew back slightly, resting her forearms on his shoulders, and smiled at him. Her husband. This marvelous man she’d married.
Her gaze was drawn to his shoulder, his arm, that neat, white bandage. Cecy trailed her fingers along his collarbone, halted at his shoulder, and asked, very quietly, “How did it happen?”
Gareth didn’t tense, but he did seem to stop breathing.
“Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
After a moment, Gareth said haltingly. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, it’s that . . . I never have. No one’s wanted to know.”
