Free The Value of Vulnerability by Roberta Pearce

should be it. Changing to rain overnight, apparently.” He shoved the gloves in his pocket. “Comfortable?”
    She nestled against him, tucking her head beneath his chin, and took his hand in hers with a pleased little sigh. “Now I am.”
    He released a mild imprecation on a noisy breath, a mixture of amused frustration and admiration. He rested his chin on her hair. “You’re a romantic, aren’t you?”
    “Why do you say?”
    “Our position is rather cosy, considering our lack of intimacy.”
    She lifted her head, swallowing a laugh. “We have to have sex before we hold hands?”
    “I—well, no . Of course not.”
    “Not a cuddler, Ford?”
    “That is privileged information.”
    “Do you want me to let go of your hand?”
    “No.” His hand flexed around hers, ensuring she did not remove it.
    “Can we go back to cosiness?”
    “Very well.” As she resumed nestling, he repeated the accusation: “You are a romantic.”
    “Not known for being one, actually. But tonight is romantic.” Another pleased sigh emphasised the statement. “Having a gorgeous man show up to buy me drinks, dance with me. Being carried to the car like a helpless waif through the snow .  All of it. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen any romance.”
    “When did you break up with that negligent boyfriend?”
    “A year ago. Give or take.” Sighing again, this time without the pleasure, she gave him the short version of the story. “I showed up at his place in the middle of the day to surprise him. A rousing success.”
    “Don’t tell me he was with someone else.”
    “Someone Else had already gone, and he did deny her existence. But I didn’t think he needed to use condoms if he had just been . . .” She laughed shortly and shrugged.
    He said nothing for a moment, then gently: “Did you love him?”
    “Considering the speed I got over it, I guess not.”
    “Going a year without sex is not exactly evidence of being over someone.”
    “Of course I was hurt.” She considered that. “But mostly angry, I think. ”
    “Those are the same thing.”
    “No, they aren’t! Are they?”
    “Academically. One does not feel anger at being pleased. Nor joy at being hurt.”
    “Does it work in reverse? If you’re angry, you were hurt?”
    A pause. “I imagine. Academically.”
    “No experience to draw on?” she mocked.
    “You were telling me about being over him.”
    “Oh. Well, after the fact, I refocused on my career. Initially it was to distract myself from the break-up, but as I moved up, I found that work was fun and interesting. Everything else took a backseat, but I know that isn’t permanent. I’ll get back out there eventually.”
    “You’re back out there now,” he murmured, kissing the top of her head.
    He certainly couldn’t be putting himself out there as relationship material . . . could he? No, he was only thinking about sex.
    It would be so easy just to sleep with him with no consideration of consequences. But ‘getting back out there’ probably shouldn’t start with what was sure to be a one-night stand. She wanted more than sex—not from Ford specifically, but from a relationship generally—and he was not the store to go shopping in for more . He was a one-item stop-shop.
    But what an item! The comforting solidity of his body . The heat emanating from him. It was not a stretch to imagine him in her bed. Naked. Hard. Inside her.
    They rode in silence, the thumb Ford rubbed over her hand and wrist serving as both balm and malady, keeping her soothed and fevered in the same instant.
    After a while, she forced herself to lift her head, assessing where they were in the city. Even having kept to the streets rather than taking the Gardiner, they had made better time than she expected—they were mere blocks from her apartment in the Distillery District.
    She sent him a smiling look of gratitude that froze as she encountered his gaze. It was like his touch—both fevering and soothing.
    She trusted